Swimming with Sharks Read online

  ‘What about the woman in the photo?’

  ‘Haven’t seen her since the scene in the restaurant,’ Dawn says.

  ‘That was two days earlier.’ Mick seems to be the one who keeps the track of time in this place where time seems to stand still.

  ‘So what happened after the argument?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Mick shrugs. ‘Nothing happened. Or we’ve heard nothing more.’

  ‘Except that now she’s alone,’ George gestures towards a lone woman at a table near the veranda.

  ‘Is that the lady?’

  ‘One of them. The older one,’ Dawn says. ‘Come to think about it, we haven’t seen the younger one for days.’

  ‘Not since that row. And the one from the photo is gone too. We reckon they did a runner together,’ Mick looks pleased with his bit of deduction. ‘Look at her! Sour as a lemon! Has been ever since the row. We’ve been wondering what she’s still doing here. Sulking, more likely.’

  ‘I feel sorry for her,’ Paula says generously.

  ‘Women should not meddle with women, if you ask me.’

  ‘No one’s asking you, George.’

  Gillian approaches the woman – the lesbian lady as Dawn has put it – head on. Dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and a sensible white blouse, the woman doesn’t belong in this heat-infused inferno. She looks like she is on her way out, back to the civilised world. Only a straw hat with a frayed rim sticking out of her backpack testifies to her being a holidaymaker. Gillian flashes her ID card. ‘DS Marsh, Sexton’s Canning CID,’ she announces briskly. ‘May I join you?’

  The woman looks alarmed. ‘What is this about?’

  ‘It’s about Nicola Eagles. Miss Eagles went missing from this island a few days ago. I’m investigating her disappearance.’

  ‘Nicola Eagles?’

  Uninvited, Gillian joins the woman at the table, and presents the photograph. The woman looks at it briefly, and nods. The expression in her face is inscrutable. She has a full face, soft and chubby, but the eyebrows are thick and straight, which gives her an expression of stern disapproval. ‘Yes, I believe I met her here. Nicola … She disappeared, did you say? Mmm …’

  ‘She was meant to return to the UK four days ago. Failed to turn up. I’m trying to piece together her movements.’

  The woman relaxes. She is obviously not particularly concerned about Miss Eagles. ‘I see,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what I can do to help you.’

  ‘Like you said, you met her here. Perhaps you can tell me more about that meeting.’

  ‘There isn’t much to say. My …’ she bites her lip. ‘We met Nicola here. She was alone. We asked her to join us for dinner. Once. Frankly, I can’t remember seeing her after that.’

  ‘We? That being yourself and … ?’

  ‘Me and my … partner,’ she shrugs, smiles, exhales, ‘Me and my wife …’ The last word is spoken with bitterness. ‘Amy befriended your missing person in the swimming pool, if my memory serves me correctly. We had dinner together. She didn’t say much. Amy did most of the talking. And drinking. That’s it. That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘So the last you saw of Nicola Eagles was that evening when you had dinner?’

  ‘Yes. A week ago now.’

  ‘How did she seem to you?’

  ‘Normal. Shy. A bit embarrassed by Amy’s drunkenness. She excused herself as soon as she could, and left. We said goodbye, see you tomorrow, the usual.’

  ‘She wasn’t agitated, upset? Didn’t say anything –’

  ‘No! Just like I said – pretty normal. Not suicidal, if that’s what you mean – though how can you tell if someone is suicidal, especially if you don’t know them?’

  ‘And you didn’t see her after that? The following day?’

  ‘No, I did not. But Amy did …’ the woman frowns. ‘At least I think she did. She told me she saw Nicola with a man, swimming. Frolicking, Amy said. She said she was “frolicking with a man”, which Amy found amusing. Whether it was true or not, I can’t tell. I was convinced Nicola was here alone and she wasn’t the frolicking type. And Amy … Amy will say anything to get me off the track … No matter,’ she gets up and reaches for her backpack. ‘I must be going. Leaving today. I believe the boat is due to leave in half an hour.’ She is striding ahead, a large woman with wide hips and an ample bosom. Gillian can hardly keep up with her. It is bloody annoying that she is leaving the island as they speak, but there is nothing Gillian can do to stop her. The woman hasn’t done anything, nor is she under any suspicion. Her very passing connection to Nicola Eagles can hardly serve as an excuse to try to detain her.

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing your wife – Amy? She isn’t with you?’

  ‘Amy’s already gone home.’

  ‘That’s a bit strange.’

  ‘Happens.’

  ‘To leave halfway through your holiday …’ Honeymoon? ‘It’s odd. It doesn’t just happen. Did she have some prior commitments?’

  ‘Not really. We split up. She left me.’ The woman stops halfway through a stride. Her large face is flushed red. She is holding back tears and manages to turn her emotions to anger. ‘Not that it is any business of yours!’

  ‘It is my business if Nicola Eagles was implicated in any way –’

  ‘Why would she be? She wasn’t! For God’s sake, I don’t know the woman! I don’t want to know her!’

  ‘It is strange that you parted ways with your spouse soon after you met Nicola Eagles. If she wasn’t the cause for you two arguing –’

  ‘Arguing? Who said we were arguing?’

  ‘You were overheard having a violent argument.’

  ‘We were both upset.’ Her tone is milder. There is something philosophical about it, something bordering on resignation. ‘I was … We’ve been together for seven years – I had the right to be upset, but it wasn’t violent. And it had nothing to do with that woman. We’ve had it coming. I had it coming …’

  ‘What was the reason for you splitting up in the middle of your romantic getaway together, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Boredom. Age difference. Who knows?’ She picks up pace again. ‘Don’t you people have better things to do than to pry –’

  ‘A woman is missing. That is a great cause for concern. Frankly, I’m surprised you don’t find it significant enough –’

  ‘I do! I did! It did cross my mind that she was the reason for Amy’s sudden U-turn.’ She has stopped again and is facing Gillian. There is raw emotion etched in her face, something that cannot be disguised or faked. ‘I put it to Amy. She denied it. That was when she told me about her and that man – frolicking in the ocean. She said Nicola wasn’t into women. I hope to God that’s true! But you will have to ask her. Ask Amy!’

  ‘She isn’t here to ask.’

  ‘She went back home. I told you!’

  ‘OK. We’ll speak to her. I’ll need your full names, your address in the UK, contact number. Before you leave, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Why would I! You keep asking me if I do. Would it make any difference if I did?’

  They are standing in front of the Reception hut. Just as the woman shouts out her name, Sarah Ludlow-Gray, Hassan floats into Gillian’s peripheral vision.

  ‘Is everything all right, madam?’ he asks, an expression of grim concern in his bulging eyes.

  ‘Perfectly all right. I just want to check out and go home.’

  ‘I hope you enjoyed your stay with us.’

  Sarah Ludlow-Gray bites her lip and does not care to answer his question, but asks her own, ‘Can I borrow a pen and a piece of paper to give the detective here my full details?’

  Having sent Gillian a furious glare, Hassan is quick to oblige. He sources a writing pad from the receptionist and presents his personal fountain pen from his palm-tree shirt pocket. Sarah scribbles something in capital letters and tears a page out of the pad. She passes the page to Gillian. ‘Here! The address, telephone number, all you asked for. With any luck you may fi
nd them both there … Am I free to go now?’

  Gillian has her first solid suspect. She must speak to Amy, what’s her name? She reads it from the piece of paper Sarah Ludlow-Gray gave her: Amy Gray-Ludlow. How quaint! She almost feels sorry for both of them. Did Nicola Eagles come between those two? And if she did, how does Count Karenin fit into it? Amy may have some answers. Is it possible that she and Nicola travelled to the UK together?

  Gillian finds a stranded boulder by the side of the footpath. She perches on it – a scrawny bird with a tuft of feathery hair and lips puckered into a beak. She dials Amy’s number. It rings and rings until an answer machine kicks in. A shiny female voice chimes with a twinkle and a chuckle: You’ve reached Amy and Sarah. We’re not at home. We are on our honeymoon! Leave a message if it can’t wait. Back in business Monday week!

  Gillian doesn’t leave a message. She is not sure what she wants to say. Or ask. She isn’t sure she would get a straight answer. How do you ask for confirmation that a relationship – a marriage – is over? How do you ask who is to blame? How do you inquire if a third party was involved? This isn’t a conversation for the telephone.

  Gillian calls Jon.

  On the fifth ring, a gravelly, disorientated voice answers. ‘Gillian, this had better be a dirty call. It’s two-bloody-a.m.!’

  ‘I need you to get hold of someone.’

  ‘And I need you to let me get on with my beauty sleep.’

  ‘Amy Gray-Ludlow.’ Gillian dictates the number.

  ‘That’s in London!’

  ‘Yes, I’d have done it myself but London is much closer to you than me. Anyway, I just tried the number. No answer.’

  ‘Are you surprised? It’s two-bloody-a.m.!’

  ‘Plus it isn’t a telephone kind of conversation. Amy Gray-Ludlow may be romantically involved with Nicola Eagles.’

  ‘Wow! It’s getting spicy …’

  ‘I’ve just waved goodbye to a woman scorned – Amy’s dumped spouse. If Nicola is responsible for the break up, then we have ourselves our first strong suspect. Amy may hold the key to Nicola’s disappearance.’

  ‘Hang on, slow down. How is this Amy here in London holding any key to your disappeared person over there?’ Patiently, Gillian begins to paint the picture of the love triangle she has formed in her mind, the violent fallout and the sudden departure of one of the newlyweds.

  ‘You can see why I need you to talk to her face to face. Observe her reactions. She may still be protecting her former partner. Or she may be running scared. Or whatever it is, I have this feeling that getting Amy’s version of events will lead us to Nicola. Just that one favour, Jon …’

  ‘I’m not going to London. I don’t go to London, out of principle.’

  Gillian is well aware of Jon’s agoraphobia. The metropolis and Jon do not mix. Jon does not do people en masse. He struggles with the loud buzzing noise, the rubbing of bodies, the nudging and pushing, the collective eyeing of his person which he perceives as painfully invasive. ‘Jon, I know. I just can’t do it from here. Please! I’ll make it a dirty call …’

  She can almost smell him squirm and sweat on the other side of the phone, but he doesn’t weigh his options for long – he’s too big a boy to believe in miracles. ‘No. Webber’s back tomorrow; I’ll brief him. It’s not my job, Gill, as much as I’d love a bit of naughty –’

  ‘Ah! The cat!’ Gillian decides not to fight a losing battle and, on a totally new note, remembers Fritz. ‘Did you find the cat?’

  ‘Miller went looking. No luck. It’s probably run over and long dead.’ Jon says without an ounce of feeling.

  ‘Damn it! How will I explain this?’

  ‘Let’s hope you never find the owner alive then.’

  ‘Are you really human?’ Gillian gasps.

  Jon chuckles. ‘Where do you want me to start?’ A stony silence answers his question, which he knows could only be rhetorical. He says, ‘I have a nice juicy bit for you. Was going to call you at a more civilised hour, but,’ he sighs, ‘I’ve been pursuing my own lines of inquiry. Robert Eagles … Robbie, I call him.’

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘I was bored. Surfed a bit. You can follow a named passenger’s travel history with this app. Choice!’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Out of interest, I checked Robbie’s return journey itinerary. You know his way back to Ozzie from Hong Kong? He flew on a direct flight to Hong Kong, but funny thing, he went back via Colombo. Funny that, isn’t it?’

  It was odd, considering that the most obvious route would be a direct flight from Hong Kong to Australia with the same airline. ‘Why stop in Colombo?’ Gillian asks.

  ‘You’ll have to ask him that. He had a stop in Colombo on Tuesday, 3rd February. Six-hour stopover. Beats me … unless … You see, I’ve got my gut feeling about our friendly salesman. Call it woman’s intuition … A man can have it too, you know?’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘I thought you’d like to know about it. It really brings it home. I’d forget about the gay love triangles and focus squarely on the brother, if I was you, which I’m not, but you know?’

  ‘I do know, Jon. You may be onto something. I think it’s time I had another chat with Mr Eagles. I may have to visit him in Melbourne.’

  ‘Melbourne? Why Melbourne? He lives in Adelaide.’

  ‘Sorry, Adelaide. My daughter’s going to Melbourne. With some chap called Charlie she met in Thailand. I wish I was a fly on the wall –’

  ‘In Melbourne?’

  ‘Yes, in Melbourne. Never mind,’ Gillian shakes off her anxieties. ‘She’ll be fine. She’s a big girl.’

  ‘Eighteen – the age of consent –’

  ‘Don’t! Don’t go there, Jon. Keep your mind on the case.’

  ‘It’s your mind that’s doing the wandering.’

  ‘Have you got anything on those numbers and foreign scribbles I sent you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s Finnish. An address and what looks like a telephone number, in Finland.’

  ‘Hm. Did you try it?’

  ‘What? Don’t tell me you want me to go to Finland!’

  ‘No, just calling the number would do – did you try it?’

  ‘Why should I? You only asked me to find out what it was.’

  Despite his numerous talents, Jon has the ability to exasperate Gillian. He makes a brilliant computer and forensic scientist, but he is a sad example of utter immunity to any human condition. He lacks compassion … ‘Give me that number again. I’ll see where it takes me.’

  ‘I left it at work. Do you realise I’m in bed. It’s two-bloody-am!’

  Gillian has been exploring the island for the past two hours, stopping every now and again for a glass of water at little thatched bars scattered along the sandy beach. She recognises a few places and objects photographed by Nicola Eagles and posted on her Facebook. She has spoken to a few more people, trying to jog their memories, trying to get them to place Miss Eagles, retrace her footsteps, favourite spots, habits. No patterns have emerged. A waiter, Ahmed, remembered that ‘the lady drank Greyhound’. A couple of Russian kids nodded when Gillian showed them Nicola’s photograph, but changed their minds when their father slapped one of them on the back of the head and told Gillian in broken English that they were making things up.

  Gillian is exhausted with the heat and the effort of piecing together something that just won’t fit. She is surrounded by people: on the beach, in bars and restaurants, lazing by the side of swimming pools, everywhere, yet hardly anyone recalls seeing Nicola Eagles and no one – no one at all – has witnessed anything that can explain her disappearance.

  It is at a French restaurant at the top of the island that she finally comes across a small piece of the puzzle. A lean, swarthy Frenchman in charge of bookings informs her with an air of infallibility that he indeed recognises madame from the photograph and that she, indeed, dined at the restaurant a week ago prècisèment, that being Tuesday, 3rd February, in the company of a gentleman. �
�They were very much in love, but that’s nothing unusual on this island, n’est-ce pas?’

  Gillian pulls out Nicola’s mobile phone and skims through her photographs to the picture of the mysterious Count Karenin. She shows it to the waiter. ‘Would you be able to identify that man? Is that him?’

  He examines the picture carefully. ‘It is verrry bad quality,’ he muses, ‘but he looked a li-ttle bit like zat, oui! Monsieur Lakso.’

  Gillian pauses. ‘Did you say his name was Lakso?’

  ‘Oui, madame. Zat’s ze name ’e made ze rèservation. Zat’s ze name ’e used. A Russian gentleman.’

  ‘Russian – are you sure?’

  ‘Oui, madame, Russian. In ze last few years I am ’earing enough Russian speak to be sure, madame.’ The waiter gives her the superior look of someone who will not suffer gladly a li-ttle madame daring to doubt his say-so.

  It is in quick succession that Count Karenin gets a name and George makes a vital disclosure. The four middle-aged Londoners happen to be at the French restaurant, sitting at an outdoor table, having an alfresco meal. They wave to Gillian from their vantage point on the veranda. It is Paula who waves; Dawn nudges George, he opens his arms, shrugs, refuses to look up. Dawn frowns. Mick is reading the menu. Gillian smiles, waves back. Dawn gets up, forcing George to follow suit. ‘DS Marsh, can we have a word?’

  Gillian walks over to their table.

  ‘The drunken antics in the restaurant,’ Dawn says excitedly, ‘It wasn’t the last time we saw that lesbian lady you’re looking for. George saw her later. Go on, George, tell DS Marsh!’

  George is reluctant, mumbles something under his breath, shakes his head, but gives in to his wife, ‘Well, I saw them, sure enough. Wednesday it was. Anyhow, I saw them at the end of the pier. Hugging they was, kissing. The two of them: the younger of the two dykes and the disappeared one. They was right at it! Then the older one comes along, hands on hips – prises the lovebirds apart. They leave your disappeared one alone on the pier … She was sat there a long while. Crying, she was.’

  Gillian stares towards the distant pier, the end of which is only a small wedge jutting into the ocean. ‘You’re sure you saw her there? On Wednesday?’