Free The Sound of Whales by Kerr Thomson Page A

be seen.
    â€˜Is it  . . .  is it Jonah?’ Hayley asked, as if the sand was clogging her throat.
    Fraser stood and stared, didn’t know what else to do when a corpse lay in front of him. Was this the man he was talking to only yesterday? It didn’t seem real, it couldn’t be real, but there he – it – lay, partially buried, face down on the sand, twisted slightly, legs apart, arms by the sides. It had the size and frame of a man, naked except for a pair of cotton underpants. The skin was wrinkled, as if newly emerged from a hot bath, grains of sand in the folds. And it was black.
    â€˜Is it Jonah?’ Hayley asked again in a quiet voice.
    Fraser stepped closer. ‘I don’t know.’ He couldn’t see the face, nothing else looked familiar, but there was nothing familiar about a dead man. He had never seen one before, had attended only one funeral, his grandfather’s, and the coffin had been securely sealed.
    â€˜What happened?’ he asked. ‘Did he try to swim for the mainland?’
    He took another step closer, crouched down beside the body. Sand flies buzzed about his face and he was surprised there was no smell. That was the ocean’s doing. Ben McCaig had told him once that the ocean washed everything clean. He pushed the revulsion back down and examined the corpse. It lay twisted with the stomach partly exposed. There was a dark stain on the sand beneath. The skin here was lighter and, peering closer, he saw that there was a wide tear across the abdomen. He was looking inside the man.
    â€˜Come here and look at this,’ he said. ‘There’s a wound.’
    â€˜No, thank you,’ Hayley said with a hint of panic. ‘We better go. We better tell someone.’
    She was right.
    â€˜Mr Wallace.’
    â€˜Who’s that?’
    â€˜The harbour master. He’ll know what to do.’
    As Fraser straightened up he saw something glint in the sun. It lay close to the body, mostly buried in the sand. He reached down and pulled out a knife.
    He recognized it instantly: the wooden handle, the flat, sharp blade. He checked anyway and there on the handle were the carved letters BM . It was Ben McCaig’s whale-gutting knife.
    â€˜What’s this doing here?’ he said.
    Hayley moved a step closer. ‘What is it?’
    â€˜It’s  . . .  Ben’s knife.’
    â€˜Where was it?’
    â€˜In the sand here.’
    On the blade of the knife there was a dark glaze that could only be blood. On the dead man was a wound, a large gash across the abdomen. He had watched enough CSI to connect the two.
    Hayley voiced a half-formed question. ‘Do you think he  . . .  ?’
    â€˜No. Absolutely not.’ But he was holding Ben’s knife. ‘We can’t tell anyone,’ he said.
    â€˜But we have to.’
    â€˜We can’t. They’ll blame Ben. It’s his knife.’
    â€˜But if he’s done something  . . . ’
    â€˜No. He wouldn’t. He guts whales, not people.’
    â€˜That knife could be a murder weapon.’
    Fraser knew as much. He held the knife gingerly where the blade met the handle, but he had to give Ben the opportunity to explain.
    â€˜Let me talk to Ben first. Then we’ll hand over the knife.’
    â€˜And what if he takes it from you and stabs you?’
    â€˜That won’t happen.’
    They stared at each other for a few long seconds. Perhaps the tan was fading but suddenly she seemed pale – a girl far from home and unsure of herself.
    â€˜What’s to stop me reporting everything?’
    â€˜Nothing. Except I’m asking you not to.’
    â€˜And what about meeting Jonah last night?’
    â€˜I wouldn’t mention anything about that. If last night we’re with Jonah and the next morning he’s lying dead on this beach, we’ll spend the next week answering questions in a police