Blood on the Rocks Chapter 7
Frank checked Brent Turnbull’s clothes, confirming his suspicions. Aware of the ramifications of his findings, he tried to contact Mike Henderson but the Senior Sergeant was nowhere to be found; nor was he answering his phone. Frank went looking for Constable McFadden, but couldn’t find her either. Not wanting to waste the few hours left in his first day on the case Frank drove himself out to the crime scene once again, to look with eyes that knew this was a murder scene.
There was nothing new to see on the beach, except a much bigger swell than earlier in the day. Frank locked his backpack in the car and took a walk along the rocks, trying to visualise how Brent’s murder may have been staged, looking for places his body may have been hauled on to the rocks, or thrown from the rocks. About thirty metres along he climbed down towards the water’s edge, taking care on the slippery rocks in his leather-soled RM boots.
If the tide was running out, Brent’s body should have been lost at sea, not washed up on the beach. Perhaps the murderers were slapdash and didn’t drag the body out far enough? Frank squatted down to peer over the edge, into the churning sea. The suck and swell of the waves was both awe-inspiring and frightening to a land-loving creature like Frank.
He was still staring into the dark depths when he heard his name called.
‘Diamond! Detective! Move!’
He stood quickly and looked towards the voice and in doing so did what every beach lover knows not to: he turned his back on the ocean. A freakishly large wave crashed over his rock, sweeping him off balance. Then the wave sucked back. Frank’s boots lost purchase and down he went, straight into the ocean.
Luckily the wave dragged him away from the rocks. Unluckily, it dragged him deeper out to sea, and the sea was not Frank’s best environment. He kicked hard, paddling desperately with his hands. Dog-paddle. At least Constable McFadden was not there to see his pathetic sea-skills, he thought, as he went under for the second time.
In the panic and confusion, his shoes hit sand. He kicked up with all his might and shot back to the surface, gasping a breath. Then a wave hit him and he went under, like a rag in a tumble-dryer.
Frank pushed off the bottom again, trying to move with the surge. As he broke the surface he flailed about with his arms. Another wave took him but this time Frank managed to move his body into the flow of the wave. His knees grazed sand. He pushed up and on to his feet, stumbled and fell again. A wave hit him from behind, slamming his face into the sand. But at least it was almost dry land. Thanking whatever gods, good fairies or good luck had saved him, Frank crawled on all fours out of the water, like a primeval mutation, not quite sure of its ability to survive.
‘Well, Detective, that was quite show.’ Frank heard the clicking of a camera and groaned as he recognised the voice.
‘Ms White,’ he replied, trying to look up as he choked up half an ocean.
‘Oh, please, call me Kaaaron,’ she said. ‘Smile!’
Frank levered himself up, trying to keep his back to her lens. He pushed his hair back from where it lay like seaweed across his face and stumbled away. What had he said about things getting worse?
After the beach debacle, Frank returned the apartment that was home for the next few weeks. He hoped that it wouldn’t be any longer than a few weeks. Part of his agreement with Colin Sherry back at the Sydney station was that when it was done, he could go back to Maitland. He no longer cared that his ex-wife was shacked up with the main witness on the car-jacking case he’d sorted before being offered a transfer to Sydney; and he no longer cared that the Sydney position guaranteed promotion and pay rise. He wanted to go home. Murder wasn’t his thing: he enjoyed being a small-town cop in a small-time community.
The walk in to work the next day seemed shorter. Frank skipped breakfast at the café, wanting to get an early start; he could eat later, maybe with Mac. He picked up a copy of the Coffs Coast Advocate on the way, hoping to get in a little background reading. Local papers in regional towns were gold to the canny investigator. As he crossed the oval he was happy to find the plover still in residence.
‘Don’t back down,’ he said to the incumbent bird. ‘You were here first.’
Cricket left him cold. As the son of a third generation Hunter Valley farmer who had been shanghaied into farm work shortly after he could walk, Frank never did understand people’s need to run around needlessly under the hot sun.
There was a new person at the front desk when he arrived at the station: a woman of 40-something, with a friendly face and a brisk manner.
‘You must be Detective Diamond,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m Rhonda. Mike’s waiting for you. His office. Hope you had a good night.’
Frank was charmed by Rhonda’s enquiry after his wellbeing, assuming it to be a sign of a caring attitude, until he stepped into Mike Henderson’s office and realised it was more likely sympathy for someone who may never sleep peacefully again.
‘What the bloody hell are you playing at?’ shouted Mike. Frank glanced back, hoping that there was someone just behind him.
‘No, I’m talking to you!’
Frank closed the door and steeled himself for whatever Henderson was dishing out.
‘What the bloody hell is this and why did you even dream you had any right to talk to the press?’ demanded Henderson, slamming down the newspaper he had been wielding about him like a weapon. The headline read: Local Man Murdered. The sub-heading was marginally worse: Sydney cop brought in to fix local blundering.
Frank opened the paper he was carrying and checked the headline – no mention of murder or Sydney detectives.
‘I didn’t talk to them…’ said Frank.
‘Not that paper,’ said Henderson. ‘Barry would never publish without double-checking with me.’ He brandished the offending pages again. ‘This is a new mob ‒ independent.’
‘I didn’t speak with them.’
‘Really? This cow says you did.’ He jabbed his finger at the article. Frank bent down to examine the incriminating evidence. This paper can confirm that Detective Frank Diamond has been flown in under great secrecy to investigate the suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of popular local identity, Brent Turnbull. On being approached for an interview, Detective Diamond refused to deny that Turnbull’s death was suspicious. If Turnbull’s demise is a ‘tragic fishing accident’, as described by the former head of the investigation, Senior Sergeant Michael Henderson, why has Sydney CID sent their star investigator to Coffs Harbour to take over? And if so, what is Detective Frank Diamond doing with his time? Is this incompetence, or more bungling?
The next paragraph began with a photo of himself lying washed up on Mullaway Beach. Frank had read enough.
‘Sir,’ he said, with a slight shrug. ‘Ah…I gave her nothing ‒’
‘You don’t even say g’day to the press, Diamond. I thought I made that clear?’
‘I didn’t, sir. The journalist approached us in the hospital carpark‒’
‘So you get your sorry arse in the car and drive away without a word. And what is this all about?’ he demanded, stabbing the photo of Frank. ‘What are you doing, Diamond? This is bullshit.’ Mike started pacing back and forth behind his desk. ‘Murder! We don’t need a murder rumour – the town’s doing it tough enough after the fires and covid. Christ! This town runs on tourism. We don’t need more reasons for them to stay away. This’ll be like a bloody inferno and I’ve got enough to do without haven’t to put out fires started by some two-bit journo trying to make a name for herself.’ This last line was delivered looking straight at Frank.
‘Well, sir,’ said Frank, wondering how he could break his news gently to Mike Henderson and keep his job, ‘you’d be surprised ‒ some people find murder investigations a drawcard‒’
‘Vultures, journos and bad cops, you mean? Coffs is a family town, not the bloody big city. We don’t have murders here.’
‘We-ell…’ said Frank, scratching the back of his head. ‘I don’t know about that…’
Mike stopped pacing and glared at him. Frank was tall, but lanky: the Senior Sergeant’s angry bulk was reminding him that he really needed to work out more.
‘What do you mean, Diamond?’
‘Ah well, you see…’
‘Spit it out!’
‘Brent Turnbull was murdered, sir. In my opinion, this is now a murder investigation.’
Mike Henderson uttered a loud expletive and plonked himself down hard in his chair, shaking his head. Ignoring Frank, he picked up his phone and stabbed a few numbers into the speed dial. Someone answered.
‘Diamond’s just told me that he reckons Brent was murdered. I’m hoping you think he’s wrong.’ Henderson listened intently, his free hand absently fiddling with a pen. ‘Yeah. Yep. Ah, damn. Yep. Okay. Email it to me and come through.’
He disconnected, frowning.
‘It seems that Constable McFadden agrees with you, Diamond. And she’s found the deceased’s vehicle, or a record of at least and it doesn’t look good. Sit down, she’ll be here in a jiffy. You better fill me in.’
Frank sat, figuring now wasn’t the time to object to having the Probationary Constable believed, over him. As he précised their findings of the day before, including being accosted by the journalist Karen White, he wondered where Mac had been and why she hadn’t informed him first about finding the car. It was obvious she knew the deceased better than she was admitting and that holding back was her way forward. And that would have to change.