Bay of Fires by Poppy Gee Page B

point. This is about preservation of local amenity. Corruption, too. If that council isn’t corrupt, it’s stupid.”
    Sarah could hear herself in her father. She had even used the same expression when she was angry, accusing someone of not understanding, dismissing their interpretation of a situation. When Dad was riled, he didn’t listen to anyone. Hall didn’t acknowledge the rudeness.
    “You’re quite right, John,” he said. “And don’t get me started on the paper. I’ve been there twenty-three years and it’s not what it used to be.”
    Inside the cray coffin thirteen creatures writhed, their muscular pincers tied with string. As everyone admired them, Hall began a conversation with Sam. Sarah watched as the situation got worse. It sounded like Hall was writing a story about Sam. Hall was a nice guy; he looked genuinely interested. He made plans to meet Sam at the Shelleys’ shack. Her hands felt clammy and her stomach heaved. What was she doing here?
    Sam climbed up into Don’s boat, which was now hooked onto the back of his Range Rover. Don gave Sam directions on where to stow each piece of equipment. Sarah unfolded her map and handed it to Don.
    “Show me which way Chloe Crawford walked to the beach the day she disappeared. And where did she ride her bike that morning?”
    “Why are you asking me?”
    “You headed up one of the search parties, didn’t you?”
    Don sighed. He didn’t want to look at the map. Reluctantly his plump index finger landed at the turnoff to the lookout. He traced the dotted line as it curved around the back of the lagoon, past the old rubbish tip and across the two burned bridges, and back onto the graded gravel road that ran parallel to the beach where Anja Traugott was found.
    “Chloe rode her bicycle along here. Then she left it at the fishing cottage where her family was staying and took her surfboard to the beach.” Don tapped the map at the main beach, where Chloe had been heading with her surfboard.
    “No one knows how far along the beach she walked, do they?”
    Don shook his head. “Or even if she made it that far at all. Perhaps she decided to avoid the surf and enjoy the lagoon’s calm water instead. A lot of people do.”
    “Hang on. Why does it matter if she went up into the scrub, when she was last seen walking with her surfboard to the beach?” Sarah asked.
    “It was a beautiful day. Everyone was outside. But no one saw anyone they regarded as strange. Personally I think someone saw her when she was riding on the Old Road and then took her back up into the scrub. We don’t know.”
    It was a popular theory that someone had encountered Chloe in the bush and followed her down. Wild duck hunters, guys taking target practice on beer cans at the old rubbish tip, people gathering firewood or picking wildflowers; there were various reasons why people ventured along the Old Road.
    “People saw her paddling the surfboard in the lagoon, did they?”
    “There were lots of reports that were never confirmed. People thought they saw her but weren’t sure. It was hot the day she went missing. I’ll never forget it. I was driving back from Douglas River and my right arm got badly sunburnt from hanging out the car window. I never understood what she was doing riding her bike in the midday heat.”
    “She wasn’t riding in the midday heat. She dropped her bike back at the rented cottage at lunchtime. That was the last time her parents saw her.”
    The black-sand bush tracks would have been cool under gum tree shadows in the morning. Chloe wasn’t reported missing until evening. The first search party carried torches, their vehicles panning the thick bristly scrub with hopeless yellow beams.
    Don was remembering incorrectly if he thought Chloe had been riding at lunchtime. Considering he had helped search for her, you’d think he would recall an important detail such as her exact movements on the last day she was seen. It showed how people’s memories could not