The Lost Swimmer

Praise for
The Lost Swimmer

‘A vivid, suspenseful thriller'
Sydney Morning Herald

‘Reminiscent of Patricia Highsmith's
The Talented Mr Ripley
 . . . In the best thriller traditions, this exciting novel's end-game contains an unexpected twist.'
The Age

‘An expertly scripted psychological thriller . . . A tense, evocative and absorbing tale of trust and betrayal.'
Australian Book Review

‘The definition of a page-turner.'
Marie Claire

‘A smartly constructed, tense thriller that will leave you guessing until the very end. It's a remarkable debut from former filmmaker Ann Turner, who's destined to become a prominent name in Australian writing.'
Better Reading

‘I knew
The Lost Swimmer
had won me over when I was standing in line at the supermarket and all I could think about was what was going to happen next in Ann Turner's impressive debut novel. A suspenseful and dramatic thriller.'
Readings

‘We had pins and needles trying to unravel the truth throughout Turner's crisply written, cleverly plotted tale of deceit.'
iBooks Editor

For my parents, Margaret and Dick Turner, with love and gratitude

‘Everything flows and nothing abides, everything gives way and nothing stays fixed.'

Heraclitus c. 535–475 BC

T
he sand was washed clean today, stretching wide at low tide. I ran along the glistening shore thinking of something I'd read last night: that you could travel a thousand miles and never notice anything. I suspected that this was as false now as when it was written by a Greek philosopher in the fifth century BC. Surely powers of observation would eventually take hold?

Two parrots were swinging upside down, a blaze of red and blue, sliding beaks and claws along a tree root that erupted from the stark ochre cliff. They swirled upright and bobbed about in a crazy dance, then one suddenly bit the other and flew off screeching in an ear-shattering blast as Big Boy, my border collie retriever, torpedoed from the shallows in a black and white streak and snapped at my heels. Years ago we'd rescued this shaggy giant from an animal shelter; now that the kids, James and Erin, were away at university in Melbourne, Big Boy was my reason for fitness, my daily coach.

The low rays of the sun tingled my skin as I scanned the ocean, a burning sapphire glowing with the promise of a long, hot summer on the Surf Coast. Hugging around the base of Victoria, this stretch of bush and beach lay exposed to dangerous storms off Bass Strait. But today there was no fierce swell; the waves rolled in gently, crystal clear. And yet for all the pleasure this morning gave, a hard fist gnawed deep inside my gut, clenched and pushing and out of control.

Heart pumping, I pounded up the cliffs through the moonah trees, resistance in my muscles making me aware of every one of my forty-seven years. Slamming through the pain, minutes later I rounded the bend to where our weatherboard home perched atop a steep drive, one massive glass door peering out like a Cyclops to the bleached timber deck. The house floated in a pale eucalypt haze, as if it might untether at any moment and drift away.

On the kitchen table a note lay bathed in sunshine.
Sorry, couldn't wait, see you tonight xxx.
Carelessly scrawled, unlike my husband Stephen's usual meticulous handwriting. He must have been in an extraordinary hurry. My stomach kicked again as I strode to the bathroom, stripping off my sweat-stained clothes and dropping them on the floor. I caught myself in the mirror, shoulder-length dark blonde hair plastered to my face, blue eyes clouded with frustration. What was so important that meant he couldn't wait? As water pounded my skin I cursed. Although I'd been an archaeologist for twenty years and a professor for five, this was my first stint heading the School of Classics and History at Coastal University, whereas Stephen, an economics professor, had led his department twice. I was used to sifting through dirt for fragments of the past, writing about the daily life of lost cultures and supervising my students, but dealing with the problems of colleagues, often urgent, was challenging. We were under pressure from budget cuts and I desperately needed Stephen's advice on several issues.

Suddenly I heard a volley of barks rising to a crescendo of growls. I stilled beneath the water, listening for Big Boy to stop, wondering what had set him off. When he escalated into frantic yelps I leaped from the shower.

The dog's claws were scratching like razors, raw against the glass. I wrapped my towel tight and peered out.

A kangaroo and her tiny joey lingered in the shadows at the edge of our lawn.

‘Shh, it's okay.' Relief flooded through me but Big Boy's yelps grew more hysterical. Slipping my fingers beneath his collar I banished him into the depths of the house, and then I crept back and watched as the mother began nibbling tender shoots and the joey, tentative at first, bit down on the sweet blades. The kangaroos moved slowly through the dewy grass as they grazed. The mother had a fluorescent tag in her ear and a red band around her neck, on which BONNIE was written in large black letters – she was part of the local mob being tracked by a university study. The joey looked up shyly. Bonnie tensed and rose to her full towering height. Strong and proud, she stretched almost two metres from the ground. Our eyes locked and she became instantly still.

Bonnie had never been this far down the hill before. Her gaze was calm, alert, full of trust.

In a flurry of upside-down crumpling the joey fled into his mother's pouch, a wisp of tail the only clue to his existence until he righted himself and his perfect little head popped out, peeping back, emboldened. Bonnie turned abruptly, her powerful legs propelling her and her son silently up the hill in seconds.

Amid the tranquility I realised I was late for work.

‘I
t's a matter of integrity. He conducted the interviews without ethics approval, the start of a long, slippery slide if we let him get away with it,' I said to the members of the Faculty of Arts Ethics Committee.

‘But he's only twenty-four.' Douglas McCall, his tiny head protruding from a floppy brown suit giving him the appearance of a vulnerable turtle, fixed me with rheumy eyes. ‘He meant no harm and he doesn't need this setback.'

‘I'm concerned that he misled vulnerable women,' I countered.

‘You're always trying to save the wrong ones, Bec,' McCall growled in a fatherly manner.

The rest of the committee, clearly divided, sat mutely. ‘Could the Dean rule on this perhaps?' asked McCall.

Our Dean of Arts, Professor Priscilla Chiton, blinked once and then leaned forward, speaking softly so everyone had to draw towards her. Cornflower-blue eyes, stylishly cut blonde hair and a designer suit in the finest linen added to her complete authority. I'd known Priscilla for years – she was a French historian. In the early days we were friends. Now, we usually never agreed on anything.

‘I'm with Rebecca on this.' Priscilla's mellow voice floated across the room. ‘I'll be referring it up to the next level. It's completely unacceptable to carry out interviews for a PhD without ethics approval, particularly when the subject is the views of female prisoners on corrupt police.' Priscilla stacked her papers, banging them on the desk as she rose to indicate the meeting was over.

•  •  •

The worn chair, foam hanging out like honeycomb, with a wonky tilt I'd grown to love, met me with a sigh as I sank into it.

‘How did you go?' Melinda Hoppen raced in eagerly, piercing me with cat-green eyes. In her early life Melinda had been a model, part of the Chelsea set. Her looks hadn't faded and she stood out here, a style icon even now, with a crop of thick brown hair, tall, perfect figure and an agility that defied her sixty-odd years.

‘Priscilla was really supportive.'

Melinda dropped a heavy pile of papers on my desk. ‘Watch your back if she's nice.' She walked out dramatically.

My email bleeped – more than fifty new missives had arrived in my absence. I scrolled through. Oliver Yeats, an Australian History professor, was bitterly protesting about moving to a smaller room – he was due to retire the following year and we urgently needed his space to squeeze in several post-docs. This would be hard, confronting as it did the end of his less-than-spectacular career and the downward spiral of this decent man's awful path to irrelevance. Trappings. The world was full of them. Western societies and our need for grand spaces and trinkets to carve out our place in the social order fascinated me. I set up a meeting with my poor friend knowing his displacement was inevitable, then turned to the papers Melinda had brought in and began signing authorisations, granting the wishes of so many colleagues I felt angelic.

‘There's a group of staff to see you, Bec.' Melinda stuck her head through the doorway and lowered her voice. ‘They say it's urgent.'

My three most trusted allies filed in. Robert Fleming (American Revolution) was a huge bruin of a man, Constance Fitzsimmons (Early European) was beanstalk thin with a shock of red hair and Rachel Levine (Jewish Studies) was my dear friend, small and impeccably groomed.

‘We've heard that Priscilla's made a complaint about you to the Vice-Chancellor. We want to go and see him,' Robert burst out. ‘I was talking to Priscilla's assistant, that dreadful Amber, who let slip.'

My neck stiffened in horror. ‘I should've guessed something was up when Priscilla was sweet today,' I said. ‘She's an absolute disgrace.'

‘She's been white-anting you right up to the top,' said Rachel. ‘I rang around and found she's been lobbying members of the Council as well as the VC.'

‘This is terrible,' said Constance. ‘What are we going to do? I'm worried if we go to the Vice-Chancellor, that lot will just close ranks like they always do.'

‘And Priscilla's upped her attack on Josie and Pam,' said Rachel.

I drew in my breath, frustrated. Josie Sweeney (German History) and Pam Edwards (Ancient World) were in Priscilla's sights and were both about to go on maternity leave. I'd been protecting them and had just sent Priscilla detailed performance reports that showed how valuable they were.

‘Have you seen Josie?' boomed Robert. ‘She waddled in yesterday about to drop the baby, and when we tried to send her home she wouldn't go. She was too nervous about her job.'

‘Is she here today?' I said.

‘Yes. I've never seen anyone so stressed,' said Constance. ‘She burst into tears when I asked how she was.'

‘I'll speak to her. I know her blood pressure's through the roof. At least Pam's stayed at home,' I said.

Everyone went quiet.

‘Hasn't she?'

Rachel looked at me evenly. ‘Not since she received the letter inviting her to take a package and leave by the end of semester. It came this morning while you were at the meeting. Josie got one too.'

‘The letters expressly state they're not allowed to talk to you and must go directly to Priscilla.' Constance paused. ‘They're intimating you're not our Head anymore.'

I tried to speak but nothing came out. Stephen had warned this job could get political, and after eighteen months I thought I was getting the hang of it. Now I'd landed in the middle of a minefield: it would be humiliating if I were removed as Head and awful if I couldn't look after the people I cared about.

‘It will be all right. We'll see to it,' said Rachel firmly.

I tried to order my thoughts, and then finally I spoke, more calmly than I felt. ‘Thanks so much for coming, I'm very grateful. I'll fight my own battle for now, if that's okay. But Josie and Pam are in real danger and we need to support them in every way possible.'

The group slowly murmured assent and began to file out. Rachel was the last to go. She hung a warm arm around me and squeezed tight. ‘Just be careful, Bec. This may be worse than you think.'