Free The Wave at Hanging Rock: A Psychological Mystery and Suspense Thriller by Gregg Dunnett Page B

into the car park overlooking Porthtowan beach on the north coast of Cornwall. The interior of the car smelt of the hot kebabs they had just purchased from a nearby takeaway. The officer in the passenger seat was midway through his, a dribble of sauce running down from the corner of his mouth. As he wiped it away he spotted the car. He prodded his colleague in the ribs.  
    “Hey, over there. Red Nissan.”
    “Hmmm?”
    “There.”
    “Well, get the list. Have a look.”
    The first officer re-wrapped his food and reached behind his seat to pick up a clipboard. He flicked through a couple of pages of notes from the morning’s briefing until he found what he was looking for. He scanned a finger across the page, then looked over at the car again.
    “Yep, that’s the one.” He glanced sadly at his half-eaten lunch then pushed the door open and climbed out, settling his hat onto his head.  
    “You’re keen,” his colleague said, taking another bite of his kebab.
    “Well one of us has to fight crime around here.”

      As he approached the car his feet scrunched in a manner depressingly familiar and he swore out loud. Bloody thieving toerags. The passenger window on the Nissan was shattered, fragments of glass lay on the ground like thousands of tiny cubes. He glanced in. There was more diced glass, but here it was scattered across a pile of clothes on the front seat, as if someone had got changed to go for a swim or a surf, which was a common activity on this beach. Or to drown themselves, the officer thought to himself. Suicides weren’t unknown either.  

    There was a parking ticket on the windscreen, a penalty notice. The officer craned his neck to see when it was issued, just a couple of hours previously. He looked around the car but couldn’t see any evidence that a pay and display ticket had been purchased.  

    The passenger side door was unlocked so he opened it, then squatted down. He noticed the ignition hadn’t been broken - it was a break in, not a stolen car that had been dumped. The kids around here were getting picky about what they went joyriding in. He stared at the pile of clothes on the seat for a moment, just jeans, a t-shirt and a jumper. Then he stood back up, walked back to his car to finish his lunch and then called it in.

thirteen

    A LITTLE WHILE later John turned up at the campsite early one Saturday. There wasn’t any swell, and nothing in the forecast. At least it wasn’t raining though.
    “Is your mum around?” he asked.
    “She’s gone into town,” I replied, still eating toast.
    “Good.” John walked out of the kitchen and into what was built as the living room but served as the campsite shop. We were open on Saturdays for two hours in the morning. I got the rest of the day off. He browsed for a while, collecting a chocolate bar and a small packet of cereal.  
    “Got any milk?”  
    “Use the stuff from the kitchen,” I replied knowing John wasn’t going to pay. “Mum’ll be less likely to notice.”
    “OK. Where’s Darren?”
    I shrugged from the doorway. “Guess he’ll be around soon. There’s no waves again.” I meant it like there was no rush.
    “Do you sell maps here?”
    I thought for a moment. “Uh, yeah, they’re in the drawer under the till. Why?”
    “Let’s have a look at one.” He opened the drawer and pulled out a map, checking on the back that it covered the area he wanted. “Come on.”
    We went back to the kitchen and he stuck the chocolate bar in his mouth while unfolding the map. It wasn’t the biggest table and he had to stop and get me to put all the breakfast things onto the side before he could open it properly.  
    “So we’re here right?” He said, stabbing at it. I leaned in. I’d looked at the map before of course, but I’d never really studied it. We’d explored up to then just by wandering, seeing what was there. You didn’t need a map for that.  

    John had his finger pointing at the campsite, behind the yellow