Bay of Fires

by Poppy Gee

  “I’m a reporter,” he said. She didn’t take the card. They watched each other over the blowing yellow grasses. “In any case, what kind of weirdo approaches a strange man in the dunes where a murdered body was found?”

  “Who do you work for? You don’t look like a reporter. Is that your car?”

  They both looked up at the Holden, its big round headlights watching them from the top of the dune.

  “My other car is a Ferrari.”

  “Let me see that.”

  “It’s worn out.” She fingered the curling edges of his business card. “You sure you didn’t pick this up somewhere?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “The Tassie Voice.” Her laugh was prettier than she was. “I guess if you were making it up you’d have a card from The Australian or something.”

  “Of course. Who would pretend they worked at the Voice, right?” Hall turned to leave.

  “You looking for clues? Speak to Jane Taylor at the guesthouse. That’s where the dead woman was staying.”

  “I know.”

  “You planning to interview the person who found the body? I’ll answer all your questions if you give me a lift up the hill.”

  In the passenger seat she sat sideways, watching him drive. Aware of her bare toned legs, he concentrated on keeping his eyes on the road. She said her name was Sarah, and she drilled him with questions without any self-consciousness. Who had he interviewed? What did the police think? Was there a suspect? Hall wasn’t used to driving on the gravel and couldn’t think to answer her properly.

  “Who do you reckon did it?” he asked.

  “I’ve got as much an idea of that as I have of what happened to Chloe Crawford. None.”

  “Usually in small communities like this, people don’t ask who the murderer is; they simply say who they think the murderer is.”

  “I honestly do not know. It was brutal. I don’t believe anyone around here is capable of that.”

  Hall slowed as he drove past a crowd milling in a clearing beside the beach. They were mainly civilians, but he noticed a couple of men wearing orange and white vests, the uniform of State Emergency Service’s volunteers. The police, assisted by a dozen SES volunteers, had conducted their official line search yesterday and found nothing. Today there was no designated crime scene; the tape had been removed. There was no point trying to preserve an exposed area indefinitely.

  “Tell me, are they locals who are conducting their own line search?” Hall asked.

  “You got it. Everyone’s really upset. They all want to try and help.”

  “You’re not joining them?”

  “I’ve had a look.”

  “Find anything?”

  She shook her head. “Neither will they. There’ve been two high tides since Anja Traugott washed in. Nothing stays still on the beach.”

  The road was curving when Hall felt the wheels slide. He wasn’t driving fast, maybe forty kilometers an hour, but the gravel corrugations offered no grip. They skated past blurry brush and paperbarks. The Holden slid sideways on the ruts and Hall gripped the wheel, trying unsuccessfully to aim the car toward the middle of the road. He shouted helplessly. His car was veering off the road. It wouldn’t stop. It was going to crash.

  “Take your foot off the brake, mate,” Sarah said.

  He lifted his foot and the car lunged forward. The wheels responded to his steering. They bounced down the middle of the road. Hall felt sick in his guts. He swore, then apologized for doing so.

  “It’s slippery.” Hall’s knuckles were white from clenching the wheel.

  “The faster you go, the safer you are, you see? More grip.”

  “Right.”

  At the top of the hill, where the view of the ocean was unencumbered in either direction, she pointed at a small blue shack. Red geraniums grew through the fence, and the concrete tank was painted in a bright mural of sea creatures. She climbed out of his car and waited for him to drive away.

  Sarah waved, her face glowing with a wide grin, as he urged the standard H gear stick into first. Damn that stupid corner. She was nice. Pretty in a natural kind of way. Not all done up and fake like the women he drank with at Launceston’s various happy hours. He honked a couple of times as he drove off and immediately regretted it. If his embarrassing driving hadn’t blown it, the horn honking would for sure.

  Driving back to check out the emu parade, he considered her advice about driving faster. But the road was sandy in parts, and he let the Holden roll along at twenty kilometers an hour, his hands clenching the wheel and his head craned forward like someone’s grandmother.

  Sarah’s words resounded in Hall’s head. Nothing stays still on the beach. She was right. The emu parade had walked the length of the beach twice and found nothing. The people gathered here interested Hall. It was likely one of them was the murderer. It was likely to be a man, too, given the violent nature of the dead woman’s injuries. Hall watched everyone but approached no one. He wondered if the murderer would seek him out. In case of this, he wore his media lanyard and made a show of jotting things down in his notebook, so it would be clear to everyone that he was a reporter.

  Three men spoke to Hall of their own accord. John Avery owned a shack and had written a book on the history of the area, which he offered to lend to Hall. Don Gunn, who wore an SES volunteer uniform, had assisted with the police line search yesterday. He ran the shop near the boat ramp. Don took his boat out every morning at six to check the cray pots, and Hall was welcome to come if he wanted to view the coast from the sea. The third person was a young American man called Sam, who pointed out an almost invisible speck on the horizon which he said was one of the racing yachts doing the Sydney-to-Hobart. None of them seemed like murderers.

  While Hall was in conversation with Sam, a woman called out to the young man from across the undulating dune. From a distance she looked young enough to be his girlfriend, and the wheedling way in which she called him confirmed Hall’s assumption. She didn’t come over. Instead, Sam stopped speaking halfway through his sentence and excused himself. Hall watched them walk toward the surf, the woman giving the young man her sandals to hold, while she picked up what looked like pieces of driftwood.

  Later that afternoon Hall called the police, right before he filed. Lucky he did. A canvas beach bag had been found near a rock pool located at the southern end of the beach. It contained Anja Traugott’s wallet, a booklet issued by the Tasmanian Wilderness Society outlining how to treat poisonous snake and spider bites, a hairbrush, sunscreen, and a digital camera. The wallet contained money, so she had not been robbed. There wasn’t time to do anything more than type it up and file it.

  Work was on Hall’s mind as he shaved with cold water in the yellow-tiled bathroom at the guesthouse. He dried his face on a stubbly towel. Twice it slipped off the towel rail when he tried to hang it up, and he tossed it into the sink in frustration. He was worried about the story he had just filed. His three hundred–word update on the discovery of Anja Traugott’s beach bag was padded out with a vox pop of local residents describing how the murder and missing person investigation were impacting their lives. As he put on a clean shirt, he considered whether it was sensational enough to satiate the editor. The thing was, if you had to ask yourself that question, you knew the answer.

  He closed the bedroom door behind him. A broom whisked the wooden boards on the deck outside. It was the only sound in the late afternoon stillness.

  “I’m going to the Abalone Bake,” he called.

  He didn’t notice the leather handbag on the table until after he spoke.

  “I might as well show my face.” Jane leaned the broom against the wall. She wore an ironed black blouse tucked into her tight jeans and a slick of coral lipstick on her lips.

  “I don’t usually bother with these things,” she told him as they walked down the hill, her fluttering fingers tracing her bag’s worn leather. “Not my cup of tea.”

  They paused at the edge of the park. On
the beach beyond, children were playing cricket. Hall breathed in the tepid sea air. It was laced with the salty garlic aroma of barbecuing seafood. Laughter and conversation drifted up. He quickly counted around thirty people, lounging in deck chairs, cross-legged on picnic rugs, or standing sloshing ice in plastic cups. Their curiosity was shameless. He could imagine what they were thinking as they stared at the woman in her cowboy boots and lipstick and the freshly showered journalist beside her. Hall tried to look friendly.

  Jane dug her elbow into his waist. “Watch out, you’ll be the news yourself tomorrow. You and me both.”

  Hall had a good memory for names. He recognized most of the people from the emu parade and the door knock he had done immediately after it. There was John Avery and his wife, Felicity, or Flip as she had insisted. Simone (she pronounced it Sim-mon) was a blond American woman, who was in fact the mother of the young man. She was very friendly and had given him a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice when he knocked on the door of her holiday house. The shop owner was Don Gunn and the attractive woman with him was his wife, Pamela. She had invited Hall to the Abalone Bake when he was in the shop earlier that day.

  Pamela waved. Carrying two plates she marched over, shaking her hair out from behind her ears.

  “Flip is collecting the money.” Pamela’s gold bracelets jingled. “It’s seven dollars a plate. I already paid for yours, Hall.”

  On the plastic plate she handed Hall was a pile of what looked like hot moist shreds of curly leather and a slice of lemon.

  “I won’t have any, thanks, Pamela.” Jane rummaged in her handbag.

  “You’re funny, Jane,” Pamela said. “Coming to our Abalone Bake and not eating.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t eating. I’ll have a sausage. Just not that. It’s disgusting.” Jane strode down the slope, an unlit cigarette between her fingers.

  “She’s had a hard life,” Pamela told Hall. “I’m always a little bit careful what I say when I speak to Jane. She upsets easily.”

  Through introductions and small talk, Pamela’s hand remained firmly on Hall’s arm and her cushiony breast kept bumping against him. She did most of the talking while he nodded, chewing and chewing a strip of abalone. It was gristlier than the toughest calamari he had ever eaten.

  “Wash it down, mate.” John pushed a glass of red wine into Hall’s hand and smiled with porcelain veneers that were too white for his softening face. “Did you learn anything today?”

  Hall was aware people were waiting for his response. He shrugged in a noncommittal way and sipped the wine.

  “I wonder if the murderer is here now?” said the young guy who had pointed out the boats to Hall at the emu parade.

  “That’s not funny, Sam,” Pamela said. “Don’t even joke about it.”

  “Defensive, Pamela,” Sam said. “What are you hiding?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Pamela bristled.

  For a moment Pamela reminded Hall of Laura’s good friend Sue, an antiques and oddities dealer who wore pearls and often took offense at harmless banter. Hall had tried to avoid Sue whenever Laura dragged him along to social events that required partners.

  “Forget the murder for a minute. We think you should do a story on Erica,” Flip said.

  Hall looked from Flip to Pamela. They wore similar pastel-colored shirts with the collars turned up and gold fob chains. Even their hair was cut in similar shoulder-length styles. Considering how ratty the shacks around here were, the people who owned them appeared well off, compared to most Tasmanians. Their cars were new models, BMWs and expensive four-wheel drives, and most of the yards contained boats or Jet Skis. Pamela’s husband, Don, wore a Rolex, although it could have been a fake for all Hall knew.

  Hall tried to keep his tone cordial. “Who?”

  “My younger daughter. She makes greeting cards. Pammy’s nearly sold out in the shop…wait there, I’ll get her.”

  “It’s okay.” Hall had often wished for a dollar for every ridiculous story idea suggested to him. The less likely the idea would become a story, the more insistent the person was.

  “Flip, you’re so boring. The story the Voice needs is Sam’s.” Pamela paused in arranging the sauce bottles and beer cans which were stopping the tablecloth from blowing away. “He wrote a letter, put it in a bottle, and threw it out the front here and it landed in New Zealand. A girl his age wrote back to him.”

  “It’s stupid,” Sam said.

  “That’s not stupid, that’s a great story.” The punters loved stories like that. Hall wanted to ask for more information when someone’s Labradoodle thrust its nose into his crotch. It could probably smell his cat. He pushed it away, as gently as possible. He was not a dog person.

  “Henry. Scoot.” Pamela shooed the dog away. “Tie him up, Flip. Now, Hall. Let me know if there is anything else I can tell you.”

  “Pammy knows everything about everyone,” Don called.

  Pamela swatted him. “Watch out or I’ll tell him all your secrets, darling.”

  It was funny that she should say that. There was something familiar about Don. His low, articulate voice and his deferential manner of pausing between each sentence gave Hall the feeling he had met him before. He wondered if Don recognized him. If it was from a situation Don regretted—a court appearance for drunk driving or domestic violence—they would both pretend to have forgotten. It was easier that way. It could have been during the police raid on a Windmill Hill brothel which Hall had attended last year. Those blokes had all been well-to-do guys like Don Gunn. If that was the case, Hall didn’t care. Other people’s sex lives were not a topic he was inclined to pass judgment on.

  Metal tapped against glass. John Avery cleared his throat; some people were still talking.

  “Quiet, children,” called Pamela, and the chatter subsided.

  Obviously comfortable in front of a crowd, John spoke about the tradition of the Abalone Bake and the importance of getting everyone together. He spoke with the precise enunciation of a private school–educated man. Behind him, Jane slipped into the shadows along the edge of the park and lit a cigarette. She didn’t speak to anyone. He could venture over, make some small talk. He always felt sorry for people who were nervous in crowds. But tough luck tonight. He was here to work, not chaperone misfits to community functions. Hall focused on what John was saying.

  “We love this place. I’ve been coming here every summer since I bought my block of land twenty-seven years ago, you see. Eight thousand dollars.” John lifted his glass, and red wine splashed onto the grass. “Worth a bit more than that now. We all are.”

  “John,” Flip cautioned.

  “We all feel the same. What has happened here breaks my heart and I know it breaks the heart of everyone standing before me.” He poured himself more wine, took a sip, and added, “I don’t know what happened to Chloe Crawford and I don’t know what happened to the Swiss woman, Anja…Anja.”

  “Traugott,” called Pamela.

  Anja Traugott, an unlikely name for Tasmanians to pronounce. Soon everyone would know her name. Chloe Crawford was a name that sparked discussion in any pub across the state. Everyone had an opinion. Some thought the teenager from the west coast had staged her own disappearance and run off with a boyfriend. Hall understood her family was deeply religious, so this was possible. Others surmised she had been raped and filmed for pornographic purposes and her body buried on a remote and impenetrable bush block owned by one of the local dubious motorbike clubs. A few thought she had fallen into a mineshaft while bushwalking. Everyone had a theory, but no one knew for sure. Despite a massive search, not one of her personal belongings had been recovered, not her surfboard nor any of her clothing. She had one bank account with the Commonwealth Bank, and it had not been touched. Uncertainty fueled speculation. Hall didn’t know which story he believed; all he knew was that it made good newspaper copy.

  “I don’t know what happened to Chloe Crawford, and I can’t explain why Anja Traugott was murdered,�
�� John repeated.

  “Serial sex offender,” Pamela muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  Don put a hand on Pamela’s arm, which she shook off.

  “Don’t shush me, Donald,” she said.

  As John continued, Hall noticed Sarah for the first time that evening. She was sitting on a picnic table, drinking beer out of a bottle and peeling off the label. Tanned and almost as tall as he was, she looked capable of skippering a maxi-yacht. When she saw Hall looking, she rolled her eyes. She was laughing at everyone. He wasn’t sure if she was laughing at him, too, so he just nodded and looked away.

  At the beginning of his speech, John had made eye contact with everyone. Now he kept glancing over the top of the crowd, his gaze returning to his audience briefly before being drawn back to something on the rocks. Hall turned to see the distraction and realized many others were doing the same. The fading light made it hard to see clearly the hunched figure causing the murmuring. Against the gray ocean, Hall could make out what looked like an old man holding a stick. A woman’s voice rose above the whispers. “Roger Coker makes my skin crawl.”

  “Boo!” Sam said, right in Hall’s ear. His breath was hot on Hall’s neck.

  Hall didn’t have a chance to tell him to back off. From that point, everything happened quickly.

  Dogs barked, women screamed, and everyone scattered. The Labradoodle was flat on its back as a black dingo-like dog snarled on top of it. The cause of the trouble, a plate of barbecued meat, was upturned on the grass. As the dogs fought, someone stepped closer to break it up, but the black dog lunged, a chain attached to its neck swishing across the ground. The man jumped back. The black dog dove onto the plate, gobbling up the sausage and seafood. The Labradoodle barked and the black dog lunged and bit its neck. Everyone screamed.