Free Bay of Fires by Poppy Gee Page A

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