Swimming with Sharks Read online

‘Like I care.’

  ‘You should, PC Miller. We have to be seen to be caring.’

  Fritz gives out a harrowing mewl.

  ‘You see, you’ve hurt his feelings.’

  It seems like an easy job at first: a phone call to the carrier to check the passenger list. It takes for ever to get through to a live person. Gillian is offered several automated options, none of which apply to her type of inquiry. Finally, she is invited to press zero to speak to an operator. She is put on hold. The music is soothing. The longer she listens, she figures, the more likely she is to forget about her problem, become fully pacified and, ultimately, put the phone down.

  She is chewing a pencil. It is an old habit of hers, a habit she developed early in life when the choice was either her nails or school pencils. In the end, both the nails and the pencils got a good seeing-to. Habits stay with Gillian for life. She has the stubs of her nails to testify to that. Plus, every pencil she lays her hands on sooner or later becomes her personal celery stick.

  She is through to an operator. ‘DS Marsh, Sexton’s Canning CID. I wish to make an inquiry about a passenger on yesterday’s flight number UL4016 –’

  ‘I’ll have to put you through to my manager. Please wait.’ The soothing music kicks in again. Gillian’s teeth sink into the fibres of the wooden pencil. She has as much patience for automated phone inquiries as she does for Christmas shopping.

  ‘Good morning! Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ says a cheery voice of unidentifiable gender. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I want to check if a passenger by the name of Nicola Eagles boarded flight number –’

  ‘May I just verify your details? Procedure – I do apologise.’

  Gillian repeats her details, which are dutifully taken down, letter by letter, number by number, rank by rank. ‘Right, thank you. I have to keep a record –’

  ‘I understand. Now to Nicola Eagles.’

  ‘Yes … what flight did you say?’

  Gillian quotes the flight number in full this time. There is a brief pause filled by vigorous clicking of the keyboard. ‘No, Ms Eagles was not on that flight. She purchased the ticket, but she didn’t make it onto the plane.’

  ‘Did she check in on any subsequent flight, can you verify that, please?’

  Click-click. No. Not with Sri Lankan Airlines, anyway.

  ‘Was she meant to be on any connecting flights? I understand she was returning from the Maldives.’

  Click-click. Yes. She was meant to arrive on a flight from Malè. And no, she wasn’t on that either. Nicola Eagles had travelled to Malè on Saturday, January 31st, her journey commencing at Heathrow on January 30th; she had then transferred in Colombo to an outward flight to Malè – the ‘manager’ can confirm she did that, but nothing since. He – if it is a he – sounds concerned, but it is only a token apprehension. His questions are superficial. Has the lady gone missing? Is there anything else he can do to help? Gillian thanks him for his help and asks him to call her if Miss Eagles attempts to make a booking. The manager is delighted to be able to be of some assistance: Miss Eagles’ name is being flagged in the system as they speak.

  Detective Chief Inspector Scarfe, affectionately known as Scarface due to both his name and a slight curling of his upper lip – he had been born with it cleft – shows scant interest in the missing woman. ‘It’s the usual holiday romance. The lady will turn up sooner or later, intact and in love with some Caribbean gigolo.’

  ‘She went to the Maldives.’

  ‘Yes, I know, you told me. Trust me, she’ll complain we intruded on her privacy. It wouldn’t be the first time! Anyway, it hasn’t been forty-eight hours.’

  ‘With respect, sir, it may’ve been eight days. We don’t know if she got to where she was going. We know she landed in Malè eight days ago. After that, it’s anyone’s guess. I’d like to check which resort she is – was – booked into. Whether she made it there in the first place. I’ll take a look around her house, with your permission. It may pay to check with the relatives, there may’ve been a postcard, a telephone call which would explain …’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Scarface is already distracted. He’s tapping his fingers on the arm of his swivelling chair. Gillian wonders whether it is a game of golf or early lunch plans she is keeping him away from. ‘Have it all done and dusted by Friday. I don’t want any loose ends when you’re gone the next three weeks.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And be discreet, Marsh! I don’t want you pulling out heavy artillery just to solve the mystery of a holiday fling, understood?’

  ‘Sir.’

  Mr and Mrs Devonshire materialise within seconds of Gillian arriving at Field Cottage. The name of their residence is etched onto a post box. It is a very appropriate name – the cottage is at the end of a narrow lane, which winds around a massive beech and splits into two driveways, one leading to Field Cottage, the twin to the Devonshires’ almost identical dwelling. Beyond the two houses there is nothing but fields – strawberry fields, now in winter lull.

  ‘Any news?’ Mr Devonshire’s brows twitch on top of his forehead.

  ‘I’m afraid not, other than she wasn’t on the flight she was booked on.’

  Mr and Mrs Devonshire exchange looks of horror.

  ‘Would you happen to know the name of the resort Miss Eagles intended to stay in?’

  ‘Oh dear, she did mention, didn’t she? Such a tongue-twister, if you ask me, it went in and straight out again. I didn’t take much notice, didn’t think it mattered. So many things to remember … Vincent, dear, do you recall? No, I didn’t think so,’ Mrs Devonshire assures herself without waiting for her husband to collaborate. ‘We weren’t paying attention when she told us. She showed us some photographs, didn’t she? Though, frankly, one of those faraway places looks exactly like the next one. I couldn’t tell one from another if it hit me in the face, could you, dear?’

  ‘Never mind, I’ll have a look in the house.’ Gillian manages to turn the key in the door. It opens with a comforting squeak of the hinges. ‘There may be some papers, booking confirmations …’

  The Devonshires follow her resolutely into the house. They are not fully convinced about the weight of her authority. What is a slight female with a pixie hairstyle and plain clothes doing being a policeman, or a police-person as they call themselves these days?

  The place is cluttered: a mismatch of furnishings, the old and the new thrown together in a heap. Two of the same kind of everything point to two households being merged into one. In the last five months Nicola Eagles’ effects have been added to Eunice’s, thus two sofas facing each other in the lounge: one tawny leather, deep and soft, sprawled on the floor like an oversized beanbag, the other framed in polished wood, standing on curved legs, with upholstery threadbare in places – the sort of stiff furniture you wouldn’t feel particularly welcome to sit on for too long. There are plenty of books; some are scattered on the floor: a series of Cadfael novels in hardback, the National Trust guides to various countryside walks and countless volumes of Reader’s Digest. On the shelves spanning across the width of an entire wall, there are more books. Gillian can’t read some of the titles. ‘What language is that? Russian?’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss Eagles is a fluent Russian speaker. Eunice was very proud of her niece, wasn’t she, Vincent? Russian, out of all languages! Did you know it is the fifth most difficult language in the world? Or is it the sixth, I forget –’

  ‘Any living relatives?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Miss Eagles – does she have any other relatives I could contact? She is unmarried, I take it?’

  ‘An orphan, I’m afraid. And a spinster … Not that she isn’t a good-looking lady, and well-educated, at that. I guess men don’t like over-educated women, don’t you think? Men don’t like being outdone by women.’

  ‘She struck me as rather shy,’ Mr Devonshire gets a chance to wedge in a sentence.

  ‘So nobody you know of?’

  ‘A b
rother. She has a brother.’

  Gillian takes out a pen. ‘Would you know how to contact him? His name? Where does he live?’

  ‘Robert, I think. Robert or Ronald. Robert, more likely. They don’t call them Ronald these days, do they? He didn’t visit poor Eunice when she was alive, did he? No, never. Not a family man.’

  ‘He lives in Australia – that could explain it,’ says Mr Devonshire.

  ‘He only moved there a few years ago. Did he visit poor Eunice before that? No, he did not.’

  Gillian ponders the possibility of Miss Eagles paying a visit to her brother. The Maldives are in the same neck of the woods as Australia, she has a vague idea. Geography has never been her strongest point. Is the distance between the two places a matter of a day trip? Worth checking. An old-fashioned address book lies next to a telephone. Hopefully, it can tell a story. Gillian pages through it. Robert is under E, not R – for Eagles, of course. Not unlike Mrs Devonshire, Miss Eagles isn’t one for a first-name basis approach, even when it comes to her own brother. Exactly how formal – and impersonal – can these people get, Gillian wonders. An address in the UK, recorded in a neat young hand, is crossed out. Beneath, a new address is written down, a bit untidy, offhanded, trailing off, as if the writer was reluctant to make the change.

  ‘Yes, that’d be correct. I recall something about him living in Adelaide.’ Mr Devonshire is peering over Gillian’s shoulder. She shuts the book closed. The old man gives her a hurt look, ‘I’m only trying to help.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I know. I appreciate it. I mean – anything you can tell me –’ She puts the book in her pocket. A questioning glare from Mrs Devonshire forces her to explain herself: ‘We’ll get in touch with her contacts, see if anyone can shed some light on her disappearance. She may be with friends.’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to have any friends or … contacts. No one ever visits her.’ Mrs Devonshire puts Gillian’s line of inquiry into question.

  ‘She’s only been here for a few months,’ points out Mr Devonshire gallantly.

  ‘That’s exactly when people visit you the most, Vincent, to see your new house, how you’re getting on in the new place, who your neighbours are. It’s human curiosity.’ Mrs Devonshire shakes her head, ‘Between us, I really don’t think she has any friends.’

  Gillian proceeds upstairs, followed by the Devonshires. A small room – filled with stacks of files, bills and folders, a dismantled printer next to a box of early nineties-style hardware and a collection of outdated cables – bears the semblance of a study. A quick glance at the papers confirms that they belonged to the previous owner. But Gillian also finds a laptop. It looks discarded and forgotten, but it does not go with the rest of the antiques: it is at least twenty years younger. With any luck it belongs to Nicola.

  The bedroom is south-facing and warm. The warmth radiates from under the window and it is only now that it occurs to Gillian that the central heating is on. She opens a wardrobe. A collection of floral skirts of varied shades and patterns, but consistent in their maxi-lengths, points to a woman of conservative taste, the Laura Ashley type. Jumpers are folded neatly on the bottom shelf, casual joggers and tops in the middle; schoolgirl white blouses, each with its own hanger, have been immaculately pressed. She even irons her underwear, Gillian notes. Nothing seems to be missing. Nothing seems to have been taken out.

  ‘You’re sure she’s gone away?’

  Mr and Mrs Devonshire blink at her in unison. ‘I can’t imagine she’s letting us take care of Fritz while she’s hiding under the bed,’ Mrs Devonshire says.

  ‘She gave us her flight details. She was so excited! What makes you think –’

  ‘The heating is on.’

  ‘Oh, that! She left it on for Fritz. He doesn’t like the cold.’

  ‘Of course, Fritz!’

  Mrs Devonshire picks up a stack of magazines from a bedside table. ‘Here, you see? These are the pictures she’s been showing us.’ Baby blue skies stabbed with umbrellas of palm trees roll from the covers. On the back of one of the leaflets, the details for Thomas Cook in Shepherd’s Bush are circled in pen. Gillian adds the leaflet to her loot.

  No one knows anything. Nicola Eagles has vanished without a trace. The Thomas Cook shop closed down over three months ago, and the head office has no record of Nicola Eagles. It is a dead end. And so is the address book. It dates back to its owner’s university days. It is sparsely populated with names, and half of the contacts are either dead or married, many with a new name, address and telephone number; many have not heard from Nicola Eagles in years and find it hard to recall her face or how they came to know her in the first place. She seems only a shadow of a real person, not even a memory. How incredibly easy would it be to wipe out her existence? No one would bat an eyelid. No one has. If it wasn’t for Fritz …

  Scarface has not returned from his extended lunch engagement or golf tournament, or both. Chances are Gillian won’t be able to speak to him until tomorrow. He is canvassing for a promotion to Detective Superintendent. He will make a good one. His skills lie in management, not ground work. Getting his hands dirty and desk cluttered is not his idea of professional satisfaction. Gillian wouldn’t dream of interrupting his campaign. She is used to making her own decisions and running them by Scarface after the event. On that note, she has left Nicola’s laptop with Forensics for a priority analysis. She needs information – anything. Jon Riley at Forensics is a true maverick, commonly known as Jon the Geek. He says it sounds almost as good as John the Baptist. If there is anything to be found on that laptop, he will find it. He has nothing better to do. Despite being only in his twenties, he already has a failed marriage behind him. How he managed to find a wife in the first place is a mystery: he is fat, hairy and speaks in code. However he had found her, the wife did not last. He had lost her quickly after his addiction to late-night computer gaming and poor personal hygiene came to light. Now he can dedicate his entire life to his first love: I.T.

  PC Miller is going home. ‘What do I do with the cat?’ he asks.

  ‘RSPCA.’

  ‘I’ve got to be going. Picking the kids up – I promised. Missus is having a doctor’s appointment.’

  ‘Leave it here.’ They push the cage with Fritz in it under Gillian’s desk. Fritz hisses at Miller for a goodbye.

  ‘That’s the thank you I get!’

  ‘For what?’ Gillian raises an eyebrow. Miller never knows whether she is joking or being serious. He shrugs and takes himself out of the cat’s peripheral vision. The creature settles down for a nap.

  Gillian is hell-bent on closing this missing person’s case today. There has to be a simple explanation. It isn’t a case of lost luggage – it is a case of a grown-up woman somewhere between one of the most popular holiday destinations on the planet and home. There is only so much that could have happened to her in that part of the world. Anything serious, such as drug trafficking or drowning, would have been reported by now. An impromptu visit to the brother in Australia sounds an increasingly viable possibility. Gillian is not entirely sure what time it is in Australia, but she is promptly informed by Robert Eagles. He sounds like a man with a heavy hangover when he finally picks up the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Eagles? Am I speaking to Mr Robert Eagles?’

  ‘Yeah, you are … What is it? Who the hell are you? Do you realise what time it is? It’s bloody three in the morning!’

  ‘I am sorry to wake you at this hour. I’m calling from Sexton’s Canning. DS Marsh.’

  ‘DS? As in the police? What’s it about?’

  ‘Please, don’t be alarmed. It’s probably nothing serious –’

  ‘Then why the hell –’

  ‘It’s about your sister.’

  ‘Nicola …’ his voice trails off. ‘Something happened to Nicola?’

  ‘We don’t know. She has not returned from her holiday. She missed her plane. I was wondering if maybe you have information about her current whereabouts –�
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  ‘Holiday? She’s on holiday? Nicola doesn’t go on holidays.’

  Gillian rubs her forehead. The next of kin is another dead end. ‘According to her neighbours, she went to the Maldives. A week ago. You haven’t heard from her, I take it?’

  ‘No …’ the man begins to sound softer, almost apologetic. ‘We haven’t been that close since our parents died. Or before … I … I’m a busy man … We don’t really keep in touch. I thought of inviting her over, but you can never find the right time … It’s always something or other … Anyway, she doesn’t go on holidays! The Maldives? It doesn’t sound like Nicola. She’s more of a B&B in Wales sort of person. Are you sure?’

  ‘We know that she missed a flight back home yesterday. We know she did not book herself on another flight. We know she intended to be back this morning. There may be a perfectly innocent explanation –’

  ‘Nicola doesn’t miss planes. She’s very … um … punctual, organised. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone back here in the UK? Anyone she’s close to, anyone she would’ve been likely to contact?’

  Long pause. Then: ‘No. No one. She keeps herself to herself … I really don’t know anyone my sister is in touch with. Is that bad? It is, I suppose … I can’t believe it – there must be a simple explanation!’ He goes silent. ‘Now you got me worried … Can you keep me advised? Please. Any time – day or night. What’s your name again?’

  Gillian leaves her details with Robert Eagles. He is grateful to her for getting in contact with him. He is the only close relative Nicola has, though he should’ve kept a closer eye on her … In case of her death, Gillian ponders, would he be the sole beneficiary of her estate? How much is Nicola Eagles worth? Field Cottage alone must be close to half a million pounds.

  Jon Riley calls just as Mrs Clunes puts on her vacuum cleaner. Once she has put it on, she will not switch it off until she is done – not for any reason – she is a busy woman, efficient. If she waited for every cop to finish their business, she would be here at midnight.

  ‘Hang on, Jon. I can’t hear you! You’ve got something?’