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Greg Bennett, Jack and me trooped along the wharf to the aluminium runabout we use for odd-jobbing and small deliveries. Fishermen generally refer to aluminium boats like that as ‘tinnies’, and Jack had christened our tinny ‘Lizzie’. He jumped in first and grabbed the wheel without even asking. I held Lizzie steady as Greg climbed somewhat unsteadily in. He obviously wasn't used to boats. Jack fired up the outboard engine, I pushed out from the wharf, and we cruised down the harbour at the four-knot speed limit.
A stiff breeze was coming in from the ocean, and the river was quite choppy. As we left the harbour we ran straight into it. Jack loves the speed of the runabout and as soon as we got clear of the harbour he opened the throttle wide. Lizzie rose up on her stern, and pretty soon we were flying across the water, leaping off the top of each wave with the engine racing, smacking down hard in the next trough, and the wind blowing our hair about. The sky had cleared to a beautiful blue, and spray was flying out on each side of the bow, sparkling in the sunshine. Jack was obviously having a huge buzz at the helm but Greg wasn't so happy. The head wind blew some of the spray back over us. He leaned over and yelled in Jack's ear “Slow down you stupid bastard. I don't want to get my bloody suit all wet!” Jack eased back the throttle, a bit disappointed, and we settled down for a rather more sedate run down to Whitebait Bay.
The rock hereabouts is fairly soft sandstone, and over millions of years the river has cut itself a channel three hundred feet deep and up to a mile wide. The steep cliffs of yellow-brown rock are covered with eucalyptus, casuarinas, golden wattle, banksias, tree ferns and so on. As we turned into Whitebait Bay we could see the crescent of sand, golden in the sunlight. The three houses at the back of the beach looked like dollhouses against the rise of the cliff behind.
Greg peered ahead. “Remote looking spot.” “Yeh, the original houses were probably built by fishermen a hundred years ago.” “So who lives here now?” “Well, in the left hand house you have Lewis and Damian.” “Two blokes living together?” Jack laughed. "You might say they're more than just good friends" "D'you mean they’re gay?” I gave Jack a disapproving frown. “Surnames?” asked Greg, trying to make notes despite the boat leaping about. “I've no idea.” “Who’s in the next house?" "In the middle house is Norman and Barbara Williams. They seem a pretty ordinary couple, but they've got money. Lived there about a year I would think. They don't mix much with the other people around here. I've seen them going off on weekends dressed up looking smart." "Yeh, and they've got a very cool boat too,” added Jack “very expensive. Tim fixed their engine once when it wouldn't start, and they gave him twenty dollars. And sometimes they have parties over here with their rich friends. Lots of yachts come up from Sydney. You can hear the music for miles.” He sounded distinctly envious. “The house on the right is Neville.... Neville ...something. What the hell's his name Jack?” “Uh ... Neville Snowder I think…um, no, Sneider, …yes, that’s it, Neville Sneider. Grumpy old bugger.” I filled in a few details for Greg. “Hardly ever comes across to town, and he never speaks to anyone if he can help it. Just goes out fishing on his own all the time. Must have been here for at least ten years. Fancy living in a dump like that for ten years on your own.”
Jack butted in. “There's a boat I've never seen before.” A nice forty-five foot ketch was tied up to Neville Sneider's jetty. As we got closer we could read the name on the transom, 'Sea Jenny' and underneath 'Southport'. “Somebody visiting from Queensland,” said Jack.
Greg said, “Ok, I think I’ll talk to the two gays first.” Jack steered in to their jetty and I jumped ashore with the painter and tied up. “Ted, you come with me and look out for anything suspicious, but keep your mouth shut. I want to ask all the questions. Jack, you wait here.” Jack looked very unhappy, he wanted to be in on all the action, but now he’d been told to stay out of it. Ted and I walked along the jetty to the house. It was built in the ‘Californian Rancher’ style that was very popular in the fifties. The occupants had obviously seen us coming, because before we had a chance to knock the door was opened. “G’day Lewis,” I said, “this is Detective Constable Bennett.” Greg flashed his ID card. “A policeman! Oh my! What have we done now?” Lewis was a tall skinny guy, brown eyes, brown curly hair, and full dark moustache. He was wearing a floral Hawaiian shirt over cream shorts, and a large gold signet ring on his little finger. “Come on in,” he said, “we can't talk on the front doorstep.” He ushered us into the lounge, which I must say was immaculate. Polished timber floors with oriental rugs, lots of pastel shades on the curtains and chair coverings, a large floral arrangement in a glass vase on the glass coffee table.
Damian drifted into the room. “Damian, this is Detective Constable Bennett,” I said. “A Detective? Oh!” Damian held his hand to his mouth. “So what can we do for you Detective Constable?” asked Lewis. Greg started off in that formal way coppers have when questioning potential witnesses. “I’m making routine inquiries concerning the suspected murder of a girl”. “Oh yes, we saw a bit about that on the TV. Why on earth are you asking us about it? We don't have anything to do with girls like that!” “Were you at home the night before last?” Damian answered “Oh yes, we were at home together, weren't we Lewis?” “And during the night did you see or hear anything suspicious?” Lewis thought for a moment. “No. I can't remember anything, can you Dammie?” “No, nothing at all. Nothing much ever happens in Whitebait Bay except when Norman and Barbara next door have one of their very noisy parties that I find so tiresome.” “So nothing unusual has happened in, say, the last week?” “No, nothing at all, oh, except that yacht tying up to crabby old Neville's jetty of course.”
Greg pulled out his packet of cigarettes and lit one. Damian rushed out, and came back with a cut crystal ashtray. Lewis asked “why are you asking questions over this way? I thought the girl was found near Mulloway Island.” Greg paused for a moment, then said, “We have reason to believe the girl's body was consigned to the water somewhere near this bay. Have you ever seen this girl before?” He pulled out a photo of a girl’s head, obviously taken in the morgue. Damian took one look and looked away. Lewis looked a little more closely, then shrugged. “The prototype all-Australian girl. She could be one of dozens of girls around these parts. Come to think of it, she could be the girl that came in on that yacht that’s tied up at Neville Schneider’s jetty.” “Oh?” “Well, I've only seen her from a distance, but she might be.” Greg thanked them for their cooperation and Lewis showed us to the door. Back inside the house Lewis and Damian were no doubt busy trying to remove all contamination from our visit.
Jack came hurrying to join us. “Did you find out anything?” “No, not yet.” We walked along the beach towards the next house. It was a substantial home, with expensive sandstone walls and a tiled roof. A beautiful scarlet bougainvillea rambled over a portico that sheltered an impressive pair of timber doors. A smart thirty five foot sloop was tied up to a mooring buoy just off the end of the jetty. “Their runabout's not there,” said Jack, “they might not be home.” “What's their names again?” asked Greg. “Norman and Barbara Williams." "Stay outside Jack.”
Greg knocked at the door and it was opened by Barbara. I introduced Greg to her. “Is your husband home?” asked Greg. “No, he isn’t. He’s gone to Sydney for the day.” She let us in, with some reluctance, after carefully examining Greg's ID card. You could see from a glance round the lounge that they had money. A high ceiling, with big picture windows looking out to the beach, deep wall-to-wall sculpted carpet, expensive leather chairs and lounges, a large TV and stereo system, a timber bar with nautical embellishments, a row of expensive bottles on display on the glass shelves behind. Several modern paintings adorned the walls. Barbara was thirty-ish, wearing a silk blouse, well-cut slacks and oriental embroidered slippers. Her hair and nails obviously received regular professional attention. She was probably struggling to retain her youth, but losing the battle round her hips. She i
nvited us to sit, then sat opposite us on the edge of her chair, knees together, hands folded on her lap.
Greg started his questions again. “Were you and your husband at home on the night before last?” “I was home all evening. Normy came home about eleven-ish. I remember, because he phoned to remind me to switch on the jetty light, so he could see his way when he came home in the runabout. He was home for the rest of the night until about eight the next morning.” “You have a phone then?" "Yes, of course we do. We're not that far out into the sticks you know!” “And that night, did you see or hear anything unusual?” Barbara stopped to think. “No, not that I can think of.” “Has anything unusual occurred in the last week or so?" "No, I don't think so. Nothing's happened at all, except that yacht coming in and tying up to Neville Sneider's jetty.” “Ah yes, when exactly did it arrive?" “I would say..., oh, about four days ago, which would make it, um..., last Tuesday.”
Greg looked uncomfortable, and several times he unconsciously combed his hair across his bald spot with his fingers, He was probably itching to light up another cigarette, but he didn't want to commit a social error in such a posh house. “How many people were on the yacht?” he asked. “Two, a man and a girl.” “Can you describe them for me?” “Well, I haven't seen them up close you know. The man looks in his early twenties, slim build, medium height, dark hair I think. The girl is a little taller and long blonde hair." "And are they still there?" "Well I don't watch them particularly, but now you come to ask, I haven't noticed them for a couple of days. When I turned on the jetty light on Thursday I did notice that the yacht was all dark, and there were no cabin lights on. In fact there were no lights last night either come to think of it. They must have gone away and left the boat there." "They might have moved into Mr. Sneider's house.” She laughed sarcastically. “You obviously don't know him. He's the most miserable old sod you ever met. Nobody would ever want to stay in his house. They were definitely living on the boat earlier in the week. I saw them now and again.” Greg took out the photo of the girl. “Do you recognize this girl?” Barbara glanced at it. “No, not really. Is she dead or something?” Greg went through the same explanation as before. Barbara looked a bit sick when he came to the bit about “..have reason to believe the body was consigned to the water near here." "Could this be the girl that arrived on the yacht?” Barbara looked more closely this time. “Well, yes it could be, but like I said I never saw her up close.”
As we left I complimented Barbara on her house. “What made you move into Whitebait Bay?” I asked. “Oh it was Norman, he loves sailing and he had this dream of a waterfront property on the beach. We couldn't afford Sydney prices so we came here. Norman loves to go out sailing single-handed at least twice a week. I'm waiting for him to get tired of it, so we can move back to civilization. Quite frankly if we'd known what our neighbours were going to be like we would never have bought this house in the first place. those two dreadful creatures on one side and that horrible person on the other. In our first mad rush of enthusiasm we spent heaps of money doing this place up. Now we'll never get our money back when we sell." We thanked Barbara again, and left her feeling sorry for herself. Just goes to show, money isn't everything.
Jack came up eagerly. “Did you find out anything?” “No not really,” I said. “I'm not so sure.” said Greg, “What’s the next guy’s name again?" "Neville Sneider.” We walked on along the beach to Neville Sneider's house, although it wasn’t much more than a tumbledown timber shack, with a rusty corrugated iron roof and desperately in need of a coat of paint. There were waist-high weeds round the side and rusting junk piled up at the back.
We had to knock on the door a couple of times before it was opened. Neville Sneider was a small man, thinning hair, wearing dirty jeans, an ancient very greasy blue sweater and scruffy canvas shoes. He had a ratty face, bony nose and his eyes were too close together. He smelt like he hadn't showered for some weeks. “What’cher want?” he asked, in an aggressive tone of voice. “Mr. Sneider, this is Detective Constable Bennett.” Greg waved his ID card. Mr. Sneider looked at me, ignoring Greg. “What the 'ell does 'e want?” “Mr. Sneider is it? Mr. Neville Sneider?” said Greg, in his most charming voice. “What of it?” Neville Sneider stood firmly blocking the door. It was quite obvious we weren't going to be invited in. I could see a little past him; a real bachelor's place, junk piled up everywhere and a stale smell coming out through the door. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions Mr. Sneider. " "Why should I ’ave to answer questions? I don't 'ave to answer no questions. I know my rights!” “Perhaps you would rather come in to the station, and we can have our chat there Mr. Sneider.”
“Or'l right, what’cher want ter know?” he snapped. “Were you at home the night before last?” “'course I was, I'm 'ome every bloody night aren’t I? So what?” “I’m making routine inquiries into the suspected murder of a girl, Mr. Sneider." "What girl? I don't know no girls.” “Well you do, Mr. Sneider.” Greg pointed his thumb over his shoulder, “you know the girl who arrived on that yacht for a start.” I noticed a look of caution flit across Sneider's face. “Oh 'er, I don't know nothin' about 'er. Them two turned up 'ere Tuesday, tied up to me jetty bold as brass. Then they come knocking on the door saying an old friend o' mine up in Queensland told 'em it’ud be orlright if they tied up 'ere for a few days. Since it was an old friend sent 'em I said orl right, just for a few days, but they'd 'ave to stay on the boat. I wasn't going ter let 'em into the 'ouse, not on your nelly! Do that and next thing you know they've taken over the place and you don't feel comfortable no more in your own 'ome.” “It’s two people on the boat then is it Mr. Sneider, we're talking about a bloke and a girl.” “Nosy neighbours mindin’ my business again I suppose! Yes 'im and 'er. Mind you I never set eyes on 'em before, and it wouldn't bother me if I never set eyes on 'em again!” “Are they on the yacht now?” “'ow the 'ell should I know ? Go and look for yerself.” “I might do just that.” said Greg
Jack joined us as we walked out along the jetty and stopped by the visiting yacht. There was no sound except the slosh of water on the jetty. Nobody seemed to be about. “I think I'll go aboard and have a look.” said Greg. Jack pulled the yacht close in to the jetty and Greg grabbed a stanchion and heaved himself aboard, with us after him. “Watch it you two, you’re not supposed to be here. Stay where you are, and don’t touch anything." “Hey look,” said Jack “the cabin door's been forced.” The timber on the lock side of the door was all splintered. Greg pulled and the door opened easily. "I'm going in to have a look. You two stay out here, is that clear?" He disappeared into the cabin and we waited in the cockpit.
Jack leaned over the transom. “Look dad,” he said, “someone's changed the name of this boat.” When it was pointed out you could see where someone had indeed put a coat of paint over the old name and painted the new name over the top of it. “Perhaps a new owner wanted a different name.” I said. “No dad, it's an amateur job, done in a hurry. Look you can feel the old name under the paint.” He started tracing the outline of the old name with his finger. “Z E N O B I A. What does that spell dad ?” “Damned if I know. Just a name I suppose, sounds a bit Greek to me. Never come across it before.”
After a couple of minutes Greg came back up the companionway. “Did you find anything?” I asked. “No, everything looks neat and tidy, nobody's here. If it wasn't for the forced door I'd say they’ve just gone away. Think I'll go back and have another word with our Mr. Sneider.” “I don’t know if it means anything," I said "but the name of this boat has been changed very recently from Zenobia to Sea Jenny.” Greg wrote it down in his notebook.
We went back along the jetty and knocked on the door. Sneider re-appeared. “You lot again! Wha'd'ya want this bleedin' time?” “The couple on the boat Mr. Sneider, when did you last see them?” “Oh I don't know, a few days ago. Like I told you, they lived on the boat and I 'ad as little to do with 'em as possible.” Greg pulled out the pictures.
“Do you recognize this girl Mr. Sneider?” “She’s the girl wot came on that yacht. What's 'appened to ‘er?” “She's dead Mr. Sneider, believed murdered last Thursday night. Can you offer any suggestions as to how she might have died?” “'ow the 'ell should I know ? I told you, I never set eyes on either of 'em before! Tell you what though, I did wonder why they should 'ang around 'ere. Maybe they was 'iding 'ere from somebody. Thought they'd never get found 'ere, and whoever was lookin' for 'em caught up with ‘em!” “That's possible,” said Greg, “although nobody seems to have heard anything.” “Well if the girl was murdered during the night I wouldn't 'ave 'eard anything now would I? I sleep the sleep of an 'onest man Mr. Tucker, and it's quite a long way to the end of the jetty, now ain't it? Come to think of it I do remember a plane comin’ over Tuesday or maybe Wednesday, and then it came back flying lower. One of them small jobs with only one engine. Maybe that's who was looking for 'em and they saw the yacht tied up 'ere.”
“What were the names of the couple on the boat Mr. Sneider?” “Oh I'm not too sure. Let's see now, I think 'e called 'er Andrea or somefing, and she called 'im Tony.” “Did their yacht have a dinghy they could have left in?” “’Ow the ‘ell should I know?” “And they didn't borrow your runabout?” “What? No bleedin’ fear they didn't! If they’d wrecked it I’d’a’ bin stuck ‘ere wiv no bleedin boat wud’n’I?" “A very reasonable concern Mr. Sneider, and by the way, what’s the name of your friend in Queensland who recommended they should come here?” He looked cautious again. “Wha'd'yer wanna know that for?” “It will help us to find out who these people were, and who was looking for them.” Neville thought about the request for a moment. “Well if you catch up with 'im, don't mention my name, 'cos 'e's not very nice sometimes.” He looked both ways as if to make sure that no one else was listening, then said in a low voice “'is name is Vince Lombardo. 'e's Italian!” he added, somewhat unnecessarily. “And where can we find this Mr. Lombardo?" "Ah! Well! Last I 'eard 'e was livin' at Surfers Paradise, but I couldn't swear if 'e's still there.” “And how do you come to know Mr. Lombardo, Mr. Sneider?” “Well that's my business and none o' yours.” “I notice the couple's yacht is registered in Southport, not far from Surfers Paradise.” “Yeh, that's right, that's were they said they come from. Cruisin’ round the coast they said.”
“I have no more questions at this time Mr. Sneider, but perhaps you would give me your phone number in case there's anything else I need to ask you.” “Phone? What makes you think I got a phone? Ain't got one and never wanted one. Get one o' them things and people keep ringing you up botherin' you all the time.” “Thank you Mr. Sneider, you've been most helpful. I must ask you not to go onto the yacht until our scientific squad have had a good look at it.” The door was shut very firmly in our faces.