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.Robben pushed a strand of glossy hair off his face with his left hand.He wore a wedding ring.He described the trips he offered, and handed me some brochures.‘I’m told you need to be pretty experienced,’ I said.Robben blinked rapidly.His eyes were a very dark brown, almost black.‘The lake’s a bit low at the moment.In general, well, there are certain conditions that make it more hazardous than diving at sea level.’ He looked me up and down.‘Sudden drops in temperature, for one.Hypothermia can be a problem.On the other hand, you don’t have to worry about sharks.’I smiled and said that was a relief.‘Why don’t I take your contact details, Ms—’‘Mahoney,’ I said, and gave him my mobile number.‘Is the Kalkite homestead hard to find?’‘Not if you know where to look.If you don’t, there’s seven and a half thousand hectares of water out there.Or there used to be.’‘Does anyone dive without a guide?’‘Of course.There’s a boat hire place at the caravan park.That’s where most start off.Some find the buildings, some don’t.You’ve got to be lucky with the weather too.The water temperature can get down to three degrees Celsius.’I asked Robben if he knew why the homestead hadn’t been removed.‘Removed?’‘I understand that most of the buildings were taken away before the area was flooded.’‘The Snowy Mountains Authority might have kept records on that.I’ve no idea.’I pointed to the photo of the yacht.‘A beautiful boat.Does it belong to you?’‘If only.’‘You enjoy sailing?’‘I do.’Robben’s phone rang and he turned away to answer it.I took the opportunity to take another look at the rest of the photos.He spoke softly to whoever the caller was, then raised his voice to ask, ‘Will that be all, Ms Mahoney?’‘Please let me know next time you’re arranging a dive trip.’Robben glanced upwards, his expression sceptical.‘I know,’ I said.‘Pray for rain.’He ushered me out the door, then leant against it, watching me get into my car.I drove towards the shopping centre, past a motel and another service station, spotting a small red sedan in my rear vision mirror.Red was not a colour to choose if you wanted to be inconspicuous.I pulled into a carpark.The red car parked as well.I wished I’d asked Justin what kind of car Robben’s customers had driven.The red sedan was a newish Hyundai Xcel with NSW registration.The driver was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, and talking on a mobile.I wrote down the rego number, then took out my photograph of Laila once again, and headed for the supermarket.The woman behind the counter was reading a magazine and appeared uninterested in serving me.Autumn was probably their ­quietest time, I thought, after the summer bushwalkers and campers, and before the ski season began.I bought bread rolls and orange juice.The woman gave my photo no more than a glance, before saying, ‘That’s the girl who was ­murdered down in Canberra.’‘Did you ever see her around here?’‘What, in real life you mean?’ She stared at me, startled, as though I might be referring to Laila’s ghost.‘Did she come in here?’ I asked.‘With an older man, perhaps?’The woman shook her head.Even careful planners—and I imagined Bill Abenay as a planner, who would have stocked up on Laila’s favourite foods—might need to buy certain items locally.After a glance around the carpark—the red car was still there, the driver still on his phone—I headed for the closest service station.This time, there was a customer ahead of me and I had to wait my turn.When it came, the young man who gave me change for a packet of chips went pale beneath his tan and said yes, he had seen Laila.Like the woman in the supermarket, he looked at me as though I might be a messenger from whatever place she’d gone to.He said she’d used the rest room and bought some bottled water.It was clear from the way he spoke that Laila had caught his attention.But there’d been a queue of customers and he hadn’t seen what kind of car she’d come in, or with whom.He didn’t know if she’d had a phone with her, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Laila had used her time in the rest room to call someone.I was about to ask another question when the bell over the door rang and I turned to see the man from the red car.I stepped to one side, pretending to study rows of motor oil.The man paid cash for his coke, and did not glance in my direction as he headed back out the door.He was clean shaven, dressed in jeans, black running shoes and a black T shirt.He was still wearing the baseball cap and glasses.His complexion was a healthy olive, and his general appearance cared-for.He looked as though he lived, and relished living, out of doors.There was something about his build, his stance and way of walking that made me think I had at last come face to face with Cameron Fletcher.I stood in the carpark.The red car was gone, and I began to wish I’d hurried after Cameron and followed it.I spent the next hour looking for paths around the lake, keeping an eye out for the car.I wouldn’t have been surprised to find several boat ramps, but only came across one more, and no paths that Laila could possibly have fallen from into the water.I pictured Laila as Bill Abenay had described her, returning to the cottage dripping wet.She could have waded into the lake, or been pushed or dragged.But fallen? No.I spotted two elderly fishermen settled comfortably on folding chairs.Neither recognised the victim of a brutal murder, and neither had seen Laila at the township or the lake.‘What do you catch?’ I asked them politely.‘Barramundi,’ one replied with a grin.His friend sniggered.‘Yeah, and blue-fin tuna.That’s common here as well.’When I drove past Bernhard Robben’s shop again, his Landcruiser was outside, still without a boat or trailer.Parked next to it was the red sedan.I stopped around the corner, hoping neither man had been looking out the window.I drank my juice, and ate a roll.I hadn’t felt hungry all day, but was now aware that I could do with a good meal.I decided to give Robben’s visitor another twenty minutes.While I waited, I mulled over all I’d learnt about Laila’s weekend at the lake.It was late by the time I’d driven back to Canberra, and Ivan was asleep.That night, I dreamt I was searching the muddy bottom of Lake Burley Grifffin, nosing at it with my face mask like a platypus, half-blinded by the silt.Then I was swimming through an abandoned farm house, slowly and laboriously.The water was thick and viscous as oil, but strangely I could see better there.Next morning, I looked up Bernhard Robben’s website, but found nothing untoward.The shop carried an impressive array of fishing equipment, and the site advertised an equally impressive variety of fishing tours, which could be booked on-line.The attractions of diving in the lake were emphasised as well, along with Robben’s specialist altitude qualifications.There were no photographs of Laila, or Ben Sanderson, but I was reminded of the men in wetsuits on the shop’s pin board, and how one of them had looked frustratingly familiar.Ivan cooked me breakfast.The looks we exchanged said that we both missed the children, the sounds of their voices, the need for sanity that they imposed.I resisted ringing to ask how the soccer had gone.Twenty-twoI drove by the bakery to pick up a cinnamon log, knowing Owen had a weakness for them.Rita opened the door, her expression hovering between welcoming and apprehensive.The welcoming part won and she gave me a smile.‘Rite?’ Owen called from the back of the house.‘He’ll want to know who it is.He’s that bored.And impatient.’I said I’d happily sit with Owen for a while.‘Would you? I need to go to the shops.To tell you the truth, I’m dying to get out.’‘Go ahead and take your time,’ I told her.‘Bless you.’ Rita paused and frowned [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]