Curious, Matt followed.
It took Mr Asher about ten minutes to walk all the
way to the channel. He seemed to be in no hurry. Matt
stayed back close to the dunes where he would not be
seen and where the crunch of a half-shell underfoot
would not give him away. Eventually Mr Asher
stopped near the deep, fast-flowing water. The tide
was going out and the estuary was draining quickly.
There were whitecaps further out on the water at the
sandy bar where the current met the ocean.
Matt watched as Mr Asher unwrapped whatever
it was he held in his hand. He crouched down and
carefully placed it in the water. All Matt could see from
where he was hiding was a slightly darker shape like a
small boat on the water. He knew that whatever it was
Mr Asher had released would be swept far out into
the ocean within minutes on the outgoing current.
Standing and turning quickly, Mr Asher walked
away. He had lived all his life on the Spit and even in
the darkness was able to walk straight to the start of
the track that would take him through the reserve and
back to Rocking Horse Road. He passed close enough
for Matt to hear his footfalls on the sand and his
slightly laboured breath in the darkness. Matt waited
for a couple of minutes to be sure that Mr Asher was
gone and then hurried over to the water. But he could
see nothing unusual. Whatever Mr Asher had put in
the channel had been swept away by the current, aided
by the slight off-shore breeze, and was long gone.
In the months that followed there were several
sightings of Mr Asher in the dunes, always after dark,
and nearly always down at the southern end of the
Spit by the channel, or moving in that direction. He
was often carrying something wrapped in a towel.
But that New Year's Eve, in the first hours of 1981, all
we knew was what Matt told us he had seen. By the
time he returned the fire had died down. We stirred
the embers with long sticks and listened to Matt's
story. We remembered Mr Asher staring out across the
heads of the funeral crowd, seemingly so unmoved.
But it was hard to marshal our thoughts. By then it
was almost two in the morning and our heads were
woolly from the beer and from lack of sleep.
Before we called it a night, Jase Harbidge told us
that the vast majority of murder victims knew their
attackers. The police, he said, inevitably started their
enquiries with the husband or the boyfriend. Or the
father. They were, he told us over the embers of the
old year, seldom on the wrong track.
So who killed Lucy Asher? That was the six-million-dollar
question. That question was like a blowfly
in our ears all that summer. It annoyed us with its
incessant buzz throughout our waking hours. Like
some research essay for English we went over the Ws. Who ? What ? Why ? And really, the police didn't even
know Where ? Pete had been right when he said Lucy
was not murdered on the beach, not where he found
her, anyway. According to Jase Harbidge's father
the police still hadn't discovered where Lucy was
attacked, or where she entered the water, although
they suspected both events occurred somewhere near
the channel.
Al Penny was champion of the lone-wolf theory.
According to Al, Lucy had probably gone for a
walk along the beach and simply been attacked by
a complete stranger; an opportunist who seized his
moment. 'Someone strong enough to keep her quiet,'
he reasoned.
We could not discount Al's theory, but most of us
believed that the murderer was someone who lived in
the area. We imagined a man, or older boy, who had
seen Lucy regularly as she worked behind the counter
of the dairy. Someone whose attraction had secretly
spawned darker feelings. Her killer was probably
someone who she knew by name.
If we are being totally honest, the certainty that the
murderer knew Lucy really came because we were
able to look into ourselves. We saw the darker side
of what it meant to be a man. At fifteen we were full
to bursting with frustrated lust. We joke about it now
and, after a beer or three,
It took Mr Asher about ten minutes to walk all the
way to the channel. He seemed to be in no hurry. Matt
stayed back close to the dunes where he would not be
seen and where the crunch of a half-shell underfoot
would not give him away. Eventually Mr Asher
stopped near the deep, fast-flowing water. The tide
was going out and the estuary was draining quickly.
There were whitecaps further out on the water at the
sandy bar where the current met the ocean.
Matt watched as Mr Asher unwrapped whatever
it was he held in his hand. He crouched down and
carefully placed it in the water. All Matt could see from
where he was hiding was a slightly darker shape like a
small boat on the water. He knew that whatever it was
Mr Asher had released would be swept far out into
the ocean within minutes on the outgoing current.
Standing and turning quickly, Mr Asher walked
away. He had lived all his life on the Spit and even in
the darkness was able to walk straight to the start of
the track that would take him through the reserve and
back to Rocking Horse Road. He passed close enough
for Matt to hear his footfalls on the sand and his
slightly laboured breath in the darkness. Matt waited
for a couple of minutes to be sure that Mr Asher was
gone and then hurried over to the water. But he could
see nothing unusual. Whatever Mr Asher had put in
the channel had been swept away by the current, aided
by the slight off-shore breeze, and was long gone.
In the months that followed there were several
sightings of Mr Asher in the dunes, always after dark,
and nearly always down at the southern end of the
Spit by the channel, or moving in that direction. He
was often carrying something wrapped in a towel.
But that New Year's Eve, in the first hours of 1981, all
we knew was what Matt told us he had seen. By the
time he returned the fire had died down. We stirred
the embers with long sticks and listened to Matt's
story. We remembered Mr Asher staring out across the
heads of the funeral crowd, seemingly so unmoved.
But it was hard to marshal our thoughts. By then it
was almost two in the morning and our heads were
woolly from the beer and from lack of sleep.
Before we called it a night, Jase Harbidge told us
that the vast majority of murder victims knew their
attackers. The police, he said, inevitably started their
enquiries with the husband or the boyfriend. Or the
father. They were, he told us over the embers of the
old year, seldom on the wrong track.
So who killed Lucy Asher? That was the six-million-dollar
question. That question was like a blowfly
in our ears all that summer. It annoyed us with its
incessant buzz throughout our waking hours. Like
some research essay for English we went over the Ws. Who ? What ? Why ? And really, the police didn't even
know Where ? Pete had been right when he said Lucy
was not murdered on the beach, not where he found
her, anyway. According to Jase Harbidge's father
the police still hadn't discovered where Lucy was
attacked, or where she entered the water, although
they suspected both events occurred somewhere near
the channel.
Al Penny was champion of the lone-wolf theory.
According to Al, Lucy had probably gone for a
walk along the beach and simply been attacked by
a complete stranger; an opportunist who seized his
moment. 'Someone strong enough to keep her quiet,'
he reasoned.
We could not discount Al's theory, but most of us
believed that the murderer was someone who lived in
the area. We imagined a man, or older boy, who had
seen Lucy regularly as she worked behind the counter
of the dairy. Someone whose attraction had secretly
spawned darker feelings. Her killer was probably
someone who she knew by name.
If we are being totally honest, the certainty that the
murderer knew Lucy really came because we were
able to look into ourselves. We saw the darker side
of what it meant to be a man. At fifteen we were full
to bursting with frustrated lust. We joke about it now
and, after a beer or three,
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