Blood on the Rocks

Dusk is when the mulloway are running off the headland, as the tide turns on the beautiful beaches of the Solitary Islands National Park. The day-trippers and tourists have packed up, a half-moon is rising over a lilac-hued horizon and all is good with the world.

These were the thoughts of Brent Turnbull as he stood, rod in hand, watching gentle waves roll in to his favourite beach, on a perfect Sunday afternoon. For Brent, it was a time of day second only to early morning at the bluff break, with an easy left-hander curling across the sapphire blue of paradise on Earth.

Brent checked his line, checked the time and then checked his phone. Nothing from Freak, which was weird. Usually by this time his brother would have called at least twice to check the deliveries were made. Even when he was away on a trip to see the boss in Sydney, Freak would call to check up on him. But not tonight.

Brent wasn’t complaining. It was good to relax for a few hours without his twin hassling him. Freak would be back Monday and, in the meantime, Brent was happy to take it easy. Freak’s rare lapses in surveillance were usually because he had some new lady friend keeping him occupied: Freak by name, freak by nature. Even his parents, when they were alive, had given up trying to call him Phillip. Brent took a swig from his hip flask of Jim Beam; the deliveries could wait until after he’d had a fish and a few bevvies. They weren’t going anywhere and those he was delivering to would be desperate enough not to care that he was a few hours later than usual.

But even the thought of Freak and the grief he’d dish out was enough to break the calm Brent had achieved. He took another slug from his bottle and surveyed the landscape. The sun had set behind him and the moon was rising through cloud over a darkening sea, now dead calm. Long shadows of dusk deepened into night. Brent sat himself down on his towel and took a few minutes to practice the exercises the bloke at NA suggested. He closed his eyes, letting the gentle rhythm of the waves slow his breathing until he felt the real world slip away, with all its stress and anxiety.

Which is why he didn’t hear the two men approaching across the sand. As the stout branch the assailants had fashioned into a club caught him with force across the back of his head, Brent registered only a shocking pain. And then nothing. He was unconscious as they dragged him into the water and 25 metres across to the southern headland, where they hauled him out onto a rocky platform and, using all of their considerable strength, hoisted him to standing height. Then they pushed him forwards. His body crumpled as it fell, his head cracking sharply on one of the many protruding rocks. With gloved hands the murderers rolled him back into the surf and held him under, until the little hope and imagination with which Brent Turnbull faced the world exited his body in a slow stream of blood-tinged bubbles. Dead.

The two men slipped back up the dark beach the way they had come, leaving Brent floating lifeless on an outgoing tide. All in all, it had taken them just three minutes to end 30 years of life.

The next morning a pair of surfers found Brent washed up, bloated and sodden. They called the cops, and then their mates, because despite the state of the body they could still recognise the face of Brent Turnbull, twice world-champion long-boarder and twin brother to Freak Turnbull, owner of SurFreak gear, an icon to every surfer dreaming of getting rich on the back of this supposedly free and easy lifestyle.

That was why the press arrived before the cops had even cleared Coffs, so by the time the police made it to the beach the track from the carpark was well trampled and the surfers’ story of grim discovery had been told enough times to sound polished.

A terrible fishing accident was what the press ran with in the next day’s paper; it even made the local ABC. It was not until Probationary Constable Rebecca McFadden wondered out loud how the deceased had travelled to the beach, with no vehicle found in the vicinity, that Senior Sergeant Mike Henderson looked twice at the case.

Calls to Phillip Turnbull, next of kin, went straight to voicemail and no one called back. Nor was a mobile or car keys found on the deceased’s body. It was surmisable that his belongings had been left on the beach and been washed away by the tide, but the constable had a point about the vehicle. Either someone had been with Brent and left him there, or someone else had taken his car. Neither scenario gave Mike Henderson a good feeling.

Coffs Harbour is a beautiful place that has played the part of capitol city to the magnificent Coffs coastline, from Kempsey to the Solitary Islands, on the traditional lands of the Gumbaynggirr Nation. It’s a big country town with arms open to surfers, tourists and refugees alike. Crime is low in Coffs; murder is rare and the murder of someone as well-known as Brent Turnbull was worse, but not because he was dead. Although both brothers enjoyed legendary status among the surf fraternity, Senior Sergeant Henderson knew that Brent was a stoner well past his glory days, and Freak had earned himself that nickname the hard way. Whatever the circumstances, the death of Brent Turnbull would attract attention, so Mike Henderson picked up the phone, and called in a favour.

‘We’re shorthanded here since the cutbacks, and with the Pacific Highway upgrade and covid patrol, I need focus on traffic. We’re already in the pooh with Community for the press finding out before we could contact next of kin. I need this handled fast and quiet, without influence from town politics, you understand? Mate, we’re just not set up for a high-profile case,’ he said.

There was a moment’s silence on the other end, then the gruff voice of Detective Sergeant Colin Sherry, of Surry Hills Sydney, replied, ‘Yeah, I remember. It’s a bad day in Coffs when they get graffiti on the Big Banana. What do you want me to do about it?’

‘Send me someone, but someone I can keep a handle on. You got anyone spare I could second for a couple of weeks?’

After the Sydney cop stopped laughing and Mike stopped calling him a sarcastic bastard, Colin Sherry said, ‘You know mate, I think I do. A bit of an odd one, but good at his job.’

‘Why odd?’

‘We-ell, unconventional maybe is a better way to put it. But he gets results…sometimes more than the rest of the crew are comfortable with.’

‘Would I know him?’

‘Nah, he’s been in Maitland most of his time. But he gets the job done‒’

‘You said that already. My accountant gets the job done, mate, but I don’t want him on a possible murder with press attached.’

‘I hear you. Look, some people reckon he’s brilliant…but y’know, some people’ll say anything…’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Frank. Frank Diamond. I’ll get him on the next plane up.’

‘He’ll come?’

‘He’ll do what he’s told…probably.’

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Detective Frank Diamond arrived in the dark, his flight from Sydney to Coffs Harbour delayed to unload the baggage of a passenger who didn’t board. Then the officer supposed to collect him from Coffs Harbour airport didn’t show and didn’t answer his mobile. After waiting 30 minutes Frank called a cab, which took another 30 minutes to arrive. It was well after 10.00pm when he reached his apartment accommodation. Frank took a shower and fell into bed.

In the middle of the night he was woken by the sound of a goods train, pulsing past his window. Frank rolled over, and didn’t go back to sleep. Around stupid o’clock he gave up all pretence of sleeping and levered his long form from the bed. First light was sneaking into the room, illuminating the tastefully anonymous décor of the holiday apartment. Frank’s bag sat beside a TV table stacked with tourist brochures. He probably wouldn’t get to ‘Explore the Solitary Islands by Boat’ or ‘Experience the Beauty of the Rainforest’, he thought, as he pulled on a pair of well-worn track pants. Unless the possible murderer was a tour guide, of course. And after his one experience with organised tours last summer on Sydney Harbour, jostled between a young Queensland couple relentlessly posing for their Insta profile and another couple relentlessly arguing over who’d said what to whom the night before, Frank could understand why a tour guide might turn to homicide.

He scrummaged around in his suitcase, retrieving the padded bag that protected his treasured teapot and caddy and ambled out into the main room, yawning. The stark white and steel kitchen was ornamented incongruously with inspirational messages and seashells. Frank thought wistfully of his old weatherboard in Morpeth, near Maitland, overlooking the river. He’d been gone almost a year. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he pulled back the sliding glass doors to a generous balcony and stepped outside.

The view was amazing. Past the back garden, the train track and a snarl of streets lay the Pacific Ocean, a ribbon of breathtaking blue on the horizon. Fingers of gold spread forward from the rising sun as if pointing out the beauty of the landscape. A posy of cumulus clouds drifted lazily in an indigo sky. A gull wheeled overhead, and down in the garden finches had begun to flit and tweet. Frank felt weariness wash away from him. Despite being shanghaied onto this case, despite being once again a stranger in a strange town, Frank felt that it would be a good day.

His ocean-inspired euphoria was not diminished by an excellent breakfast at a café across the road, although at first he had been put off by its beach vibe. Frank understood that his RM boots and moleskin jeans had been unfashionable in Sydney and that didn’t bother him, but here he just felt overdressed.

‘Are you waiting for someone?’ a waitress asked, wiping her hands on the apron she wore over skimpy denim shorts and a cropped white t-shirt. ‘Want me to bring you something? A coffee? Water?’

She smiled and waited expectantly. Frank hated to disappoint her.

‘Do you serve tea?’ he asked. ‘In a teapot?’

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘What kind?’

‘Oh, I usually have Irish Breakfast, but just black tea is fine if it’s leaf.’

‘No,’ she replied, with a laugh that revealed a shining silver stud in the middle of her tongue. ‘What kind of teapot? If you want black tea we have two-cup porcelain pots, but if it’s green or jasmine, we serve those in iron pots. We have all the T2 blends, plus our own originals. Come on in, I’ll get you a good seat before the rush.’

Frank followed her inside, watching her twin plaits bob and swing; he thought maybe he was in love.

As he finished breakfast his phone rang. It was the missing officer, a Constable David Thompson from the night before, calling with a bevy of excuses about being out of town, out of range, out of charge, none of which Frank believed. As recompense, Constable Thompson was offering to come and get Frank now.

‘Nah, that’s okay, mate,’ Frank replied. ‘I think I’ll walk.’

There was a moment of silence on the other end.

‘But the boss said I had to have you in before nine,’ came the reply. ‘Sorry sir, it’s not worth my life to have you go MIA.’

Probably should have considered that last night, Frank thought. He replied, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there. Cheerio.’ He hung up on the other man’s protestations and stood, turning his phone off for good measure. The café had certainly filled up since his arrival. The diners represented a cross-section of the community: a clutch of real estate agents, all suited and booted; three young mums in workout gear pushing babies in strollers boasting more torque than Frank’s old Norton; couples and whole families; and a lone diner with a laptop who would have looked at home on Oxford Street. Frank paid his bill, hoisted his backpack to his shoulders and set off.

You can tell a lot about a town from a walk through its streets. Frank took the main road, noting the number of real estate agencies and building sites. He turned off Harbour Drive at Gordon Street, passing an impressive shopping centre. It was just past eight o’clock and already the town was bustling, seemingly fuelled by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

But on the other side of the shopping centre this atmosphere evaporated. Frank passed young men and women, hanging about, smoking, staring, waiting, but for what?

He crossed the road near the library, taking the Coffs Creek footbridge onto Fitzroy Oval. A group of three men and a woman, stood watching the protestations of a plover as it warned them off its patch, in the middle of the cricket pitch. Its mate sat steadfastly on the nest, a short bowl from mid-off. The men were uniformly dressed in ill-fitting grey suits and leather shoes; the woman wore comfortable looking khaki.

‘It can’t bloody stay there,’ said the fatter of the three blokes, as Frank passed.

‘Well you’re not shifting him, Raj,’ replied the woman, arms akimbo. ‘They’re protected.’

Frank passed them by unnoticed, crossing the Pacific Highway to the police station. At the doorway he ran a hand through his hair, trying to groom the thick tangle into some kind of order. Perhaps he should have worn a tie. Another station, another dead body, another oh-so-important first impression.

‘Take a seat, someone will see you in a moment,’ the Constable at the front desk of the brightly coloured foyer instructed as Frank approached. Before he could introduce himself, her phone rang.

‘Coffs Police, Constable McFadden speaking.’

Frank folded himself into a chair and watched. The constable looked to be in her late twenties, but wore the air of someone aged beyond their years. Her long dark hair was twisted into a tight bun at the nape of a slender brown neck that to Frank seemed more suited to one of those fashion magazines his ex subscribed to. He brushed a hand through his own hair again.

“Nah, no sign of him. Not my problem, Dave.’ She hung up and turned to look at him. Frank stood. The phone rang again. Frank sat.

‘Coffs Police, Constable McFadden speaking. No sir, no sign. And Rhonda’s running late…Dave’s on his way…no, he didn’t. Traffic’s due back now. Yes boss, I will, straight away.’

She hung up and turned to Frank. He stood. As he did four highway patrol officers walked in the front door.

‘Hey Mac,’ called the leader. ‘All good?’

Frank sat.

‘You’re late, bro, he’s waiting,’ she said. ‘Muster room now.’

‘Buzz us in then,’ the officer replied with a grimace.

They headed to a door at the right of reception. Frank stood again.

‘Wait there please, sir, I’ll be with you in a moment,’ said Constable McFadden, not even bothering to look at him. Frank took two steps forward.

‘Yeah, about that, I think‒’

The constable fixed him with a stern look.

‘I said wait, please sir. Are we going to have any problems with that?’

Frank shook his head. The door to the muster room buzzed open and the four officers filed through. Frank took two quick strides to follow them, catching the door before it snapped shut. He was about to announce himself when the wind was knocked from him by a blur of somebody coming with force from the side, while simultaneously kicking his feet from beneath him. Too late for polite introductions now, he thought as he fell.

‘Stay down!’ barked Constable McFadden, twisting his arm behind his back in a move Frank could only admire. He heard the jangle of cuffs and smelt an aroma of vanilla as she pinned him with her knees. He relaxed to let her cuff him, giving her ten out of ten for efficiency and speed.

‘Now I’m going to stand up,’ McFadden said. ‘You will wait until I have released you and then you will roll over and rise slowly. Understood?’

Frank nodded as best he could with his face pressed to the lino, but before he could act on their agreement a pair of boots stepped into his vision.

‘Morning Mac, got some trouble here?

Frank felt her legs clamp around him again and wondered if her impressive knee-power was due to horse riding prowess, which meant they had something in common. A positive?

‘Under control, sir.’

‘Of course it is. Any sign of Detective Diamond?’

‘No sir.’

Frank felt he needed to speak up.

‘Here, actually,’ he said. ‘I’m Frank Diamond.’

‘What the hell are you doing down there, Detective? Let him up Rebecca, and next time keep me informed. And you lot, stop sniggering – I don’t see anything funny. My office now, Diamond.’

Mike Henderson strode off. Frank sat up and tried a smile.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Frank Diamond. Don’t s’pose you could take these off?’

With a look of deep dislike, Rebecca McFadden hauled him to his feet. Frank heard the click and release of the cuffs but as he went to shake his wrists free she grabbed his arm and twisted it into another lock.

‘Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again,’ she whispered. ‘You might be some hotshot from Sydney, but we don’t need you here.’

She let him go and disappeared back to reception. Frank rubbed his wrists, looking around at the rest of the crew, who were suddenly heads down, engrossed in their paperwork. He could understand how the plover felt.

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