Lighthouses

by Trost, Cameron

  ‘Yes, nothing out of place.’

  ‘What do you make of the can of spray paint?’

  Mick shrugged. ‘I don’t know. His? Someone else’s?’

  ‘Why are you so sure he hasn’t just gone for a walk?’

  ‘Some kid from town came jogging up here early this morning. He found it just like this. Rang me as soon as he got back into town.’ He checked his watch. ‘Talbot has been gone at least two hours now. There’s nowhere to go from here unless you’re heading into town. And he hasn’t been seen down there.’

  ‘So what do you think happened?’

  ‘I can only think of two possibilities,’ he said. ‘Either he walked off the cliff in the dark, or he met with foul play.’

  ‘Have you checked over the edge?’

  ‘Can’t see a thing in this fog,’ he said. ‘And the sea’s too rough to send a boat down there now. We’ll have to wait until it clears.’

  ‘Even if he went over the edge, we might not find anything there. Not with the seas like they are.’

  ‘Yup.’ Mick nodded. ‘Might never be found.’

  #

  I waved goodbye to Mick and strolled down the road back to my house. The sun was trying to burst through, the fog was thinning, and visibility had improved. To my right were the paddocks that surrounded my cottage. To my left was the low scrub that reached to the cliff-tops below which the angry seas beat endlessly.

  My cottage stands completely alone almost a kilometre from Jamieson’s Point. It’s the last building on the road out of town. Tourists occasionally knock on my door, asking about tours, or staying overnight in the old lighthouse. I apologise and tell them the lighthouse is automated, that there are no tours, and that the only accommodation is in town.

  Since Ellen died, my cottage has fallen into gradual disrepair, not that it is going to collapse any time soon. Built well over a century ago, its thick stone walls have withstood just as many stormy seasons as the lighthouse. But where Ellen and I once maintained a cheery home, I no longer have the motivation, and the cottage appears as old and as tired as I feel. The white paint has chipped and worn, the curtains in the front windows have faded, and the roses have gone wild, no longer producing flowers. I cut the grass every couple of weeks, but Ellen was the real gardener.

  All sense of order had long since disappeared inside the house; the clutter of widowerhood defiled the cosy charm the cottage once held. The rooms smelled stale and dank, the windows unopened for far too long.

  I made myself a cup of tea.

  The fog had lifted by ten-thirty. Mick didn’t find any sign of Talbot in the water.

  #

  I decided to walk into town, strolling easily down the long sloping road. It was a chilly day. The winter sun struggled in the pale sky to warm us. I pulled my jacket close around my throat, blocking the wind which whipped across the cliffs. Terns cried overhead as they rode the currents, and each breath I took filled my lungs with the salt air. Ten minutes later, I crested a small rise in the road and the bay opened up in front of me.

  Sculthorpe stretched along the curve of the harbour, a postcard of white cottages with red roofs huddled in the shelter of the surrounding hills. Fishing boats bobbed against the sea wall while men unloaded crates of fish, just as their fathers and grandfathers had done. There were no sands here, no speedboats and water sports. There was nothing to attract the tourists for the summer, nobody apart from a few lighthouse aficionados and retired couples looking for a quiet weekend in a picturesque coastal town.

  Everyone seemed to be talking about the disappearance. Jenny sold me a newspaper and mentioned it, as did Barry at the grocery store when I dropped in my weekly order. Nobody seemed too upset about it though. Talbot was, after all, the face of the Maritime Authority, the man who had recommended the lighthouse be closed and replaced with a solar powered flashing light mounted on the cliff top. None of us wanted that. We loved the lighthouse out on Jamieson Point, it having stood sentinel over our town and harbour for more than a century.

  The Grand Hotel faced the waterfront and still served counter lunches. Terry, the barman, welcomed me as I dropped into my usual seat at the window. There were a few people seated at tables, drinking, eating, chatting. Terry brought me my usual, a pint of ale, and I ordered fish and chips.

  ‘Heard about this Talbot bloke, then?’ he said once my order had been relayed to the kitchen.

  ‘Yeah, Mick visited me this morning. Wanted to know whether I’d seen anyone head up to the point last night.’

  ‘This won’t help the campaign in any way, will it? I mean, it won’t stop them or slow them down?’

  I shook my head. ‘If Talbot has been murdered, the Authority definitely won’t change its mind. By the end of the year, they’ll have decommissioned the lighthouse and put that light in next to it.’ I sipped my ale.

  ‘Pfft,’ he snorted.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed.

  ‘Have you heard anything in here? Any drunks carrying on about Talbot and the Authority?’

  ‘No, nothing beyond the usual mumblings.’ Terry laughed. ‘Still the reporter, huh? Can’t let go.’

  I shrugged. ‘Just wondering. If anyone talked, it would be after a couple of beers.’

  ‘True,’ he said. ‘You know what I think? I reckon it was some kid.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I heard they found spray paint up there. Some kid was going to graffiti the lighthouse and Talbot disturbed him.’ He looked up as someone rose from their seat and went to the bar. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and left.

  I sipped my ale and read the paper until my lunch arrived. It was good. Freshly caught fish fried in batter with thick crisp chips. Hot and salty, just as I liked them.

  #

  Mick caught up with me on my way home.

  ‘Hey,’ he called as his car drew alongside me. He parked and got out. We stood by the harbour, the air full of seaweed and fish. The sea breeze brushed through my hair.

  ‘Found him yet?’ I asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Is it a confirmed murder investigation yet?’

  ‘No, still just a missing person at this stage, but it’s obviously suspicious. And with the sentiment in this town, I have to take that possibility seriously.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘I’ve called in the big guns, to gather evidence and statements. It’s too much for a small time cop like me to handle alone.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the point. ‘A couple of detectives from the city are poking around up there now. Don’t be surprised when they come and visit you. You’re the last house up on the lighthouse road. They’ll want to know what you saw.’

  I laughed. ‘The only thing I saw was my pillow, but I’ll happily show it to them too.’

  #

  It was afternoon by the time they called on me; Detectives Chiltern and Holbrook, a man and a woman, respectively. Crisp suits, suntans and clipboards, they asked what I’d seen. I told them I hadn’t seen anything. One of them handed me a card, just in case I remembered something. There was a spray of gravel from the back wheels and they were gone, down the gentle road back to Sculthorpe.

  After dinner, I went back outside. Dark clouds veiled the rising moon. I could see some stars, but it was going to be cold and I suspected it would be completely overcast soon. Ellen and I used to sit out the front in the summer, the smell of jasmine fresh on the air. We’d sip white wine and search the night sky for satellites.

  I gazed up at Jamieson’s Point, where the lighthouse sent its warning out to sea.

  It was comforting, that light, not only to the ships and their sailors, but to the townspeople. The lighthouse had guarded us for so long, and now the Authority wanted to replace it with a lamp on the rocks that pulsed three times every eighteen seconds.

  I sighed. Sure, it would be practical, and probably more effective, but devoid of all the personality, all the sentiment and r
omanticism of a lighthouse.

  I watched the light swing across the point and the town for about half an hour. The Fresnel lens projected almost thirty kilometres out to sea. Shielding on the back of the lantern room prevented the beam from reaching my cottage.

  It wasn’t needed. There were no ships on the land side of the coast.

  #

  A couple of TV camera crews from the city came into town the next day. Nothing new had been unearthed. Talbot had not yet been located and, as far as we knew, the police had nothing more to go on. The reporters took some establishing shots of the harbour front and the water. Mick was interviewed in front of the police station. He actually did a pretty good job for a small town cop. They knocked on my door after someone told them I’d been a reporter, but I politely declined an interview. I didn’t know anything anyway. From my cottage, they drove up to Jamieson’s Point and grabbed some shots of the lighthouse, their reporters standing in front of the tower, the wind blowing their hair across their faces like so many strands of seaweed. They even filmed the Save Our Lighthouse sign.

  Now that would make a great story if it turned out a local had killed Talbot.

  I watched the footage on the evening news. I could have written the copy for them. Close-knit community, police have no leads, a much loved husband and father, and disappearance out of character. Stock phrases for reporting mysteries, especially when it’s likely to turn tragic. Then, of course, they showed his teary wife, asking anyone with information to come forward. Pictures of Talbot, relaxed and smiling like we’d never seen him before, playing with his kids.

  And then it was gone, another story to melt into the public’s subconscious until further information came to light. Or an arrest.

  #

  They came for me the next morning.

  Expecting another inquiry about a tour of the lighthouse, I answered the loud knock at the door to find Detectives Chiltern and Holbrook standing there instead.

  ‘Frank Millard,’ said Holbrook. ‘We’d like you to accompany us down to the police station to answer a few questions about the disappearance of Raymond Talbot.’

  ‘Me?’ I said, surprised. ‘I don’t know how I can help you.’

  ‘Just a few questions,’ she said.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘Mr Millard, I don’t think there’s any need for that at this stage. It’s just a few routine questions.’

  ‘Am I a suspect? Maybe I should call my lawyer?’

  She smiled, a broad venomous smile. ‘There’s no need for that, Mr Millard. It’s just a few routine questions. Just to clear up a couple of things.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll just get my coat.’

  I may not have been under arrest, but they both came in and watched me while I grabbed my wallet and put my coat on.

  #

  The Sculthorpe Police Station is tiny. There’s not a lot of crime in these parts, not much call to arrest anyone. I don’t think Mick has even been to court in almost five years.

  They led me through to the interview room and made me sit. Then, they shut the door and disappeared for a few minutes. When they returned, they started the tape recorder, read me my rights, and then ran through the preamble; my name, address, personal details. I asked about being a suspect and the lawyer once more for good measure. I decided it was easiest to answer their questions. I had nothing to hide. They sat opposite me, serious expressions and notepads ready. Holbrook was obviously the lead as she did all the speaking.

  ‘Are you able to account for your movements on the evening of the twelfth of June?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I had a couple of pints at The Grand Hotel, then walked home and went to bed.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘I left about ten, and got home twenty minutes later.’

  ‘Did anyone see you at the hotel?’

  ‘About thirty people. I was drinking with Sergeant Bowen.’

  They glanced at each other.

  ‘Did anyone see you while you were walking home?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ I admitted.

  ‘And when you got home?’

  ‘I brushed my teeth and went to bed.’

  ‘Did anyone see you there?’

  ‘No, I live alone. I’m a widower.’

  ‘Did you see or hear anyone going up to the lighthouse? Walking? A car perhaps?’

  ‘No, I was sleeping.’

  ‘Between the hotel and your house, did you see the lighthouse?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It was on, flashing out to sea.’

  ‘Did you know Talbot was up at the lighthouse?’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘He must have arrived while I was out.’

  ‘What about Talbot’s car? Did you see that?’

  ‘Not in the darkness, no. It’s about a kilometre from my house to the lighthouse.’

  ‘What time did you get up the next morning?’

  I shrugged. ‘About seven.’

  ‘And then Sergeant Bowen dropped by.’

  ‘That was about eight, an hour later. I was just going out for my morning walk when he arrived. He told me about Talbot’s disappearance and invited me up to the lighthouse with him.’

  ‘Did he give you any indication he thought you may have been involved?’

  I stood. ‘I’m leaving, unless I’m under arrest.’

  ‘Mr Millard, you’re not under arrest. We’re merely trying to solve a disappearance.’

  ‘You’re insinuating I’m a suspect. Am I a suspect?’

  She hesitated before shaking her head. ‘Not specifically. Half the town are suspects at this time. You’re the only person who lives out on the lighthouse road. You’re the only person who may have seen something.’ She smiled. ‘Just think of this process as us eliminating you as a suspect.’

  I sat. ‘I’ll continue to answer your questions, only because I know I had no involvement.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll repeat the last question. When Sergeant Bowen drove you up to the lighthouse, did he give you any indication or suggestion he thought you were involved in the disappearance of Talbot?’

  ‘No, none at all.’

  Again, they exchanged knowing glances.

  ‘So why do you think he invited you up to the lighthouse?’

  ‘There are no other police officers in town. I’m a retired reporter who knows the lighthouse well. I presume he just wanted another pair of inquiring eyes.’

  ‘You’ve been vocal as part of the Save Our Lighthouse campaign.’

  ‘So has everyone in town,’ I said. ‘None of us want it decommissioned.’

  ‘You wrote the pamphlets for the campaign.’

  ‘I’m a reporter. Writing is what I do.’

  She grunted.

  There were a lot more questions. In fact, the whole thing took about forty-five minutes. And then, with a warning not to leave town without letting them know, they let me go.

  #

  The detectives had spoken to the kid who’d been jogging and found the lighthouse open, but from him they merely took a witness statement. I, on the other hand, had been read my rights and interviewed. Of course, the small town gossip machine went into overdrive. Mick avoided me; I suspect he’d been warned off by the detectives. I chose to stay at home, not going into town and only walking up to Jamieson’s Point for the exercise.

  A couple of days later, I had just finished my lunch when I heard the sound of an engine out front. I glanced out my window and saw a police car racing up to the point. Mick was at the wheel. Perhaps he’d discovered a new lead.

  I pulled my coat on and jogged up the road to Jamieson’s Point.

  The police car was parked where Talbot’s car had been abandoned. The sergeant was sitting on the grass, head in hands, over past the lighthouse, near the cliffs.

  ‘Mick,’ I said. ‘Are you OK?’

  He glanced at me. ‘Frank,’ was all he said. A sign of recognition. He stood and faced me. He looked dist
raught.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m in trouble, Mick. They think I did it.’

  ‘You? Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you have done it?’ I laughed. ‘I’m their main suspect. They think I did it, and they hinted that you told them that.’

  Mick shook his head. ‘No, they don’t think it was you. They knew you were up here with me the following morning, that’s all. They had no leads, no real clues. They were fishing.’ He turned his head, gazed out to sea. ‘They’ve seized my car, Frank. They think it was me.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’ I raked my fingers through my hair. I followed Mick’s stare and saw the dark clouds building out to sea, caught the smell of a storm on the wind.

  ‘I’m too old for this,’ he said. ‘I retire in a year or so, and the last thing I need is an investigation like this.’

  He turned to face me again. ‘This is a small town. Innuendo and gossip can ruin a cop. I can’t have any scandal. I need to retire next year and get my pension.’

  We stood like that for a long moment, facing each other a few metres apart like gunslingers in the Wild West. The wind was rising. I felt droplets on my face. I wasn’t sure whether it was rain or sea-spray.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ I gasped.

  Mick didn’t say anything. Tears welled as he stared into my eyes, pleading. Finally, he nodded. ‘I didn’t mean it. It was an accident.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ I sighed. ‘What happened?’

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘I left the pub about an hour after you. I was getting into my car when I saw a light up here at the point. I decided to drive up and have a look. A bad idea since I’d had a couple of pints. Turns out it was Talbot. He told me he was up for the night, just his regular visit, making sure the lighthouse was functioning properly. Then he laughed, and told me it was probably the last time he’d be here, that the Maritime Authority would decommission the lighthouse within a few months.’

  ‘That soon,’ I muttered.