Seven Mile Beach, page 9
The ugly southern suburbs rolled away behind him. Nick found his gaze drawn to the newspaper posters outside railway stations and on the walls of newsagents’ shops. Of course there was no mention of Danny. Dying in the small hours was Danny’s final revenge on the Daily Star, ensuring it was twenty-four hours late with the news.
It was a few minutes after midday. The morning news conference would have just started. Les Perger would probably give up half tomorrow’s paper to documenting the dissolute life and squalid death of Danny Grogan. Most of it would be rehashed from the files. No doubt the picture editor would stake out the mansion in Vaucluse, hoping for a photograph of the grieving mother. Ken Horswill, commercial talkback host and conscience of the Star, would deliver a thousand ghosted words on the wasted life of a spoilt rich boy.
Nick’s name was certain to come up at the news conference. Maybe this would have been his chance to redeem himself with a heart-wrenching yarn on the Danny Grogan he knew. But how would it end—with Danny shooting up in a toilet cubicle in Central Local Court? Or sitting in a rental car while he confessed to sleeping with a fourteen-year-old junkie? No, Danny might be dead but there was still something Nick could offer him: silence.
Within a few hours Jerry Whistler would know he wasn’t coming to work. Jerry would ring Sally and Sally would tell him…what? That Nick had disappeared and taken the dog?
His mobile started ringing. The caller ID was an extension at the Daily Star. Nick let it ring out. He stopped at Kiama and bought a couple of bottles of water and something to eat. He walked up the hill and stood for a few minutes among a Japanese coach party watching geysers of water erupting from the blowhole.
A green sign pointed to Seven Mile Beach. Nick had been there once with Danny and a friend of Danny’s whose name he couldn’t remember: three eighteen-year-olds and a bong flying down the Princes Highway on a Friday night in a Range Rover that Danny claimed to have ‘borrowed’ for the weekend. The three of them had slept on the beach and when Nick woke up cold and stiff and with his hair full of sand he noticed Danny standing in the dunes watching a humpback whale. He stayed there all morning, unable to drag himself away.
Nick turned off the highway and followed a winding road through flat woodland to the coast.
The small gravel carpark was deserted except for a white Valiant panel van. Wooden planking ran over the dunes, which had been fenced for plant regeneration. In the distance he saw a shape that looked like a person—probably the driver of the white panel van—sitting in the dunes. Nick walked down to the firm wet sand while the dog ran ahead, scampering into the waves and retreating before the tumbling surf. Then Nick turned, walking away from the figure in the dunes.
The weather was less benign than it had been that morning. The sky out to sea was a forbidding grey, with cooling towers of cloud piled up on the horizon. A blustery wind blew veils of spray off the crests of the waves. After an hour Nick turned back. The beach felt deserted, seven miles of sand with nobody’s footprints but his own. As he neared the spot where he’d parked his car he looked for the figure in the dunes but whoever it was had moved or gone. He climbed the planking and stood on the dune, gazing at the grey sea, half imagining that if he stood there long enough he might catch sight of Danny’s whale.
He lit a cigarette and sat in his car with the door open while the dog explored the bushes. After he’d smoked his cigarette he took a swig of bottled water and turned to look at the white panel van. A tatty net curtain had been part-drawn across the rear window. Nick wondered if someone was sleeping inside. He screwed the lid back on the bottle and switched on the car radio and sat for a while thinking.
After a few minutes he stood up and walked across the carpark. The panel van was parked facing the sea. It couldn’t have been there long or else the windscreen would have been encrusted with salt spray. Slowly, he walked around it. He could see now that there was nobody inside. The tailgate wasn’t properly fastened. Through the net curtain he could see a rolled-up mattress, a pair of old trainers and some boxes of supermarket groceries—as if the owner was preparing to go on a trip. Nick lifted the tailgate. The air inside the car smelt of dope. A bong was resting against the wheel arch.
Nick closed the tailgate again. He walked back to the dunes and looked up and down the beach. He couldn’t see a soul. Then he returned to the panel van and opened the driver’s door. The key was still in the ignition. He walked around to the other side and popped open the glove box. Inside was a black rubber-handled torch; a pouch of loose tobacco and a couple of plastic lighters; a scuffed leather wallet; some cheap sunglasses and a handful of ATM and credit card receipts.
What sort of person, Nick asked himself, left his wallet and ignition key in an unlocked car?
Twelve years on the Star had given him an instinct for the irrational, the unfinished, the absurd. Broadsheets like the Herald believed in neat endings. But the tabloids knew that stories often stopped, or faded away, or turned back on themselves, and that the most interesting followed only their own skewed logic.
Years ago someone had left a yellow briefcase full of money beneath a desk in the reading room of the State Library. In those days there were no security cameras and neither the guard at the door nor any of the librarians nor anyone who’d visited the library that day could remember seeing anyone carrying a yellow briefcase. The publicity brought out several claimants but none of them could prove the case was theirs and the money was probably still gathering interest in some obscure government account.
Over the years Nick had often thought about the vanished owner of that yellow briefcase. He thought of him now as he took the leather wallet out of the glove box and opened it.
The wallet contained seventy dollars in cash, a Westpac VISA card and ATM card, and a New South Wales driver’s licence. The driver’s name was Kevin Michael Chambers of Prospect Road, Canley Vale, in Sydney’s western suburbs. According to his date of birth Chambers was a year and a half older than Nick.
The licence was four years old. At a careless glance the photograph bore a vague resemblance to pictures of Nick taken a few years ago, before his hair started to thin. He and Kevin Chambers had the same colour hair—a sort of dirty straw blond—and similarly oval faces, both clean-shaven. The likeness was subliminal rather than overwhelming but in a strange way that made it all the more plausible. After all, Nick had official photographs of himself that didn’t look anything like him: the photograph in his own passport, for example. And a careless glance was all that most people gave to the small photographs pushed across the counter for verification.
He put the licence back in the leather wallet and lit a cigarette. What if he were to swap vehicles? A couple of times on the highway north of Kiama he’d had the sensation of being followed. But it was never more than a sensation and when he’d pulled over and waited for the traffic to pass he’d realised he was just imagining it. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t be long before the police started looking for his red Camry. The Camry was worth at least twice what anyone would give Chambers for his beaten-up panel van.
It was impulse rather than calculation. If he’d thought about it for another five minutes, another two minutes, another two seconds, perhaps he would have decided against it. Impulse had warned him against taking Harry Grogan’s money and he’d ignored it—and found himself set up for a fatal hit-and-run. Maybe it was time to act on impulse.
He opened the tailgate and transferred a couple of boxes to the boot of his Camry. As he walked back with the third the bottom collapsed. Tins of tuna and baked beans and bags of rice and dried pasta tumbled out. An exploding jar splattered the legs of his jeans with pasta sauce. Jagged shards of glass lay all over the gravel. Nick grabbed the shoes and the bong and the rolled-up mattress from the back of the panel van and slammed the tailgate on a carton of fruit and vegetables. Then he took two hundred dollars out of his wallet and stuffed it in the Camry’s glove box.
He sat behind the steering wheel of the white panel van and turned the key in the ignition. The engine started straight away. Nick watched the fuel gauge needle creep towards full. A butt in the ashtray reminded him that he’d run out of cigarettes. Leaving the engine running, he walked across the gravel and fetched the bag containing his clothes. The dog seemed to sense what was happening. It trotted after him and, when Nick opened the tailgate, the animal leapt in.
Nick spent a minute searching for gears on the unfamiliar shift. He revved the four-litre V8, then put the stick into gear and reversed out of the carpark.
A vehicle like this, Nick thought, was liable to be recognised, so he by-passed the few shabby motels in Shoalhaven Heads and headed instead for Ulladulla, searching his mirror all the way.
Glancing at the ashtray reminded him that he was dying for a cigarette. He was dying for the cigarette he’d been dying for since he left Seven Mile Beach. It was just after 7 p.m. He stopped at a service station on the outskirts of Nowra and bought a packet of Winfields and a bottle of Coca-Cola and a shapeless, formless pie from the hot counter. He ate the pie and drank the coke. Then he stripped the cellophane wrapper from the packet of Winfields and took a cigarette and put it between his lips. Then he stopped. Kevin Chambers’ leather wallet was sitting on the carpet beneath the glove box. He hadn’t meant to take it but there it was. He picked it up. He lit his cigarette. It was too late to give the wallet back, even if he’d wanted to. He took out the driver’s licence and studied the photograph. The resemblance was unmistakable. Was it possible he’d kept the wallet deliberately, knowing it would be useful to him? As a court reporter he’d heard cases defended on the grounds of unconscious rather than deliberate intention. Psychoanalysis recognised the possibility of unconscious intention even if the law didn’t. Nick finished his cigarette, got out of the car and walked back to the shop. He thought of that morning in Hyde Park with Jess, when he’d pretended to be an expert on household cleaning products. The man with the questionnaire had bought every word of it. He was probably no more credulous than anyone else. People expected you to be who you said you were. It was one of the frailties of human nature. Or one of the virtues. The automatic door slid open. Somehow Nick knew that what happened in the next few minutes was going to change his life.
The bill for a box of black hair dye and a packet of disposable razors came to $22.74. Nick pushed Kevin Chambers’ VISA card across the counter. He hadn’t even had the chance to practise Chambers’ signature, although a child could have copied the illegible scribble on the card. The acne-scarred shop assistant picked up the card. ‘Cheque, savings or credit?’
‘Credit,’ said Nick.
The assistant hit a key on his touch-screen and swiped the card and slapped a cheap biro on the counter.
Nick picked up the pen. His heart raced as he dashed off the oversized ‘C’ followed by a horizontal slash that was supposed to represent the word ‘Chambers’.
The assistant didn’t even glance at the signature on the card, as Nick had somehow known he wouldn’t.
Nick put the card back in the wallet and turned to leave.
‘Don’t you want this?’ the boy asked.
Nick saw the hair dye and razors sitting on the counter.
The sly expression on the assistant’s face made Nick think that he was going to ask for another look at the VISA card. Nick glanced at the fuzzy black-and-white image on the miniature closed circuit TV screen behind the counter—and for a moment had the unnerving feeling that the indistinct figure wasn’t him at all, but Kevin Chambers.
As Nick drove south the weather became worse. The driver’s door leaked. One of the windscreen wipers had lost its rubber. Twice he had to pull over until the rain eased.
He reached Ulladulla just after nine and decided to stop for the night. A few streets back from the harbour was a white-brick motel called The Willows. According to the flickering sign outside, the motel had rooms for fifty-five dollars. Two rows of units faced each other across a tarmac parking area bordered by straggly bottlebrush. There wasn’t a willow in sight.
Nick parked the panel van and got out, leaving the dog frowning at him through the windscreen. There was some wasteland behind the motel. From the carpark it looked possible to drive straight across the wasteland onto a road that linked up with the highway. That was information worth knowing, if by any chance he had to leave in a hurry.
It took the proprietor a couple of minutes to respond to the bell. He was a man in his sixties, in green tracksuit pants and slippers and dressing gown. He emerged from his office yawning and rubbing his eyes. Frowning through a pair of half-moon spectacles, he looked Nick up and down. ‘Where are you heading?’
‘Sydney,’ Nick answered.
‘Yeah?’ He squinted past Nick at the white panel van. ‘Which one’s yours then?’
‘The panel van.’
‘You’ll be after a double then.’
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Just the two of you is it?’
Nick didn’t see that it was any of his business to correct the proprietor’s mistake. On the contrary, he was happy to give the impression that he had company. If anyone was looking for Nick Carmody tonight they would expect him to be travelling alone.
‘Just two, yes.’
The elderly proprietor stared at him, and Nick thought he was going to ask whether they were married, he and his mythical companion. Then he reached under the counter for the register. ‘Double rooms are sixty-five. Breakfast extra.’ He opened the register and turned it around for Nick to sign. ‘Do you want breakfast?’
‘No thanks. We’ll be pushing off early.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He watched Nick write his details and then turned the register round. Even with his reading glasses on, he had to press his face almost against the page to read the words. ‘Chambers,’ he said, as if the name confirmed his worst suspicions.
‘That’s right.’
‘Had a Chambers here some time back. Left a tap running. I had to have the carpet up.’ The proprietor squinted over the top of his glasses. ‘Wasn’t you, was it?’
Nick held his gaze for a few seconds but the unfocused stare told Nick that the old man was almost blind. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘My first time down here.’
‘Must have been someone else then.’
‘Must have been.’
‘Cost me nearly eight hundred dollars.’
‘The carpet?’
‘Smell wouldn’t come out. Had to buy a new one.’
‘That’s too bad.’
‘Chambers. I’m pretty sure that was his name. Polypropylene.’
Nick looked puzzled.
‘The carpet. Polypropylene. Navy blue. You wouldn’t want it in the house. No one cares, do they? What’s on the floor. Could have sawdust and they wouldn’t notice. Just come here to sleep. Someone walked off with a television set once.’ He pointed across the forecourt. ‘Number seventeen. Upstairs. Now they’re all bolted to the wall.’
He waited for Nick to speak.
‘It’s a motel,’ said Nick. ‘I suppose—’
‘Wife said I ought to have told the police. Malicious damage. Told her they wouldn’t be interested. File a report and forget about it. Same with the television set. Asked me if it was insured. Next minute they’re getting back in the car.’ He paused, and started flicking through the register. ‘I’m sure it was Chambers… Chalmers. Maybe that was it. Only eighteen months old.’
‘The carpet?’
‘We had them all done. Twenty-four units. Wife chose the colour.’ He frowned and snatched a key from the board on the wall. ‘Number seven,’ he said. ‘There’s extra bedding in the cupboard if you want it.’
‘Thank you.’
The old man handed him the key. ‘There’s no dogs, by the way.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Dogs.’
Leaning over the counter, the proprietor pointed to a small sign: NO DOGS, NO VISITORS, NO SMOKING.
‘I can always smell a dog,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘The wife says it’s a gift.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Nick. ‘It sleeps in the car.’
The unit looked as if it hadn’t been slept in for months. There were cobwebs in the corners. Four tea bags and a bowl of petrified white sugar sat on a plastic tray beside the kettle. Nick tried to open one of the windows but it was bolted shut and he couldn’t find a key.
After locking the door he sat down to read the instructions on the box of hair dye. It all looked simple enough but the plastic gloves split and Nick was forced to improvise with a pair of supermarket bags. With the bags on his hands he couldn’t avoid smudging dye on his temples. He studied the result in the bathroom mirror. He’d missed some of the roots but the overall effect was good enough. As he stood there he heard a knock on the door. He froze. Then he called out, as if to his nonexistent companion, ‘I’ll get it.’
Nick watched the doorknob turning silently in its socket. ‘The TV in there is stuffed,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I could get another if you want.’
‘Thanks for the offer,’ said Nick. ‘We don’t watch much TV.’
‘It wouldn’t be any trouble. There’s one in the office.’
‘We’ll be fine.’
‘Fair enough. It’s there if you want it.’
Nick slept with his clothes on, just in case. In case of what? Who exactly did he fear—the police? Michael Flynn? Or Kevin Chambers? Nick realised how much he didn’t know about the man whose name he’d taken. Why had Chambers left his wallet and keys in an unlocked car next to a deserted beach? If the boxes of groceries were supplies for a journey, where was he going—and why? If he was going to report his car stolen, he would have done it by now. And if not, then what did he have to hide?
Nick began to regret having stopped for the night. Wouldn’t it have been safer to have kept going? He could always have pulled over and slept in the car. Someone might have recognised the Valiant on its way through. If Kevin Chambers was a local, he would know who to ask. Nick was tempted to leave now, in the middle of the night, only he knew it would arouse suspicion—and he’d already given the motel proprietor ample reason to remember him. But Kevin Chambers wasn’t local. According to his driver’s licence Chambers lived in the western suburbs of Sydney. So what was he doing leaving his car unlocked in a deserted carpark at Seven Mile Beach?
