Swimming with Sharks

by Anna Legat

  ‘You did raise it with him, but that’s just speculation.’

  ‘But it got him on edge. What does that tell you?’

  ‘He didn’t appreciate us digging into his private affairs?’ Nasheed raises his brows pointedly.

  ‘And what on earth was he doing in Colombo! Why was he there? What was he up to? Why did he change his flight plans? Doesn’t that puzzle you at all?’

  ‘It was cheaper? He said that. It makes sense.’

  ‘Does it really? If his employer pays for his flights, which I imagine they do, why would he care to take a cheaper flight – re-schedule his itinerary out of the blue? Why?’

  Nasheed downs a cup of strong, syrupy coffee, and shrugs his shoulders. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have let him go.’

  ‘I had nothing on him to hold him. Subject closed.’ He gets up. ‘Now I have to find out whose body I have on my hands. I imagine you will be going back to the UK.’

  Gillian is not finished here. She still has a missing person to find, a person who went missing here, in this country. Increasingly though, she is beginning to think that further clues will have to be found back home. Malѐ authorities seem to share that sentiment. She keeps stumbling on not-too-subtle clues to that effect left, right and centre. A message was given to her by a tight-lipped constable when she entered the building this afternoon: her little desk in her little executive office is to be vacated. It has been re-assigned to Detective Nasheed. He has got an important job to do: a mission impossible to find out whose body he holds in the mortuary. Then a wild-goose chase for the killer. Stabbing in the dark! Gillian screams inwardly. This is not the way to go about it! Nasheed has got the wrong end of the stick! Gillian is convinced that all roads in this investigation lead back to Nicola Eagles’ disappearance. That is the starting point. Once she has found out where the woman is and why she disappeared, she will know whose body is sitting on ice in the mortuary, and she might even know who the killer is. Her sixth sense tells her Nicola Eagles has all along been the intended victim. Gillian is rarely wrong – and she never admits it even if she is. She will have to prove them all wrong!

  She sifts, once again, through the evidence. The Nicola Eagles evidence box is under her desk, with its contents strewn on the floor and the desk: the laptop open on Nicola’s Facebook page boasting a kaleidoscope of photographs with lush exotic landscapes, and one with the foreign – Russian? – man Nicola nicknamed Count Karenin; her clothes – baggy, unassuming, spinster’s garments with the allure of a retired church cleaner; books, mainly in Russian, including Anna Karenina from where, potentially, Count Karenin had sprung; passport showing no stamps other than the single one she received at the Malѐ Immigration desk; her crumpled itinerary with Lakso’s details on the back; mobile phone that never rings … Somewhere amongst this inconsequential clutter sits an answer. Something happened to her, and it wasn’t suicide. Earlier in the morning an old-fashioned fax has arrived, confirming that there was a DNA match with the traces of blood on the bed sheets found in Chalet 42. Nicola Eagles’ blood. If she died in that chalet, where is her body now? And consequently – whose body is lying in the mortuary?

  Webber’s phone call brings Gillian back down to Earth. ‘What have you got for me?’ she asks unceremoniously.

  ‘Oh! And hello to you too, ma’am. How was your holiday, Mark? Very good, thank you, ma’am. I enjoyed it, and so did my family … It saved my marriage. By the way, wife sends her regards. But let’s get down to business, shall we?’ Webber is a close friend. He knows Gillian’s brusqueness, especially when she is head-on on a case, oblivious to the world around her, downright rude and socially inept. Webber is used to it. He doesn’t mind, but that doesn’t stop him from pointing it out to her. That’s what friends are for, an idea Gillian finds difficult to embrace.

  ‘Yes, let’s get on with it. I’m busy. They’re trying to get rid of me here,’ she replies.

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’ Webber chuckles.

  ‘What have you got, then? I need something, Mark!’

  ‘Amy Gray-Ludlow is now officially a missing person.’

  Gillian is hanging on every word. She has been vindicated. She is on the right track. This is exactly what she wants to hear. Could Amy be the dead body in the mortuary? ‘You’ve no idea how vital this is!’

  ‘The fact that you now have two missing women?’

  ‘One missing, one found – dead. I bet you the dead one is Amy. But go on, tell me. Tell me everything!’

  ‘Scarface sent me camping on their doorstep until Sarah Ludlow-Gray arrived. It was just after midnight. By the way, it’s 2 a.m. now. Hope it’s a convenient time for you?’ he snorts, and continues as his complaint elicits no apology from Gillian. ‘To cut a long story short, we looked around the flat – no sign Amy had been there. Bed not slept in. No notes. No clothes or personal items removed. Sarah intimated they had broken up and Amy should’ve come back for her things, but she didn’t. That got the woman worried and she decided to report her missing. We also tried calling Amy on her mobile, but no answer. Gone without a trace!’

  ‘We may have her here,’ Gillian tells Webber matter-of-factly.

  ‘Oh? How?’

  ‘In the mortuary. I told you, didn’t I? Weren’t you listening?’

  ‘You think that’s Amy’s body you’ve got there? Scarface said it was Nicola Eagles’!’

  ‘Yes, that was the original idea, but her brother is adamant it isn’t her.’

  ‘But it can’t be Amy. Riley checked with Heathrow. Amy Gray-Ludlow did travel back to the UK. She arrived five days ago, on Saturday, 7th, except that she has never made it to the flat. She vanished on her way between the airport and the flat.’

  ‘Are we sure it was Amy who took that flight to the UK?’

  ‘Her passport was used, pretty sure.’

  ‘What if someone else used it? Another woman? Someone like … Nicola Eagles?’ Gillian pauses for effect, but Webber is too slow for her liking to pick up the cue. She has to guide him by the hand, ‘My theory is Nicola Eagles is hiding. She knows someone’s out to get her. She may have witnessed Amy’s death and she knows it was meant for her. I’m almost positive we have a case of mistaken identity here. It’s her brother –’

  ‘Whose brother?’

  ‘Nicola’s. He wanted her dead; things went wrong. All I need is proof. Listen, Mark, get Jon Riley to check CCTV cameras at Heathrow. Let’s see if the woman who arrived in London on Amy’s passport was really Amy.’

  Gillian is chuffed to bits. She can almost taste Robert Eagles’ blood. He is her prime suspect. He had a hand in his sister’s disappearance – that much she is sure of! Who else could be after her? She is a non-entity! By his own declaration, she has no enemies. No one but him could benefit from her death. And only a paid killer could have possibly got the wrong woman. That’s how, Mr Eagles, we got the wrong woman! Gillian knows she has the right man though. All she needs is a scrap of evidence, something to hang on to, something to stop Eagles from fleeing back to Australia. His flight is leaving tonight, in less than eight hours.

  Australia! That reminds her – she hasn’t spoken to Tara in nearly two days. How easily that girl slips under the radar! Gillian must catch her before she wanders off again into the sunset. Tara must have already slept off the jetlag and be loitering in the dodgy alleyways of Melbourne. How much Gillian wishes that whole globe-trotting adventure was over and she had Tara in one place under her watchful eye! It used to be such a luxury knowing Tara was somewhere between the school and home, fending for herself in the kitchen or at a friend’s house, and not counting the days since she spoke to her last!

  At least the child answers the phone on the first ring. ‘Mum! Well remembered!’ she shouts into the receiver, her voice untypically loud and excited, ‘I thought I’d better tell you before you find out for yourself through other channels!’

  Gillian’s blood runs cold. ‘Tell me what?’

  �
��I am in a relationship, with Charlie. Remember Charlie?’

  ‘You mean you’re having unprotected sex with a total stranger?!’

  ‘MUM!’ The jolly spark vanishes from Tara’s voice. She now sounds indignant, and soon, Gillian knows, the girl will turn petulant, like she usually does whenever Gillian hits the wrong note with her. ‘We are in love. The s-e-x thing is only secondary. But … it’s great!’

  Gillian groans.

  ‘And it is protected!’

  ‘You’re only eighteen!’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘It’s not about me!’

  ‘Exactly! It’s about me! I’m happy, Mum!’ Twinkle returns to Tara’s tone. ‘Be happy for me!’

  ‘But you hardly know him! What do you know about him? Do you even know his full name? I doubt it.’

  ‘I know Charlie as much as I need to know him. He’s perfect for me. We just … we just click.’

  ‘God, give me strength … He’s a total stranger, you silly girl!’

  Another hollow dip to Tara’s voice comes as a warning. ‘Don’t call me silly, Mother. Wasn’t Dad a total stranger when you two met for the first time? People are always strangers when they first meet, and fall in love.’

  Who can argue with that, Gillian ponders philosophically while her heart is bounding about her ribcage and her hands are sweating on the phone handset. ‘Come home first. Get to know him better –’

  ‘How much better than this can I get to know him? Don’t be daft, Mum! Anyway, Charlie is coming with me to South Africa. I want him to meet Dad, then obviously you’ll get your chance to meet him when we’re back home.’

  ‘Does your father know?’ It is a sinking feeling, one that frequently piques Gillian, when she finds out that everyone else knows everything about her daughter ahead of her.

  ‘Course he does. He’s expecting us.’

  ‘What can I say? You won’t listen to whatever I have to say …’ Gillian is slowly, but surely, descending into self-pity.

  ‘You can say hi to Charlie! He’s right here. Do you want to say hi?’

  ‘Well …’ It seems like a test – a test of Gillian’s tolerance. She doesn’t know what she is to say to pass the test. She takes the risk of saying, ‘All right then.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Marsh,’ says a youthful, almost boyish voice, hardly broken it seems to Gillian, fragile and quivering. The boy must be more petrified than she is.

  ‘Hello, Charles,’ she says in the lordly manner of someone who is in control. Instantly, her detective’s persona kicks in. ‘Do you have a surname?’

  ‘Yeah, I do: Outhwaite.’

  ‘And how old would you be, Mr Outhwaite?’

  Before he has a chance to respond the phone appears to be wrestled out of his hand. There is a commotion, an outburst of laughter. Tara comes on: ‘That’ll do, Mum!’

  ‘I don’t even know what he looks like,’ Gillian tries again.

  ‘You need a mugshot, do you? OK, I feel generous today. I will put the phone down and send you our selfie. Ta-ra for now!’ Click. Gone.

  The selfie arrives within seconds. Next to the beaming Tara a young person is attempting a smile – unsuccessfully. He has a long blond fringe and a rather tousled feel to his hair. His face is long, slim. That’s all. Gillian can’t surmise anything else about him because he is wearing sunglasses that obscure his eyes. From his general scruffiness Gillian concludes that he couldn’t look after himself, let along Tara. He can’t be older than her either. At least he is not a middle-aged, slimy ogre with designs on unsuspecting young girls. And at least they’re having protected sex. The thought of her daughter having sex physically chokes Gillian. She coughs and retches for a few minutes. It feels like it is her innocence that is being snapped in half.

  It may be a blessing that she is prevented from dwelling on the matter any further and getting herself into a state – the phone rings. It is Jon. Gillian does a quick time conversion in her head. She has become quite proficient at that. It is the small hour of 6 a.m. in Sexton’s Canning.

  ‘Jon! That was quick! Thanks!’ She is convinced he is calling with information about the identity of the person who travelled to Heathrow on Amy’s passport. The only logical possibility, a possibility that fits Gillian’s theory, is that it was Nicola. And it is a well-known fact that Gillian is rarely wrong: tenacity of a pitbull, intuition of a gypsy. She has to be right! ‘It was Nicola Eagles, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No, it was Robert Eagles. I was right!’ Jon sounds paralytic with triumph. Only this sort of personal triumph would get him out of bed this early. ‘Robert bloody Eagles!’

  Gillian is confused, ‘Robert Eagles travelled to the UK on Amy Gray-Ludlow’s passport? That’s taking it a bit too far, even for you, Jon.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s you’re on about. Leave Amy Gray-Ludlow’s passport out of it.’

  ‘But I asked Webber! Didn’t he ask you to go over the CCTV footage from Heathrow?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Mark.’

  ‘I’ve only just spoken to him.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t – if that’s OK with you! He’s probably in bed with his wife while I’m working my arse off here for you!’ Jon sounds slightly hurt. Gillian offers no consolation for his bleeding ego. Why is he so competitive against Webber? Didn’t she ask the two of them to work together? At least, Jon is working on something. He recovers and asks briskly, ‘Can I get to the point now? I really want to hit the sack! I’ve spent the whole night watching paint dry at Colombo Airport.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Gillian encourages him.

  ‘Right … They sent the CCTV video files last night. I’ve been at it all night, but I found him! There he was – Bobby Eagles!’

  Gillian is beginning to catch up. ‘Great! So what was he up to?’

  ‘Like I told you, Bobby is up to his eyeholes in shit! I’m emailing you the footage where he’s caught on camera handing a suitcase full of money to a dodgy looking character. Big, nasty bloke! They shake hands. Bobby walks away with a smile, the nasty bloke walks away with a suitcase. It’s all on camera. Gotcha!’

  Robert Eagles had been dragged from the airport kicking and screaming, less than an hour before his plane was due to leave. He is quiet now, looking a bit shifty, but even more tired than when he arrived in the morning. It will be easy to break him. A duty solicitor, a smooth but young and, Gillian hopes, inexperienced buffoon, is sitting next to his client, with a reassuring black suitcase resting on the table in front of him. They are both watching the CCTV footage from Colombo, featuring the mysterious exchange between Eagles and the nasty bloke.

  ‘Would you like to tell us, Mr Eagles, what exactly is going on there?’ Gillian asks.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Can I put it to you that you travelled through Colombo in order to meet that man? It doesn’t look like a chance encounter. Do you agree?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘What is in the suitcase, Mr Eagles?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Who is that man?’

  ‘No –’

  ‘No comment, I know. We will find out his identity, Mr Eagles and will ask him the same questions. You see, it seems to me that you’re paying that man for something. There is money – cash – in the suitcase. Am I right? Are you paying him to kill your sister?’

  Eagles’ eyes goggle out. He bangs his fist on the table. ‘This is preposterous! I wouldn’t hurt my sister. That,’ he points to the laptop screen frozen on the act of exchange captured by the airport camera, ‘that has nothing to do with my sister’s disappearance!’

  ‘Then you must tell us what that is to do with so that we can make up our own minds about it.’

  The solicitor intervenes, ‘The event at the airport is irrelevant to your investigation. You do not have evidence to the contrary.’

  Gillian’s eyes are fixed on Eagles. She hardly acknowledges the buffoon’s comment. ‘Mr Eagles, unless we know what’s in that suitcase and why you ha
nded it to that man, we won’t be able to eliminate you from our inquiries. At face value, it appears that you are paying someone for something that you wish to keep secret. Something illegal? That’s the most plausible explanation, don’t you think? You have gone out of your way to carry out this exchange in secret. If, indeed, it is irrelevant to our inquiries, then please tell us what it pertains to.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘My theory is this: you changed your flight arrangements upon learning about your sister staying in the Maldives. You travelled to Colombo and met a man to whom you made a cash payment in return for him abducting and possibly killing your sister. Thus the secrecy. The motive was to secure inheritance which you desperately need, considering your current financial circumstances –’

  ‘Where would I get the money from, then? If I’m broke, where would I get the money?’

  ‘There are ways of securing a short-term loan, especially when you have the expectation of an imminent windfall which your sister’s death would generate.’ Gillian is crossing her fingers. He is beginning to engage. He is beginning to fight back and that is only a step away from slipping on the first lie.

  ‘You’re wrong. It isn’t even my sister you’ve got there. For God’s sake, I wouldn’t kill my own sister!’ He clasps his hand on his mouth just as a sob escapes him. Belated contrition, Gillian thinks.

  ‘Yes, we’ve got a different female in the mortuary. Your assassin got the wrong person. Your sister may still be alive. You still have a chance to put it right.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything to hurt my sister!’

  ‘Then what is happening on that tape, Mr Eagles?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with her!’

  ‘That just won’t do. You need to give us a full explanation. As it stands, with you remaining silent, we have grounds to remand you in custody while we’re investigating further. You can help us, of course, and help yourself, but that is up to you.’