by Anna Legat
‘It’s the battery – gone flat,’ Nasheed is leaning against the door frame. She is glad she hasn’t said anything critical about his handling of this case on the phone to Jon – he must’ve been outside, eavesdropping.
‘Where’s the cable?’
‘In the box, I guess.’
‘You guess?’ Gillian is certain he has not inspected any of the box contents. He couldn’t be bothered to so much as turn on the laptop. Drowning; case closed! She is fumbling in the box for a cable, finds it and plugs it in. The laptop makes a joyful noise and lights up. Luckily there is no password. Once on, the machine takes her to the last place Nicola Eagles visited before her disappearance. It is her Facebook page. With a draft entry awaiting posting. For some reason Nicola failed to press PUBLISH. Did she decide against it? Was she interrupted? Did she forget?
Gillian purses her lips and knits her brows as she tries to make sense of that entry: there is a photograph of a well-built, middle-aged man wading through water, heading towards the beach. The photo is of poor quality. It was probably taken through a window as there is a reflection of – probably – Nicola Eagles holding a camera, which is interposed against the image of the man. A short enigmatic caption underlines the photo: Count Karenin. Gillian contemplates it. The name sounds strangely familiar. It is a Russian name – sounds it, like Lenin or Stalin. Then it comes to her: Anna Karenina! Naturally, it cannot possibly be a real name of a real person. Count, at that! Nicola Eagles has been called weird … What was the term: out of touch? The man in the picture is real enough, but it seems to Gillian that Nicola Eagles has taken the picture without his permission: he isn’t exactly posing and she is hiding with her camera behind glass. Weird indeed!
‘Could we enlarge this photo, do you think?’ she asks Nasheed. He comes close and looks over her shoulder. ‘It may be nothing, but –’
‘We could enhance it, get rid of the overlay, yes,’ he says, suddenly intrigued and unexpectedly co-operative. ‘Count Karenin?’ he asks. ‘A count? It shouldn’t be hard to find a count.’
‘She was reading Anna Karenina. Count Karenin is Anna Karenina’s husband.’
‘A character from a book came to life?’
‘My guess is as good as yours.’
It is not yet lunchtime when Gillian feels numb with fatigue. She hasn’t slept a wink in the last twenty-four hours. In England this would be her bedtime – a well overdue bedtime. Her brain is fuzzy; she doesn’t even know what she is looking at as she wades through the contents of the box. Mindlessly, she is paging through every book. A scrap of paper is all she finds. It looks like a flight itinerary. She thinks she recognises the flight number from Colombo to Heathrow. The paper is well crumpled, torn in half; something is scribbled on the back: words which mean nothing and some numbers, which may constitute a telephone number, or may not. Probably random notes. Gillian gives up the ghost. She asks Nasheed if he could take her back to her hotel. ‘Holiday Inn,’ she says, ‘sounds like paradise on earth. Can’t think of a better place to be right now.’
Nasheed smiles. His teeth are large, whiter than white and so even that they seem unnatural. Gentlemanly, he opens the door for her and lets her through. He is glad to be rid of her for the day. He drops her in the foyer and watches as she staggers to the lift with the key to her room in her hand.
In her nice, air-conditioned room Gillian drops onto the wide double bed with fresh white sheets and instantly falls asleep.
Day Eleven
When Gillian’s telephone rings, she thinks it is the alarm. She slams her hand on it in the dark. It stops; then it rings again. A glance at the bedside clock, she realises it is the next day – the early hour of 1.32 am. This time she checks the number displayed on her mobile. ‘Tara! Thank God! Where have you been!’ Gillian knows the answer but is too worked up not to demand it.
‘Mum,’ Tara sounds mature and in cold control. She has been here before – she knows how to handle her mother. ‘I left my itinerary with you at home. On the fridge. You knew – you should have known – that I’d be in the jungle, elephant trekking. You knew – you should have known – that I may not have been contactable. Jungles are like that: impenetrable.’
‘It’s no good leaving things on the fridge, for God’s sake! You should’ve told me –’
‘Which I did. If only you listened …’
‘You sound just like your father!’
‘How are you anyway? And where are you?’ Even now, when she is asking after Gillian’s wellbeing, Tara sounds just like her father: supremely indulgent of Gillian’s inadequacies.
‘Malè.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘The Maldives. Are you all right?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be? What are you doing in the Maldives?’
‘A case. I’ve got a case: missing woman. Went on holiday and never came back – holidays for you!’
‘I see … a case. Of course! Could it ever be anything else! What was I thinking?’ When did Tara learn all of her father’s tricks: the one-word put-downs, the superior tone of someone in the know, the forgiving indulgence for the feeble-minded and straying souls of this world, like Gillian? Tara knows how fallible her mother is. She knows only too well how good Gillian is at bringing her cases home and depositing them on their doorstep like a cat does its kill, or dragging them all the way to her bed and sleeping on them – with them – until they are solved, while the rest of the world has to stand still and wait its turn.
‘What do you mean you see?’
‘Mum, just because some person has gone missing … I mean, you can’t leap to crazy conclusions. I’m all right! In fact, we’re having a great time! There’s a whole bunch of us now –’
‘A bunch?’
‘We met some people from Kent.’
‘And who are those people?’
‘Muuum …’ there is a warning in Tara’s voice.
Gillian knows not to push her luck. She asks, ‘Nice people? Your age sort of people?’
‘Yes, and yes. And no – I’m not giving you their full names! You’ll have to trust me.’
‘I do trust you.’
Tara laughs.
‘So you’re having a good time?’
‘Didn’t I say? OK,’ there is a clear, undisguised yawn, ‘I’m knackered. We only just got back to Phuket. It’s very late here – I should be in bed – but I called you as soon as I got back because I know how paranoid you get.’
‘I only want you to keep in touch.’
‘Last time I called you weren’t even there.’
‘I’m sorry. You know –’
‘I do! I do … Mum, I’ve really got to be going. Just remember we’re flying to Melbourne tomorrow morning. I mean … this morning. OK? Are you listening?’
‘I’m all ears!’
‘Good.’
Gillian is now fully awake. She remembers suddenly. ‘I thought you were flying to Sydney.’
‘Change of plans. Josh and Charlie have friends in Melbourne and we can stay with them … Plus, we were going to get to Melbourne eventually.’
‘Josh and Charlie – is that the whole bunch of people?’
‘Muuum … Don’t.’
Gillian becomes conscious of her breathing: soft puffs, inhaling regularly, just as when she was giving birth to her daughter. She has to take it easy. Tara is a big girl – silly as a turnip, but big enough. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m listening. Get in touch when you get there, OK?’
‘As long as you’re there to answer the phone,’ Tara sneers.
‘Watch it, young lady.’
‘Goodnight, Mum.’
She doesn’t remember the exact moment she fell asleep. Once she had heard Tara’s voice – bubbly and full of life – the stress level in her bloodstream had miraculously subsided and Gillian could at last put her weary head to a pillow and sleep. Her mobile – with a charger cable twisted around her neck – is still in her hand when she wakes up in the morning. This time it is the alarm cloc
k on her mobile that demands her attention. She grabs the phone and lifts it to her face, tightening the cable around her throat. It chokes her. She coughs and wheezes, unplugs the charger, loosens the cable and turns off the alarm just as it reaches the crescendo of ‘Amazing Grace’.
Detective Nasheed is on standby, ready to escort her to the airport and on her merry way back to the UK. Sitting over a small thimble-cup of espresso, he watches her patiently as she goes for the second round of buffet breakfast. Gillian may be a tiny pixie of a woman, but she can eat for England. It’s the nervous energy that metabolises everything she puts in her mouth with the speed of a turbo food blender. She is now on eggs, two golden rashers of bacon and sautéed mushrooms. Her brain is ticking, doing some morning inventorising of facts. She is hardly aware of her Maldivian counterpart’s presence at the table.
‘The plane leaves in an hour and a half. Theoretically, you should be checked in by now. Don’t rush,’ Nasheed raises a calming hand in the air, ‘I’ll get you on that plane – I’ve contacts.’
‘But I’m not going back,’ Gillian gives him an innocent, round-eyed look. ‘I haven’t got anything yet. I can’t go back empty-handed.’ She shoves two mushrooms and half a rasher in her mouth.
‘You won’t find anything! We looked!’ Nasheed is visibly agitated. He downs his espresso in one go, nearly swallows the cup.
While still chewing the mushrooms, Gillian realises she forgot sausages. She gets up. ‘Excuse me. The sausages look yummy.’
Nasheed follows her to the buffet. He is talking to the back of her neck. ‘She has drowned. You’ve nothing to find here. I told you: if the body turns up, you’ll be the first person I’ll call.’
‘That’s nice.’ Gillian is back at the table, tucking into the sausages. ‘Look, Ali, I need to satisfy myself. I’m going to Itsouru after breakfast. I was hoping you’d make the arrangements, get the clearances for me … I hope we’re still working together?’ It feels awkward calling him by his first name, but Gillian tends to fly into informalities when she is irritated. Somehow her respect for the rank disappears.
Hassan is not in the least pleased to see her arrive. He is large and meaty, dressed in an airy linen suit with an exotic palm trees pattern. He reminds Gillian of Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now. He shakes her hand which she offers to him in the hope of long and fruitful co-operation. It is a lame offering of truce, she concedes, and the man’s face says as much. He has already expressed his dismay in a lively telephone conversation with Detective Nasheed, of which Gillian has – probably luckily for her – understood nothing.
‘We spoke on the phone. I told you everything I could tell you about Ms Eagles’ stay with us. I do not know what else I can help you with, madam.’
‘DS Marsh. Please don’t call me madam.’
‘How long do you intend to stay with us, DS Marsh?’
‘I don’t know – a day or two.’
‘What can I do to help you close this … case?’ His discomfort is tangible. He has the reputation of his resort to protect, which is rather incompatible with the idea of one of his guests vanishing into thin air. Unless she is found fit and sound, that very reputation he is trying to protect will be in tatters. He glares at Gillian as if she were the author of his predicament. They are sitting in his nice and friendly office with its softly whispering air-conditioning and unintimidating wicker furniture. If it wasn’t for his guarded, almost hostile tone, it would seem more like taking afternoon tea than investigating a case.
‘I need to speak to your staff, guests –’
‘I would prefer if our guests’ privacy was respected, DS Marsh.’
‘I’ll try to be as discreet as I possibly can, but you must accept that this is a police inquiry and that I expect your full co-operation.’ Gillian is still a bit jet-lagged and she doesn’t quite appreciate Hassan’s tone. ‘If you continue obstructing my investigation, I may stay longer than I originally intended.’
‘There is no need for threats. I believe I have been very forthcoming with all the information you asked for.’
‘I asked you not to remove anything from Ms Eagles’ room.’
‘I didn’t – the police did.’
‘Fair enough. I still want to look at the room. Is it occupied at present?’
‘No. We moved our next guest to another chalet. Luckily we had an early departure. We are fully booked at this time of year.’
‘Good, then I’ll start with Ms Eagles’ room – chalet.’
‘If you intend to stay the night with us then that’s the only chalet we have available in any event.’
‘Excellent! Who could be better to obliterate what’s left of any evidence than me! Lead on!’
Hassan winces and rises from his chair. Gillian is not good at niceties. She is walking in step with Hassan, but without a word. He is maintaining a dignified silence, and did not offer to help her with her bag. Not that she would expect him to. She really doesn’t give a toss about his principled stand on his guests’ privacy, and all that tosh. When Gillian follows a scent, she is like a hound – all sensitivities fly out of the window. He hands the key over to her on the front step and – unable to restrain his inbred hotelier’s politeness – tells her that if she requires anything at all, he and his staff are at hand to render assistance at any time of day or night. He says that in one breath, with a smile and without the slightest hint of sarcasm. Gillian thanks him with much less panache.
If she was hoping for any shred of evidence left in the wake of the Maldivian police’s cleanout, she has now abandoned that hope. The room is in pristine condition: the bed has been made, furniture dusted and polished, crisp white towels are piled neatly in a roofless bathroom, taps gleam and the toilet paper ends with a triangular fold like a bow tie. There is no trace of Nicola Eagles. Not a footprint. It is as if she has never been here. It is as if she has never existed. If it hadn’t been for a stupid cat …
Gillian sinks into a wickedly comfortable settee: deep and soft. Nicola Eagles sat here a few days ago, she thinks. She was probably loving her holiday in the tropics. According to her brother she had never had one like that in her life. It was an adventure of a lifetime. And now she is wiped out, gone, missing, vanished – perhaps drowned, perhaps murdered, maybe kidnapped and still alive. Gillian was hoping that was the case, but five days has gone by since her disappearance and no ransom demand has been made. Every fibre in Gillian’s body tells her Nicola Eagles is dead. This whole case may be the reason why Gillian is obsessing about Tara. Every change of plans, every unexpected development unsettles her. Tara is right; Deon is right – Gillian has grown paranoid. She can’t take separation from her child. If it was North Wales or maybe even France … but Thailand is just that one nautical mile too far for comfort. Gillian will go bonkers by the time this gap-year experiment is over. Who could blame her? She has never been parted from Tara for more than a few nights here, a weekend there, sleeping over at her parents when Gillian was on a case. But that was work. This is torture. She wishes she knew how to cope with it.
The best person to ask is her own mother, Gillian realises. Once upon a time, it was she who had to cope with Gillian’s absence. At the tender age of almost twenty-one Gillian had decided that South Africa was the place for her. She upped and went just like those men you sometimes read about in the newspaper: Gone to the corner shop for a pack of cigarettes and never heard from again. There could be months before Gillian would call home or send a letter. She was so busy living her enthralling life that it never occurred to her that on the other side of the world her parents waited. They never complained. Never told her off. They just waited. How did they manage to hold it together? She was their only child and she was gallivanting around the globe without a care in the world, without a second thought. While they waited.
It may be because Gillian feels guilty, or maybe because she suddenly understands or maybe because she needs some reassurance that she dials her parents’ number.
�
�Mum? Gillian here.’
‘I had a feeling you were going to call us.’ Her mother’s voice is thin and gentle, a bit shaky, the elderly voice of a nice old lady. ‘How are you, darling?’
‘OK. Just been thinking about you.’
‘Oh, that’s nice. Dad and I rang you yesterday.’
‘I’m not at home. You can always call me on my mobile. You’ve got the number.’ She makes that suggestion for a hundredth time but she knows they’ll never do that. The concept of a mobile phone is for some reason incomprehensible to them. A phone has to be attached to a line, otherwise it isn’t a phone – it’s a trick and anyway, they can’t hear her very well.
‘Oh, that’s all right, darling, we’ll wait till you get back. We can wait, we aren’t going anywhere, are we, Ted?’ There is a faint murmur of consent Gillian imagines she can hear. She wonders if patience comes with age or whether it is something you’re born with. ‘How are you both doing?’ she asks.
‘Oh, we’ve got each other for company. And to nag … So where are you, if it’s not a top secret?’
‘It’s a missing person inquiry, in the Maldives.’
‘Oh, the Maldives, did you say? How is the weather there?’ That’s the beauty of it. Nothing shocks her. Gillian’s mother can make everything sound so perfectly ordinary. She puts things into perspective. Gillian should be spending more time with her.
‘It’s very hot, Mum,’ she can’t help a smile.
‘Oh, I’d imagine it is! That can’t be too far from where Tara is. She called this morning – said the same thing: hot, hot, hot! Well, that’s the tropics for you!’
‘She called you? Tara called you?’
‘Oh yes, she calls us every day. If she can. She said she’d keep in touch. Dear girl … I think she’s got herself a chap.’
‘A chap?’
‘What do you call them these days? A boyfriend?’
‘Is that what she said?’
‘No, silly, she didn’t have to say it in so many words. She just jabbered on and on about that Charlie chap –’
‘I see …’ Why does Gillian know nothing about that Charlie chap? Why does she have to find out from her mother? Isn’t she supposed to be the first port of call for her own child? Obviously not.