Swimming with Sharks Page 16

  ‘Miss Nicola Eagles was staying in the chalet next door to yours – Chalet 42. An English female, brown hair, average build, early forties … Might you have met her?’

  ‘I’m sure … Why are you asking me about her?’ The steel in his voice is hardening. He is beginning to answer questions with questions of his own – not a good sign.

  ‘I’ve been investigating Miss Eagles’ disappearance. She failed to arrive home from her holiday. She was due to be back five days ago. I’m contacting everyone who may have come in contact with her, anyone who may shed some light on her disappearance.’

  ‘I see. I don’t know how I can help you.’ Calm and collected. No exclamations of surprise or concern. And yet, Gillian is sure, he is Count Karenin.

  ‘You could help me by telling me about the nature of your relationship with Miss Eagles.’

  ‘Ha, relationship!’ he laughs, but it is a forced merriment, fallacious. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. We knew each other –’

  ‘You’ve been seen together.’

  ‘We have? Well yes, I struck up an acquaintance with Nicola, if that’s what you call it?’ His English becomes more accented, heavier. Perhaps there is a hint of emotion in it. Gillian would swear it’s a Russian accent. As little as she knows about accents, Russian is unmistakable. The waiter in that French restaurant on Itsouru was of the same opinion. What did he say? In ze last few years I am ’earing enough Russian speak to be sure, madam.

  ‘Mr Lakso, if it is your wife you’re worried about, let me assure you she doesn’t need to be told. I’m merely investigating –’

  ‘My wife is dead.’ Steel returns to his tone. ‘I’m not worried about her. My mother, on the other hand, doesn’t mind. Yes, my mother. We both made good friends with Nicola.’

  Mother! Oops! ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to imply anything untoward. I’m sorry about your wife.’

  ‘My wife’s been dead for years. She has nothing to do with this.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m intruding on you this way, but Miss Eagles has been seen in your company and now she’s missing. I’m just trying to establish her moves on the island …’

  ‘Yes, I understand. I don’t mean to be evasive. I just don’t see how my … liaison … with Nicola can help you. But yes, we became very friendly. I took her out to dinner. She twisted her ankle, you see, and my mother and I took care of her. We became close, yes, but it came to an end and that’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘You left your address and telephone number with her? You intended to stay in touch, I take it?’

  ‘She asked for it. I didn’t see why not.’

  ‘Has she contacted you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One last question: why did you cut your stay short? It just so happens that you left within twenty-four hours of Miss Eagles going missing. Three days before you were due to depart.’

  Another false chuckle. ‘Ah! I would have stayed, but my mother – she isn’t used to the heat. Her heart couldn’t take it. She complained of chest tightness in the morning. She never complains. That got me worried. I thought about it, but I had no choice – we left that same day. The trip was her birthday treat and she wasn’t enjoying herself, not being well … I would have loved to stay. Nicola …’ his deep voice softens, ‘We did have a good time and yes, we were planning to stay in touch. I … She’s a lovely lady.’

  ‘Did she seem fine to you? Happy?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says slowly, ‘very happy.’

  ‘So you don’t think she would’ve done anything –’

  ‘Like suicide?’ He laughs, and this time it is genuine. ‘No, definitely not. We had a … good time together. She was … alive! I thought … I like her a lot. She will be fine.’

  ‘You were seen swimming together.’

  ‘Snorkelling, yes.’

  ‘Would you say she was a good swimmer?’

  ‘Passable. She’s all right. Anyway, the buoyancy in that ocean is amazing, and I was looking after her …’ he pauses. After a short silence, he adds, ‘I hope you find her soon, alive and well. On my part, if I hear from her, I’ll let you know.’

  There is confidence in his tone and Gillian hates to break it to him, but …

  ‘I’m afraid you won’t be hearing from her. We found her body this morning.’

  ‘Nicola’s dead?’ It is not the same voice. It does not belong to the same man. It is ghostly, crumpled and weak. It is an old man’s voice.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘She was killed.’ This isn’t a question – it’s a statement of fact.

  Nevertheless, Gillian answers, ‘We believe she was strangled.’

  ‘How long? How long has she been dead?’

  ‘About four days. I need to find out what happened between the day she disappeared and the day she was killed. Where was she?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. I don’t know.’

  He puts the phone down abruptly and without another word. Gillian knows it’s the shock. He wasn’t surprised to hear about Nicola Eagles’ disappearance – he wasn’t concerned, as if it was perfectly normal for a woman to go off the radar for a while – but he is shocked to hear she is dead. Gillian ponders that for a minute. If you’re fond of someone – and he is fond of Nicola, that much is obvious from his fragmented admissions – you would be worried if they went missing. You would try to contact them. Does he have Nicola’s number? He left his with her – did he ask for hers in return? If so, would he not try to call her? And yet Nicola’s telephone has remained ominously silent throughout. No one ever called her. That, in itself, means little as far as Nicola Eagles is concerned. No one seems to be calling her whether or not she is available to take the call. Perhaps Mikhail Lakso simply follows the trend: Nicola was just a brief holiday encounter and he doesn’t have the desire to keep in touch with her. It is not to say that her death didn’t shock him, but it would have come as a shock to any half-decent human being who happens to have known her. So there may be nothing else to this line of enquiry. After all, Lakso and his mother had left the island days before Nicola was killed. And what motive would they have to kill her? And then, against all logic, leave their address and telephone number behind? Despite her misgivings, Gillian is reluctant to eliminate Lakso from her investigation. Something is not right. Something is niggling at the back of her mind: something she can’t see yet.

  Day Thirteen

  Robert Eagles steps off the plane looking tired and dishevelled. His eyes are bloodshot and his breath smells of alcohol. He isn’t the fit and lean man with a boyish grin and sun-tanned face that peers from his Facebook photos. He looks much older than that. It may be the merciless Australian sun that has drained away his youthful looks; it may be the hardships he has encountered in the New World. Gillian observes his demeanour with interest. He strikes her as a man on the edge.

  He shakes hands with both Nasheed and Gillian. His grip is firm and business-like. In the car he asks if they have any clues about what happened to his sister. My sister, he says – he does not use her actual name. It sounds impersonal, makes one wonder whether he remembers his sister’s name.

  ‘We know she didn’t drown,’ Nasheed tells him what they know didn’t happen to Nicola.

  ‘So how did she die?’ Mr Eagles demands impatiently.

  ‘Strangulation. Her neck was broken. All we can say is that it wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘Who would’ve done that to her?’

  ‘We wondered if you could help us with that,’ Gillian interjects.

  ‘Me?’ he sounds defensive, as if an allegation has been made against him personally.

  ‘Do you know if your sister had any enemies, anyone who would wish her ill?’

  ‘No. I can’t imagine my sister having enemies. She was always so … harmless. But then I haven’t seen her in seven years. I don’t know what sort of people she mingles with. I don’t remember her having any friends – never mind enemies – back in the days when we went to school in Maiden
head. She … Nicola,’ her name brings a wince to his face. ‘My sister has always been plain shy – quiet as a mouse. She’d never stick her head out. In fact, I was surprised to learn she’d gone on a holiday abroad. When you told me on the phone,’ he looks at Gillian, his forehead deeply furrowed. ‘Such an extravagance! It’s not Nicola’s style.’

  ‘It was on her Facebook.’

  ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t even know she was on Facebook.’

  ‘You are her Facebook friend! Surely you knew!’ Nasheed sounds exasperated. Until now Gillian didn’t realise he had gone as far as trudging through Nicola’s Facebook. Maybe she has underestimated him. Maybe he’s been carrying out his own background checks – on the quiet and without causing any backlash from Itsouru’s management, unlike Gillian. Clever man, Ali Nasheed! It may pay to listen to what he has to say. It will certainly pay to share intelligence with him.

  She says, ‘And on top of that you were in Colombo the day before your sister went missing, that’d be Tuesday, 3rd February. What were you doing there?’

  Robert stares hard at her, his bloodshot eyes bulging with indignation, ‘Colombo is a long way from here … Are you trying to imply I had something to do with my sister’s disappearance?’

  ‘I only asked you a simple question. It was probably a pure coincidence – you in Colombo, your sister in the Maldives – but it is my job to ask questions.’ She tries to sound non-confrontational, but she won’t let him off the hook. ‘So I’m asking: what brought you to Colombo last Tuesday?’

  ‘Business. I travel for work. I was on business in Hong Kong, flying home via Colombo. It’s cheaper that way. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘It’s just that when you travelled to Hong Kong, you took a direct flight there, so why, on your way back –’

  ‘I told you – it was cheaper!’ His face is flushed red. Is it guilt or indignation? ‘I resent your insinuations! What are you implying?! I might not have been particularly close with my sister, but – for God’s sake – I wouldn’t have had anything to do with her death! Why the hell would I! She was my sister! And now she’s dead, and I blame myself enough – without your bloody help – for not seeing it coming!’

  ‘I’m sorry if I come across as insensitive –’

  ‘You bloody well do!’ His fists are closed, white-knuckled, and Gillian can almost smell his fury. If he could, he would hit her. She wonders what brought on all this anger. Are her questions too close to the truth? Did she hit a nerve? She won’t let go. She is known to be the pitbull of interrogation – once she got her teeth into something, she just couldn’t let go …

  ‘Your sister was wealthy. I understand that as her next of kin you are her only heir. You’d be getting quite a handsome inheritance … Correct me if I’m wrong, but my sources tell me you’re in a spot of financial bother at the moment?’

  ‘I can’t believe this!’ Looking aloofly over Gillian’s shoulder, Eagles is speaking to Nasheed. He has decided to disregard her, thus showing his righteous superiority. ‘I didn’t come here – all this way – to be insulted! You asked me to identify my sister’s body, that’s all. You didn’t say I’d be bloody well interrogated! And anyway, who the hell is in charge here, you or her?’

  Nasheed fixes Gillian with a firm stare. There is a muscle in his jaw that twitches as he clenches his teeth. ‘I do apologise, Mr Eagles. It is a difficult time for you and your family, and we are grateful for your co-operation. I am the officer in charge. DS Marsh is working with my team.’

  ‘So I don’t have to answer her offensive questions, then?’

  ‘You do, but I am sure DS Marsh will make an effort, from now on, to take the pressure off you and demonstrate a more sensitive approach – considering your loss.’ Another meaningful glance at Gillian, who does not feel in the least contrite. She is suspicious of Robert Eagles: he had a motive, very likely an opportunity, and he doesn’t appear much grief-stricken.

  A grimace in his face could mean a lot of different things. He is led into the mortuary and waits for his sister’s body to be rolled out of the freezer. When he sees the body is covered, he looks relieved.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Nasheed asks. ‘Bear in mind the body has undergone some level of decomposition and there are deformities and tissue damage.’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  Gillian says nothing but watches his every reaction. He is standing stiff-upright, head tilted back, lips convoluted – bracing himself for what is to come. When the body bag is unzipped, he retches and, with his hand over his mouth, backs away. He is mortified, but who wouldn’t be? The condition the body is in is awful. She passes him a paper tissue. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I didn’t expect it to be …’ he starts but fails to finish the sentence.

  ‘Is this your sister?’

  Holding the tissue to his mouth, he returns to take a proper look. His nostrils are flaring, his breathing shallow and rapid. It is the shock of it. He didn’t expect it to be so gory – Gillian finishes the sentence for him in her head. What did he expect? Did he order his sister’s killing? Is this what he had in mind? His reactions seem to deny that, but this isn’t a pretty sight. Not what he expected …

  ‘This isn’t my sister.’ He has now overcome the initial convulsion and is frowning with a strange, puzzled look in his eye.

  ‘She doesn’t look like she used to look –’ Nasheed tries to tell him.

  ‘No, it isn’t Nicola.’ Does Gillian detect a hint of disappointment in his voice? It most certainly isn’t relief. ‘No, it isn’t her! Bloody hell! Can you turn her head? To the right?’

  The pathologist does as he asks. With the tissue still firmly pressed against his mouth, Eagles bends over and examines an area just behind the ear. ‘No. There should be a birthmark behind the left ear. You couldn’t miss it. It’s not her!’

  Confused, Nasheed gapes at the pathologist, ‘Could it be bleached out by the salt water?’

  The pathologist shakes his head, speaking in Dhivehi. Gillian does not understand a word, but the body language is clear: no, it couldn’t be.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she demands from Eagles. ‘Take a good look, please.’

  His glance towards her is contemptuous. ‘I am bloody sure. She should have a birthmark, just like this one,’ he turns his head and displays a blood-brown patch, the size of a five-pence coin on his neck. ‘Hers is higher, just behind the ear, but very similar to mine. We both have it. Runs in the family.’

  Gillian and Nasheed exchange puzzled glances. The pathologist wheels the body back into the fridge as Eagles walks away, towards the exit door. He discards the tissue paper in the corridor outside with disgust as if it were contaminated with some deadly virus. It lands on the floor. He is back to his angry look.

  ‘You’ve got the wrong woman! How did you get the wrong woman?’

  It is a bizarre question to which neither Nasheed nor Gillian can offer an answer.

  ‘You brought me all the way here – for nothing! I hope someone’s going to reimburse me for the flight! What a bloody waste of time! And money!’ he is raving, stomping down the corridor, his boots resonating on the stone-tiled floor.

  ‘We had every reason to believe it was your sister,’ Nasheed manages to say weakly. He himself looks bewildered – a rabbit in headlights.

  ‘You put me through all this shit – for nothing!’

  Gillian is not prepared to take this lying down. She says, ‘It isn’t nothing, Mr Eagles. Someone is dead, lying there. Your sister is still missing.’

  ‘That someone is not my sister! Find her. Find her body, be sure it’s her – then call me!’

  Callous twat! Gillian is livid. He sounds like he is frustrated, like he was hoping to see his dead sister’s body dispatched neatly and tidily out of this world, and all he got was someone else. Was there a mistake? ‘We would still like to talk to you, Mr Eagles,’ Gillian tells him. That stops him in his tracks. He glares at her, points a finger in her face. The finger
is trembling; his face is flushed red just like it was when he first lost his temper.

  ‘No! I’m not talking to you! I’m leaving on the next flight out. Unless you want to arrest me!’ He turns to Nasheed. ‘Am I under arrest?’

  Nasheed shakes his head. ‘You’re free to go, Mr Eagles. Thank you for your co-operation. And I am truly sorry about the misunderstanding.’

  They are sitting over a curry in a small takeaway outlet in the heart of Malѐ. It is a district full of miniature eateries and stalls lined up along the streets. Pungent spice aromas overwhelm the senses. Gillian’s lips are puckered as she is musing over the latest development. She had to let Eagles go, which went against her every instinct.

  She says, ‘Did you notice how disappointed he was?’

  Nasheed stares at her, baffled.

  ‘Oh, come on, Nasheed! You must’ve seen it too! He looked disappointed – as if he was hoping to find his sister’s dead body, as if he was counting on it.’

  ‘No, not really. I thought he was distraught.’

  Men simply cannot read men, Gillian is forced to conclude. Body language is lost on them. Only women can decipher the nuances of human behaviour. That is why women rear children, bring secrets to light and expose liars, who happen invariably to be men. Men like Robert Eagles. She insists on her diagnosis. ‘He was furious, not distraught.’

  ‘Who can tell? He was unnerved. I’d say you’ve done most of the unnerving.’ He says that calmly, but not without a touch of sarcasm, and attacks his curry with chop sticks, displaying uncanny dexterity. Gillian prefers a fork.

  ‘You see, I’ve got this theory.’ Undeterred by the criticism, Gillian goes on, ‘He was hoping to find his sister dead. He had ordered her killing when he was in Colombo. His handyman may have got the wrong woman. Remember what he said? He said: How did you get the wrong woman? Was he speaking to us, or …’ She raises her eyebrows, a cue for Nasheed to finish the sentence.

  He does not. ‘That is too far-fetched. We haven’t got anything to back it up.’

  ‘We have!’ Gillian slams her small but perfectly lethal fist on the table. She points up one finger, ‘One: motive. He’s in financial trouble. He needs money. Nicola Eagles was rich and single, with him as the closest relative standing to inherit everything –’