I picked up the phone on my desk and pushed the button for speaker. The bonus of using a police phone was that our numbers showed up as private callers when we rang people. The dial tone filled the room. Wozza pushed the pad of paper over with the number written on it. I dialled. A short electronic sequence sounded as the number connected.

After three rings, a voice answered. Sounded like he was outdoors. ‘Lachie Murtog.’

‘Cheryl? Is that Cheryl?’ I asked in a loud nasally Kath-and-Kim voice.

‘Nah, it’s Lachie here. Reckon ya got the wrong number.’

‘Aw, bugger. Sorry,’ I said, replacing the receiver and turning to Wozza. ‘Bingo!’

Wozza high-fived me, then grimaced. ‘Lachie Murtog. Well, I’ll be damned.’

‘Know him?’

‘Sure. He plays footy with the Deception Bay Sharks. Good kid. Got caught up in a bit of nasty business a while back. Couple of girls pointed the finger at him and some of the other players. Sexual assault. Nothing proven.’ Wozza frowned.

‘Sounds like the case Jane told me about the other night,’ I said. ‘The girls had boyfriends, right?’

Wozza looked troubled. ‘I coach junior league and I spend a lot of time round the footy club. I had a big problem with the whole thing.’

‘So you believed the girls?’ I asked quietly.

Wozza nodded. ‘Absolutely,’ he said, glancing towards the closed door. ‘But there’s not much you can do about that when there’s interference from above.’

‘Wheels?’

Wozza shrugged. Didn’t elaborate.

I wrote Lachie Murtog in my notes and found his address on the database. He had a couple of priors for drunk and disorderly, but nothing bigger than that.

‘Might as well pay him a visit,’ I said.

Lachie Murtog lived two streets down from Jack. A small flat in a block of about a dozen. We knocked on his door, but there was no answer. Just as we turned to leave, three guys walked up the driveway. They each wore wetsuits and carried surfboards. Towels over shoulders.

‘You guys seen Lachie?’ Wozza called.

‘He’s up the coast surfing,’ said one of them. ‘He’ll be back late.’

I looked at my watch. There was nothing more we could do today. Time to clock off.

CHAPTER 7: THE MOOD OF THE SEA

CHAPTER 7

THE MOOD OF THE SEA

The ocean pulled me like a magnet, and instead of heading for the homestead, I drove to the cliffs of Deception Bay. The sea was in a mood. A cold wind blew in off Bass Strait. I got out of the car and walked to the edge of the Devil’s Corner lookout. Ignoring the signs and maps and tourist information, I leaned on the railing and let the wind lift my hair. A long way below, the dark waves crashed against rocks at the bottom of the cliff. It was nature’s demonstration that beauty and tragedy could exist together.