Red River Road: bestselling crime author Anna Downes shares the WA trip that shaped her new thriller

It’s June 2022. I’m sitting in a campervan at the edge of the world, and I’m scared. It’s only been seven days since I left home in New South Wales for Perth but it feels like a lifetime. Then again, this trip has been a long time coming. Only 14 weeks ago, WA’s hard border was still in place after almost two years of pandemic-related restrictions and I’d lost faith that I’d ever see the State with my own eyes. Yet here I am, on a 265,000-acre working pastoral station fringed by the Ningaloo Reef, curled up in a converted HiAce that’s almost nicer than my actual house. Inside the van, it’s cosy. I’m surrounded by scatter cushions, fairy lights and novelty signs emblazoned with slogans like ‘born to travel’. I have a gas stove, designer sink and tiled splashback. An artificial plant swings from a spice rack, and the queen bed is possibly the comfiest I’ve ever slept in. I am ready for adventures of the most aesthetic, agreeable kind. Outside, however, rain puddles form on a wasteland of green scrub and red dirt. Beyond rolling dunes, the ocean churns; the water is not turquoise like Instagram promised but a vicious navy, daubed with teal and flecked with white caps. There’s no sunshine either; the sky is one huge bruise. The virtually empty campground is similarly underwhelming. To my van’s left is the corroded carcass of an old VW, its missing windows and tyres signalling decay and neglect. To my right is a battered camper trailer with a canvas lean-to, so tattered that I assumed it to be vacant. The door squeaks open and a lone man with white hair and a gnarled face steps down onto the dirt. He cracks a beer. His eyes are hard. I stare at him until his gaze meets mine then hurriedly look away. None of this is what I ordered. I’m here for magic and beauty, not Wolf bloody Creek. Thank God I’m not travelling alone, I think. Admittedly, this is the first sign of trouble in what has so far been paradise. As we drove north from Perth, my husband Matt and I found deserted bays and white sand dunes at Jurien Bay, while the route to Kalbarri boasted pristine surf, majestic cliffs, and a bubblegum pink lake. Shark Bay gave us a beach made entirely of tiny white shells, Monkey Mia had sunsets and dolphins and, with its mix of powerful swell and perfect snorkelling spots, the Quobba coast was a real highlight. We’ve been living the dream — in more ways than one. A year earlier, we’d found ourselves thinking constantly about travel. Behind our locked-down doors, we had the same conversation over and over again: Let’s get out of here. Rent out the house, grab a van, pull the kids out of school and head off on the Big Lap around Australia. And we weren’t the only ones; it seemed everyone we spoke to had van life on the brain. Unfortunately for us, real life logistics made the trip impossible. It’s not fair, I’d whine at times of peak claustrophobia. Maybe I’ll just take off by myself, go on my own. To which the reply, no matter who it came from, was always: Please don’t do that. Anything could happen. Meanwhile, the pitch for my next novel was due and I was struggling to settle on an idea — that is until, one morning, Matt suggested that instead of going on a road trip, I write about one. A novel about the Big Lap … a travel thriller, fraught with danger and tension. Yes! Immediately, I set about brainstorming ideas. I thought about campfire tales, horror stories, and all the wandering killers in every scary movie ever made. After a friend suggested I set the story on WA’s Coral Coast, I discovered a place of enchantment where the desert meets the sea. Perfect. I became obsessed — but with the border still closed, I could only visit in my mind. Turning to Instagram, I fell headfirst down the trending #vanlife rabbit hole. I scrolled enviously through images of lithe wanderers in Akubra hats, sun-kissed influencers swimming, hiking and stargazing — some of whom I contacted and interviewed. I read guidebooks, watched YouTube, and pored over maps. I began to dream of a winding highway, piles of pale stones, and a little girl chasing crickets. Gradually a story took shape, and a title sprang to mind: Red River Road. When the borders finally reopened I wasted not one second. Booking a flight to Perth, I hired a camper and set off with my laptop and notes, plus my driver/research assistant husband. On more than one occasion — like the time I spotted piles of pale stones lining the road, or when I watched a real little girl chase a cricket past our van — the trip felt like my dreams manifested. The story I’d imagined, however, had changed. I’d wanted to write about lonely roads, hitchhikers, ghost-hunters and serial killers. This book, I’d decided, would be scary and fun. But in 2021, when 22-year-old Gabby Petito was killed while travelling with her fiance on a US #vanlife journey, I was hit with a reality check. As the case made global headlines (had Gabby been attacked, abducted, locked in a bunker and abused?), I tried not to let them influence me: the last thing I wanted to write was yet another crime novel about yet another dead woman. But Gabby’s name followed me until I couldn’t help but listen. And what I heard was a deeply upsetting tragedy, as far as you could get from fun. The story of a young woman killed not, as it turned out, by a stranger but by the man she loved. Deeply affected, I looked into other women who had died or been hurt while on the road. Grace Millane, strangled in New Zealand. Mia Ayliffe-Chung, stabbed in Queensland. Carla Stefaniak, killed in Costa Rica on a trip to celebrate her 36th birthday. And who were the perpetrators? A date. A roommate. A security guard at a resort hotel, whose job it was to protect guests. All of them known to their prey. All of them men. I also discovered that while more women than ever are travelling solo, there are huge differences in how we treat female and male travellers: itinerant men are ‘adventurous’ whereas women spark debates about safety. A huge proportion of violent crimes against female travellers, particularly in certain countries, are not reported, or even considered noteworthy. I read countless travel websites geared toward advice for lone female travellers — lock your doors, download tracking apps, don’t attract attention, dress appropriately — and even found ads for precautionary products such as anti-rape underwear, self-defence rings and nail polish that changes colour when dipped into a spiked drink. And as I wrote, I began to understand that the story I really wanted to write was about female freedom. I thought about the false narratives we’ve built: what do we think is going to happen to women travelling alone, and what actually does? I also started to view scary stories differently. Research plainly shows that the majority of all homicide victims knew their killer but for women that likelihood is significantly higher. And of those known perpetrators, almost three quarters are family members or intimate partners. Interesting then that it is rogue killers who dominate our most popular crime and horror narratives. Back on the pastoral station, I’m still sitting in my rented campervan, still unsettled by the harsh landscape and the gnarl-faced old man. But is my fear based on fact? Survival instinct? Or are my impressions warped by the stories I’ve been told? Night falls, and I go to bed. As I lie in the HiAce, listening to the rain pattering on the roof, my husband drifting off to sleep beside me, I can’t help but wonder why I’m not alone. Don’t get me wrong: we’re having a fantastic time, and it’s super helpful to have someone else to drive the 2480km round trip while I scribble notes in the passenger seat. But the best way to prepare for a book about solo female travel might have been . . . travelling solo? Maybe the warnings had affected me more than I’d thought. Slowly, I become aware of music outside: guitar, and a soulful voice. The melody, wholly captivating yet nothing I recognise, is coming from the old man’s shabby trailer. I listen in the dark for hours. In the morning, I see him again. He doesn’t look so gnarled anymore. Gathering my courage, I ask him if it had been him playing the night before. Mortified that he might’ve kept us awake, he apologises before explaining that he writes his own stuff and loses track of time when he practises. We talk for a while. His name is Rick, and he’s not scary or suspicious; instead, he’s gentle, warm and kind. And, as wild coincidence would have it, his daughter runs one of our favourite local cafes in our hometown on the Central Coast. “I’d get going today if I were you,” he advises. “The access road you came in on is already underwater. Here, let me draw you a map.” The drive back to the main road is long and scary (never again will I take a 2WD on a 35km 4WD mud track in the rain), but it’s also incredibly beautiful. The rugged, untamed coastline possesses wild magic I haven’t yet appreciated, and it makes me wonder if I’d judged the station too harshly. Besides, what’s really scary is how badly I’d misjudged Rick. Statistically, I remind myself, I am much more likely to suffer violence at the hands of my partner. The real threat is more often inside the van. Giddy with relief at having beaten the storm, Matt and I reach the main road and continue north towards Exmouth. We pass countless families towing huge shiny trailers and grey nomads in motorhomes. We stop at roadhouses to queue for coffee alongside truck-drivers, miners, tradies and farmers. Troopys and dual cab utes whip by, driven mostly by men. But dotted amongst them all are the women travelling alone, exploring in their own time and on their own terms. They seem happy and free. At first I think they’re brave. But moving through the world without fear of harassment or intimidation isn’t courageous — or it shouldn’t be. It’s not ‘living the dream’. It’s just living. As we drive it occurs to me that, solo or not, this trip is changing me. Unfamiliarity might be uncomfortable, but when embraced it can help us see past prescribed ideas and forge ahead with new ones. And as for my story, I now see what it needs to be. A thriller fraught with tension, yes — but more importantly, a narrative on the move, shaped by the land itself and the roads that wind through it, one that wouldn’t have been possible without firsthand experience. A story about a woman in a campervan just like ours, travelling solo along the Coral Coast trying to find out what happened to her sister, who mysteriously disappeared doing the exact same trip just a year earlier. A novel that asks where and when are we safe? And is the danger really what we think it is? The answers, I think, will surprise you. Because every place, and every person, has their own unique tale to tell. Red River Road, published by Affirm Press, is out on April 30. Anna Downes will be at Beaufort Street Books at 6.30pm on June 5, at Margaret River Heart 6.30-8.30pm on June 6 as part of the Margaret River Readers and Writers Festival, and at Poppy & Pip Cafe in Busselton on June 7 at 6pm.