Return to Moondilla

by Tony Parsons

  ‘You should think about this a bit longer, Greg,’ Frances advised. ‘Right now you’re in an emotional trough.’

  He shook his head and tried to sound firm enough to convince her. ‘No, that isn’t it. I don’t want to leave you, Mum, but I’m going to have to. I need to distance myself from Sydney. I want to go back to where fishing rates higher than heroin.’

  Of course, he’d known that Moondilla wasn’t Brigadoon—the unchanging town of Scottish myth—but he couldn’t have known just how much it had changed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It was a jewel of a Sunday morning. There was a heavy dew and every drop of moisture seemed shot through with irradiated light. The early fog over the river had evaporated in the sunlight, and now a very blue sky contrasted against the lush green banks of the river.

  Baxter had packed his Esky with tucker and taken it down to the Flora Jane before Steve Lewis arrived. He also loaded a big plastic container of water, mostly for Chief, and the dog’s stainless-steel water bowl. They’d filled up the tank two nights before, when Lewis and his family had dropped by Riverview for dinner, and the engine started immediately.

  ‘Sweet as apple pie,’ Lewis said and smiled as he listened to the engine’s beat.

  ‘You do the steering, Steve,’ Baxter suggested. ‘You know where you’re going and the best way to get there, and I’m still on a learning curve.’

  Lewis nodded and climbed into the boat. ‘You’ll definitely need a bit of practice to learn how to handle her in the swell.’

  There was no one else out on the river at this early hour. Out beyond the river’s mouth, several boats were kellicked close to the shore of the southern promontory that formed one arm of Moondilla’s harbour. Steve waved to the occupants of some of these boats and then headed the boat out into the bay.

  ‘What would they be fishing for?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘Blackfish, maybe. They’re using light rods, so it would be that or bream. Some of those blokes might’ve been out all night. You need green weed to catch blackfish, as they have a tiny mouth. You use very small hooks, too. The others would be fishing for anything they could get . . . flathead, maybe the odd snapper.’

  The boat didn’t begin to rock until they left the harbour and came under the influence of the ocean’s ceaseless swell. Lewis steered for the Islands and Baxter saw them up close for the first time: a group of large rocky outcrops, six in number, separated by channels of varying width. This was the favourite place of the more intrepid fishermen, because fish congregated around the bases of the outcrops. Weeds, kelp and cunjevoi grew thickly there and attracted a wide variety of sea life.

  If a nor’easter was blowing, the shot was to get in behind one of the islets so as to stay in the relatively calmer water, because each islet acted as a block to the wind and current. If there was a run-in tide, the drill was to try and kellick to a rock and fish on the Moondilla side—that is, with the boat’s prow pointed towards Moondilla harbour. But how and where you fished, Lewis had explained, really depended on the wind and the tide and being aware of both.

  There was no telling what kind of fish you might catch. You might come away with a young shark or—depending on your bait and the strength of your line—even an older and larger shark. Not that amateur fishermen wanted sharks, which most regarded as a damned nuisance, but the trawlers caught plenty and sold them too. They were marketed under different names, so most people who bought shark flesh didn’t realise what they were eating. It was pretty good tucker with chips anyway.

  Around the Islands you had to be very careful that you didn’t allow your boat to be thrown up against a rock. This was most likely to happen if you fished on the open or ocean side, because a freak wave could come out of nowhere. Most fishermen didn’t head to the ocean side unless there was a westerly wind blowing strongly from shore, which tended to flatten out the sea—at least to some extent. Every small child who fished with his or her father learned the facts of ocean fishing very quickly.

  ‘We’ll put in an hour or so here while the wind is down,’ Lewis said, ‘and if it stays down we’ll head over to the northern point and have a lash there. I’ve got some fish berley and I could drop some here, but it’s not a lot of help in deep water as the current washes it away so quickly.’

  He was working away as he spoke, his voice loud and brimming with enthusiasm.

  ‘I’ve also got some prawns and whole bait fish, as well as the lures. It’s not a good place for lures—you lose too many and they’re not cheap. I’ll throw in a couple of light lines and see if I can hook some tiddlers for bait. First, I’ll bait up a line and get you started.’

  Baxter nodded and kept watching Lewis at work, taking it all in.

  Then his mate paused and glanced at him. ‘How are you handling the swell?’

  ‘No problem. I don’t feel sick at all,’ Baxter said and grinned. He found he loved being out here—he loved the salty breeze, the blue sky and the view of the land. It seemed as far from the grit of Sydney as he could get.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Lewis. ‘Some people can’t take this swell. It never stops when you’re on the ocean. It’s just that some days it’s bigger than usual. The tide is about two hours off the turn. It’s on the run-out, so it will take your line out pretty fast.’ Lewis shot Baxter another glance. ‘How do you reckon Chief’s handling things?’

  ‘He’s all right. The swell doesn’t seem to be worrying him,’ Baxter said, as he looked at his dog lying in the cabin. ‘He’d complain if he didn’t feel well.’

  Lewis threw out some berley of chopped-up fish, prawns, pollard and bread, and dropped two light lines down alongside Flora. Then he hooked a bait fish through the tail and cast out on the opposite side of the boat to Baxter’s line. It had hardly hit the water, or so it seemed, than Lewis announced that he had a strike.

  ‘Shall I have a go reeling in, Steve?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘Might be as well. Appears to be a fair fish.’

  Baxter began to reel, then saw his own line tighten and announced that he too had a fish hooked.

  ‘How big?’ Lewis asked.

  ‘I can handle him okay.’

  ‘That doesn’t tell me anything! We’re not all powerhouses. But if you can bring him in alone, do it. I’ve got a big one and it may take a while to land him.’

  It took longer than Baxter expected to reel in his snapper, because it was certainly a decent-sized fish. Lewis was still fighting his catch.

  ‘What type do you reckon it is, Steve?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘It feels like a bloody great shark. Ever used a gaff?’

  ‘Never. What do I do?’

  ‘Hook it when I get the bugger alongside and then hold on real tight,’ Lewis explained. ‘Don’t lean over too far or you could end up in the water.’

  ‘I see it,’ Baxter said as his mate’s fish rose to the surface for a second.

  ‘So do I. I think it’s a jewie. They call them mulloway now. They eat pretty well.’

  Baxter pulled it in with the gaff, and Lewis said he reckoned it would go close to twenty kilos.

  •

  Inside two hours the men had caught fifteen good-sized fish, including two ugly red rock cod. When Baxter brought up the first one he said he’d toss it back, but Lewis stopped him. ‘No fear, Greg. They’re great eating fish. They only look ugly.’

  Baxter was enjoying himself no end—and when he hooked what he thought might be the biggest fish of the morning, he felt really good.

  It took some battling to get it to the boat, and he was hugely disappointed when Lewis shook his head and announced that he was going to cut the line.

  ‘Why?’ Baxter asked urgently.

  ‘It’s a tiger shark—we don’t want it.’

  ‘Ah, all right.’ Baxter noticed something. ‘I think that might be his momma or poppa out there,’ he said, pointing to where a triangular-shaped fin was cleaving the water on the port side of the boat. The last fish Lewis had caugh
t had been bitten in half, which they’d attributed to a shark—it seemed they’d been right.

  Then Baxter realised that Lewis couldn’t see the fin because he had his back turned and was too caught up with dislodging the emasculated fish on his line. ‘Let’s pull off, Greg. The wind’s starting to strengthen and we’ve got enough fish for one outing.’

  Chief, who’d come out from under the cabin, had his nose pointed into the wind. He barked twice—the kind of bark he employed to warn of approaching vehicles.

  Obviously there were no cars, but Baxter had become so used to every nuance of the dog’s behaviour that he immediately looked at the shepherd to find out why he was concerned. ‘What is it, mate?’

  Chief barked again with his nose towards the next islet.

  What Baxter saw now made him shiver. ‘Steve, there’s a body hooked on the rocks over there. That’s what the sharks are after.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Lewis turned quickly and looked at where Baxter’s finger was pointing. ‘Jesus wept, you’re right.’ He put down his rod and started the engine. It kicked into life and he steered Flora about in a gentle turn. ‘I don’t like the look of this, Greg.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Baxter said grimly. He was thinking of the undercover policewoman’s body and its discovery by fishermen. What if this body turned out to be Latham’s? From this distance, its clothes and its shape looked male.

  Then he remembered what Lewis had said about Julie the other day. Those baggy jeans or shorts and a man’s shirt she gets around in—from a distance you’d swear blind she was a bloke. Baxter’s heart clenched. Surely it wasn’t her.

  ‘We can’t just leave it out here,’ he said, and Lewis nodded.

  ‘I’ll use my radio and have the police at the wharf by the time we’re back with the body in tow.’

  ‘Lucky you brought it, Steve.’

  ‘No luck about it. I never go out here without it—you never know when you might need to send a distress call.’

  Once Lewis had contacted shore, he took the boat out of the protection afforded by their islet, and into the channel between it and its neighbour. They could immediately feel the difference in the level of swell. Baxter watched on in admiration as Lewis manoeuvred Flora towards the other islet. The body came into clearer view.

  ‘It’s a man,’ Baxter shouted to Lewis at the wheel of the boat. ‘That’s all I can tell.’

  He was ashamed to feel a thrill of relief, but he couldn’t help it. Julie was safe.

  ‘You’ll have to try and hook the gaff into his clobber, Greg. Do it as quickly as you can. The swell will push us hard onto the rocks if we stuff around.’

  Baxter hadn’t the slightest intention of stuffing around—he wanted to vacate the Islands as quickly as possible.

  The body was lodged facedown on a snag of rock that ran out into the sea from the islet proper. This ridge had been exposed by the run-out tide—it was sure to be covered at full tide. As the boat nosed alongside, Baxter leaned out, got the gaff hooked in the body’s belt and pulled it from the ridge. He could see now that one arm had been bitten off below the shoulder.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ Baxter said, ‘so go for your life. Let’s hope the shark doesn’t have another crack at him—it’s taken off one arm already.’

  ‘Good man, Greg.’

  Lewis pointed the boat down the channel between the islets and then, using them as some protection against the swell, he steered directly for Moondilla’s wharf, where the fishing fleet usually moored. The shark followed them for some distance, but didn’t come any closer. After a few minutes it disappeared.

  ‘The shark appears to have left us,’ Baxter said.

  ‘As long as it doesn’t come up underneath us. If you feel something get at the body, you’ll have to try and lift it into the boat. Think you can do that?’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘Don’t try it unless you have to—the weight of you plus the body could tip you in. Good thing we’ll be at the wharf in a few minutes.’

  Baxter hoped the bloody shark would keep away. A few bites could make a real mess of the body, and make identification more difficult for the police.

  The shark didn’t reappear, but Baxter’s strength and resilience were beginning to feel the strain of holding the bloated body against the boat. Wanting to distract himself, he looked to shore and saw two police cars tearing down the beach road, their lights flashing, before they pulled up at the wharf.

  Lewis had noticed them too. ‘The boys in blue are waiting for us, Greg.’

  ‘It’s some place, this Moondilla. Never a dull moment,’ Baxter said dryly.

  ‘You’ve got to admit we had a good morning’s fishing. And not many fishermen return with a human body on their gaff,’ Lewis said, his smile grim.

  Baxter gave him a weak grin. ‘Do you know of anyone who’s been reported missing?’

  ‘No locals. It could be a bloke off a freighter—plenty of them go up and down this coast. Maybe he drank too much and fell overboard.’

  Lewis took Flora in alongside the jetty and as close to the beach as he could without grounding her. There were quite a few civilians on the beach, but the police had cleared the wharf and a uniformed officer stood at the entrance to prevent anyone accessing it.

  Three other officers were waiting on the wharf just above the boat. Baxter threw his forward mooring rope up to one of them, who managed to catch it and make it fast to a pylon. Lewis cut the motor and then left the cabin to help Baxter lift the body from the sea. A grim task, though the stink wasn’t too bad because of the salt water. Chief watched with great interest, but didn’t go near the body.

  Once they had it in the boat, they took an end each and lifted it up to the waiting trio of officers, who turned it onto its back.

  Lewis swore very loudly. ‘Bloody hell.’ Despite everything the body had been put through, its face was still intact enough to recognise up close. ‘It’s Jack Drew,’ Lewis said, and Baxter agreed.

  The two men looked at each other in amazement.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Was Drew missing?’ Baxter asked the police trio.

  ‘Mrs Drew phoned us yesterday morning and said that Jack hadn’t come home,’ a young two-striper answered. He was addressing himself to Lewis, whom he seemed to know and be on good terms with. ‘Considering Jack’s history, we weren’t too worried.’

  ‘You didn’t worry he was lost at sea?’ Lewis asked, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘No, because he wasn’t fishing. Well, he had been, earlier in the day, but he was at the Family Hotel in the evening. Before he left for the pub, he told his wife that he needed to meet someone there. That was the last she saw of him.’

  Another police car pulled up at the wharf, followed by an ambulance. Two more officers walked along the jetty to join the trio around the body.

  One was Senior Sergeant Cross, and Baxter was disturbed to realise that he seemed to be the highest-ranking officer of the group.

  •

  Baxter and Lewis gave verbal accounts of their discovery of Drew’s body and its exact location. The investigation heated up when Julie, in her capacity as medical examiner, carried out the post-mortem. Her findings brought more coppers to Moondilla—some came from Bega, while two plainclothes detectives drove down from Sydney.

  Julie’s post-mortem revealed that the back of Drew’s skull had been crushed in several places. By drawing a long bow, it was possible to conclude that this damage had been caused by his head coming into contact with rocks at the Islands—but Julie didn’t think this was a feasible explanation. It might have been tenable if there’d been only one or two major depressions in Drew’s skull, but there were at least a dozen. It seemed someone had made certain that Jack Drew was dead before dumping his corpse out at sea.

  Both Baxter and Lewis were asked to present themselves for further questioning at the police station. The coppers didn’t waste much time talking to Lewis. He answered a few questions, signe
d a statement and left.

  Baxter was treated very differently. He was led into an interview room, the kind used for suspects being interrogated about a crime. It was featureless except for a one-way window, and the drab grey walls weren’t conducive to raising one’s spirits.

  There were three police officers in the room. Two sat facing Baxter, and a third—Senior Sergeant Cross—sat against one wall. It seemed Cross seldom smiled; he reminded Baxter of a crow waiting to pick up scraps. He certainly did nothing to lighten the mood. The two plainclothes detectives wore suits and ties, and presented a much better image. They introduced themselves and told Baxter they’d come from Sydney.

  One asked questions while the other took notes. The substance of the interrogation went as follows:

  ‘Mr Baxter, can you account for your movements last Friday evening?’

  ‘If I have to, but I don’t see the relevance. Your question is ill-directed.’

  ‘Let us be the best judges of the question’s relevance. We have information that you were seen in the vicinity of the Family Hotel at about the time Jack Drew left it. That was between six-thirty and seven p.m.’

  Baxter laughed loudly. ‘Is that the best you can come up with? Your informant needs his eyes checked, and you should check your facts more carefully. Are you implying it was me who killed Jack Drew?’

  ‘How well do you know Elizabeth Drew?’

  ‘I can’t say that I know her very well, as I’ve met her only twice,’ Baxter said. ‘The first time, she and Drew were having an argument in the Family Hotel—he backhanded her and knocked her down. I picked her up and then I told Drew he was a mongrel to hit a woman. He threw a punch at me and I decked him. Then I drove Mrs Drew home.’

  ‘Subsequently you had another fight with Drew, didn’t you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t describe it as a fight. Drew came out to my place, mouthing off about what he was going to do to me. He was sober this time and he told me he was going to give me a hiding.’