the trawler.
“Not kitted out like fishermen.” He drew his arms slowly apart as if to say to the policeman that they were not dressed like him.
“Maybe fell overboard, off a freighter or a container ship?”
“And they got a raft out to them. And then left them?”
“Stowaways?”
“Possible. You’d think they’d have picked a better boat to be in.”
“Maybe they were discovered and put over the side to teach them a lesson?”
“Maybe. And maybe their ship sank.”
“Sank? You think so?”
“How the fuck do I know?”
“I’m only trying to work out ...”
“Well, work it out then. Don’t just keep bloody speculating.”
“The raft. Anything on the raft? Any markings?”
“There is some writing, but it’s very faded.”
“Let’s have a look then.”
“However ...”
“What however?”
“However, the writing isn’t English.”
The policeman was stunned for a few seconds.
“That’s something, then. It might help ... I’ll get in touch with Hobart and see if they’ve any reports of ships in trouble.”
“Or missing?”
“Or missing.” The policeman nodded.
“This might help you,” Moore added, extending his hand out, holding a book in a plastic pouch.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t know. Maybe your experts in Hobart can help out.”
“Not in English either, I guess?”
“Right.”
“Did you have look at it?”
“Looks like a diary, a journal of some sort. A log. See here,” and he pulled the thin book from the pouch, opening it at a random page, “there are numbers, laid out like dates, and then some writing that’s just double-Dutch to me, then another lot of numbers, another date, and more writing.”
Moore turned the book open at the front page where a faded colour photo of a young woman was taped to the inside cover. He showed it to the policeman, snapped the book shut and handed it and the pouch over.
“It’s all yours now Harold. Yours and your experts in Hobart Town.”
Tyler Moore smiled to himself and backed out of the group of people that had gathered. He was never one for all this attention.
Chapter 2
THE VINCENT DIARIES
Melbourne
Henry Vincent was seventy-two years of age.
He'd woken at six-thirty which had been his norm for the past ten years, since Donna had died, and he'd showered and then made himself a bigger than usual breakfast. His doctor had warned him about eggs and butter and milk, but he still allowed himself a luxury now and again. Like a nip of brandy every second night, instead of every night. And a hot plate of chips with bread smothered with butter, at least once a week.
So for breakfast he'd had three strips of bacon and two eggs and three pieces of toast. And orange juice.
He remembered what Bill was prone to saying a lot - you and me don't have a lot of days left and we should take what's offered and not feel guilty about it. We've done our bit, mate. Given to our country, to the taxman, to the family. If you can't enjoy yourself now when can you?
Henry Vincent looked after himself. Lot of men, he knew, let themselves go when they retired and even more so when their wives died. He shaved religiously every day and went to the barber every five weeks, even though his hair, totally white, was thinning at a faster rate these days. He watched the flesh on his face soften and wrinkle, but he saw that his eyes were still bright and alert and he only needed the glasses for reading. That in itself was an accomplishment, he thought. He wore green corduroy trousers and casual brown shoes and a short-sleeved shirt and, whenever he went out, a tie. Old habits, he thought.
The house was not large. They'd had a bigger house when the kids were growing up, but the last of them had left when he was only forty-five and Donna was forty-three. A couple of more years and they'd sold the old place and bought this place and had a bit left over to help the kids with their own homes. This house had been enough for both of them, he reasoned, but Donna had died two years after the move and in some ways he now thought that even it was too big.
Donald always said it was a good solid house and its location meant that it was worth a good tidy sum. But that was Donald. Henry was sure that Donald, his eldest son, would already have everything in the house valued – at least in his mind – and that the day Henry died a large part of it would be on e-bay for sale to the highest bidder. Henry had collected lead soldiers in his time and had – in the past – always thought Donald would like them as part of his inheritance. But like everything else, Donald had said they were worth a small fortune and he could see them going to the highest bidder also. Donald was always looking for a quick payoff. He’d been involved in so many get-rich schemes and some had worked and some hadn’t and, for all his efforts, he never really got ahead of himself. He knew, as of last month, that Donald was in trouble again and needed money to pay his way out of something that hadn’t been the sure-fire thing he thought it would be.
Henry thought the new girl friend, what was her name, Helen, might make a difference, but now he had someone new to prove himself to. Wouldn’t be told. Knew better than his old man. Henry’s daughter Christine had told Henry that he was not to lend him any more money or bail him out of his troubles. Not that he had that much to worry about. Unless the treasure ship came sailing into port.
Yesterday had been his clean-up-around-the-house day – he didn’t really feel comfortable going into the city unless everything was in good order. He’d done a small shop and then packed the groceries away. He was a tidy man and it was easier to keep the house and all his effects that way when there was only him to worry about. Only him to make the mess. He’d set about cleaning the house and then pottered around the garden, pruning part of the tree that scrapped against the front window when the wind blew, pulling out a mass of weeds that had gathered in the corner where the roses grew. And he spent twenty minutes talking to Mrs. Clay, the woman next door, when he went to check for the mail. Nothing serious - the weather, the noise the garbage men made when they picked up the rubbish, the traffic on the road and their individual aches and pains. She’d sometimes come over and they’d have morning or afternoon tea together. There was nothing in it – no relationship. She enjoyed hearing of his researches and was always asking questions about this ship or another. Fred, her husband, was a sullen man, prone to periods of solitary self introspection, especially after a few beers. Henry knew Mrs Clay, Janet, appreciated the banter they had. Sort of like an outing.
He’d made sandwiches for his lunch and, with a pot of tea, sat in front of the television to eat them. He sat until his eyes started to feel tired and he went and lay down on top of his bed and slept for an hour and a half.
He then drifted aimlessly around the house, tidying a pile of magazines in the lounge, reordering some paperbacks on the bookshelves, getting his tea ready, cleaning the canary's cage. He realised that a lot of this incessant need for tidiness and orderliness was a carryover from his time working in a government department. Still, he felt better with it this way, rather than chaos. A place for everything, he thought.
And now yesterday was behind him and he caught the train into the city, and then a tram up Elizabeth Street to the Melbourne City Library.
Walking into the La Trobe Reading Room always