‘And?’
Gavin was grinning yet again. He seemed very pleased with himself. ‘And he said he’d do it.’
‘Really?’ The single word was a mere whisper now as Freya sank back against a cupboard, needing its support before her legs gave way.
She couldn’t quite believe Seb had agreed to this. ‘Isn’t he too busy being a world-famous artist?’ She couldn’t help asking this, even though it sounded snarky.
‘He’s making time,’ Gavin said. ‘Reckons he owes me a favour.’
This was noble, Freya supposed, but she still found it hard to comprehend. Even if Seb was a staggeringly good cook and longed for a chance to show off his talents, he must be aware of her close association with the bistro. Gavin would have told him the set-up, including the fact that she’d taken over while Pearl and Troy were on leave.
‘I’ll admit he quizzed me about you.’ Gavin looked as if he longed to ask Freya a question or three. Hell, he probably had a host of questions. For sure he was curious about her history with Seb Hudson.
She needed to clear her throat before she could speak. ‘W-what did you tell him?’
This time, Gavin simply shrugged. ‘I just said you were helping out, so Pearl could have a break.’
‘I – I see.’ She wondered what else Seb might know about her by now. About the divorce? The fire? Or perhaps he hadn’t cared enough to ask beyond the basics. And it was the basics she had to concentrate on, too. ‘Did he indicate how long he might be available?’
‘He reckoned he could give it a month.’
A month? A month should be enough time to find a decent replacement. But a month with a cold and uncommunicative Seb Hudson working here in this kitchen? Five days a week? It was bizarre. Another impossible nightmare.
So much for her relaxed, happy island break. She’d probably end up having a nervous breakdown.
‘Well, I’ll see about preparing an advertisement straight away,’ she said. ‘And hopefully we’ll find someone permanent well before the month’s up.’ With any luck a perfect candidate would turn up within a few days.
‘I suggested that Seb should drop by this afternoon,’ Gavin continued as if he hadn’t noticed Freya’s screaming tension. ‘He can get to know the set-up here and we can talk about menus and ordering. Then he can stay on tonight as my kitchen hand. Get to see everything in action. He’s a quick learner, and I’ll grab the chance to show him a few presentation tricks.’
‘But he’s coming this afternoon?’ Freya echoed faintly.
‘Sure. That’s okay with you, isn’t it?’
‘So soon?’
‘Better sooner than later, I reckon.’
Freya didn’t reckon so at all, but before she could speak up, a deep voice sounded behind her.
‘Knock knock.’
She spun around. And there was Seb. A mere metre away, leaning a bulky shoulder against the kitchen doorway.
Her heart jolted in her chest. Such a foolish reaction given his own disinterest, but he was way too close for comfort. And she was too suddenly conscious of the man he’d become. His shaggy hair was flecked with grey, his face leaner and, inevitably, lined. His piercing grey eyes, however, were the same. No hint of a smile, of course.
He was dressed again in faded jeans and a simple T-shirt, a navy shirt this time. To Freya’s dismay, she found herself imagining him in a chef’s apron, tying the strings around his jeans-clad hips. Good grief.
Angry with herself, she quickly deleted that image. More than anything, she wanted to maintain a haughty and dignified demeanour, but when she tried to speak, her throat was bone dry. Nothing emerged.
Luckily, Gavin filled in the awkwardness. ‘Hey, Seb, great timing, mate. I’ve just told Freya you can help us out.’
Freya merely nodded and Gavin continued. ‘I’d do the introductions, but it seems you guys already know each other?’
At last Freya managed to speak. ‘From long ago,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ agreed Seb. ‘Ancient history.’
That’s right, she thought. Ancient history indeed. Anything they’d ever felt for each other had been dead and buried for decades.
‘How are you?’ Seb was looking directly at her now, but still with a kind of sleepy indifference.
‘I’m very well, thank you.’ She knew she sounded stiff and painfully formal, but for now it was her only survival tactic. ‘And you, Seb?’
‘Fighting fit, thanks.’
‘Gavin tells me you’re a star in the kitchen these days.’
Seb remained deadpan. ‘Hardly a celebrity chef, but I manage.’
‘It’s very good of you to offer to help us out.’
‘I’m doing it for my mate here.’ This time Seb acknowledged Gavin with a smiling nod.
‘Yes, we appreciate that,’ Freya said tightly. ‘But I know this wasn’t planned and we don’t want to inconvenience you. We’ll try to find another chef as quickly as we can.’
‘Sure.’
This conversation wasn’t going anywhere and Freya wanted, more than anything, to flee. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s good to see you, but I’ll leave you and Gavin to have a good chat. Take a look at the pantry and the equipment. I’m sure I’m not needed at this stage.’
She was quite pleased with this exit strategy and was about to head for the door, when Gavin intervened.
‘Hang on, Freya. I reckon you should be in on the discussion. You’re the manager, after all.’
True, but she wasn’t sure she had the stamina for a prolonged cold war. Reluctantly, she nodded, however. It would be stupid to make some kind of scene. ‘Okay. You guys talk. I’ll take notes.’
Somehow she got through the next hour or so. Seb really did seem to know quite a lot about the cheffing scene, certainly a great deal more than simply flipping sausages for the lifesavers.
She found herself involved as they discussed menus and food orders. Technically, Seb was a cook rather than a chef, as he didn’t have official qualifications, but he had a few new suggestions for sourcing local North Queensland produce, which Freya realised she should have looked into before this.
Gavin showed him the temperamental gas stovetop that needed special treatment to light. He checked that Seb would be able to supply his own knives. Apparently chefs’ knives were a very personal commodity and Gavin would be taking his with him.
They discussed the need to be flexible with what was in season, but also with the working hours. Inevitably there would be a table that came in late, or a sociable group that wanted to stay on. They agreed it was okay for Seb to put his own spin on dishes. Gavin had changed the menu quite often, so regulars wouldn’t be hanging out for old favourites.
‘I’ve eaten enough of your food to trust you,’ Gavin told him. ‘And let’s face it, mate. Some of the best cooks are home cooks. The challenge will be putting up with the pace and the repetitious monotony day after day.’
Seb acknowledged this with a nod. ‘I reckon I should be able to hold out for a few weeks at least. My main problem will be the desserts. I don’t suppose we’d get away with fruit salad and ice cream?’
‘Oh,’ Freya jumped in. ‘I love making desserts.’
It was only when both men smiled at her that she realised she’d let her guard down and had just made a really stupid mistake.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Billie was cleaning salt spray from Island Thyme’s windows, using her mother’s old-fashioned method of a wad of newspaper and a homemade mix of methylated spirits, vinegar and water. Her fingers were black from the newsprint, but the windows were sparkling, and she was enjoying a sense of quiet satisfaction when she saw a stranger arrive on the deck via the stairs from the beach.
She supposed he was hoping the place was open, that he could grab a coffee or a snack. He didn’t look like a tourist, though. He was dressed in long trousers and leather shoes, with a blue and white striped business shirt, worn North Queensland style, open at the collar and with the sleeves rolled
to just below his elbows.
‘Good morning,’ he called to her.
‘Hi.’ Billie gave a nod to the empty dining room behind her. ‘As you can see, we’re not open, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’m not looking for a meal.’
‘Oh?’
‘I was hoping to speak to Ms Belinda Mathieson.’
‘Oh,’ Billie said again. ‘That’s me.’
The newcomer smiled. He was youngish, early thirties at a guess. ‘Pleased to meet you, Ms Mathieson. I’m Detective Senior Sergeant Dexter from the Townsville CIB.’ And just like detectives on TV, he took an official ID card from his shirt pocket and flashed it at Billie.
Of course, she was instantly nervous. ‘This isn’t about my parents, is it?’ Already her imagination was racing ahead, conjuring an accident. Robbery? Murder?
‘Your parents?’ The detective looked surprised. ‘No. I’m assisting the Cairns coroner with a pending inquest.’
A what? Now Billie was completely confused.
This time he dug into his pocket again and produced a photograph. ‘I understand you might know this man?’
Billie recognised the face instantly and went cold all over. Shaved head, dusty-blond moustache, pale, piggy eyes. It was the creepy bastard Reg Howe. When she’d arrived back in Queensland from Greece, short of cash and not really in a hurry to reach home, she’d crewed up the coast on his yacht, until she’d managed to escape his grubby clutches when they moored in Shute Harbour.
The detective was watching her closely now. Had her instant gut reaction given too much away? She was more cautious as she nodded. ‘Yes, I know him.’
‘Can you confirm this is Reginald James Howe, skipper of the sloop Encounter that recently travelled north from Mooloolaba?’
Billie nodded again. Had the detective found her name listed as crew in the logbook? ‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘But what’s this about? Is he in trouble?’
‘I’m afraid he’s dead,’ came the unexpected response.
Shock slammed through Billie. Reg Howe was a sleazy prick, but it was unsettling to know he’d died.
‘That’s why I’m here,’ Detective Dexter said. ‘I’m collecting information for the coroner. Is it convenient to talk?’
Billie lowered her gaze to her blackened hands. She was still holding the bottle of window cleaner and a sodden lump of newspaper. ‘I – I guess.’ The sun was rather bright on the deck at this time of day. She nodded to the empty dining room. ‘We could sit in there. It’s shadier.’
She wondered if she could escape to wash her hands, or perhaps she should just wipe them on the back of her jeans. Then she remembered the damp cloth she’d used to wipe tables down and quickly grabbed it and scrubbed at her fingers.
The detective made no comment and waited politely. He was nice-looking in an ordinary, everyday sort of way. No jaded weariness, rumpled clothes or stubbled jaw like the TV detectives, this chap was clean shaven, with short, neat brown hair and a familiar, Guy Next Door vibe.
With her hands a bit cleaner, they both sat at the nearest table.
‘You looked upset when I showed you the photo,’ he said. ‘It’s my job to find out as much as I can about the deceased – including what sort of person he was.’
Billie winced inwardly. She would have preferred to avoid any discussion of Reg Howe.
The detective offered a sympathetic smile. ‘You can relax, Belinda, you’re not a suspect. There’s no reason to be afraid, but it would be helpful if you could answer a few questions.’
Setting her shoulders back, Billie braced herself for the unpleasant task. ‘Okay.’
Rather than firing a question, however, the detective looked about him, gazing out through her now pristine windows to the perfect sweep of bay, the pale crescent of sand with rocky headlands at either end, the spotless blue sky above. Holiday-makers were swimming in the gentle surf or lazing on beach towels. A boy threw a small ball and his golden labrador gleefully bounded into the shallows to retrieve it.
‘This is an amazing location,’ he said. ‘I hear the food’s great, too. Have you worked here long?’
‘On and off since it opened. It’s my parents’ business,’ she said.
‘Lucky you.’
Billie sensed he was trying to help her to relax, but she was still on guard. How could she be anything else? She’d tried to clear the nightmare voyage with Reg Howe out of her head, but now she was forced to remember every sickening detail.
When she’d met Reg in Mooloolaba, he’d seemed fine, of course. Easygoing and friendly, even polite, going to the trouble of stocking up on the brands of muesli and coffee that she preferred. Everything had been fine until they were just south of Rockhampton.
She was cooking on the yacht’s little gas stove when he came up behind her, slipped his arms around her and groped at her breasts. Luckily, she’d got rid of him with a fierce roar and an elbow in the ribs, and he’d laughed it off, claiming it was a joke.
Yeah, right. Sick kind of joke.
After that, Billie hadn’t liked the way he’d looked at her. Such a slimey smile he had, and she’d started wearing long-sleeved tops and jeans instead of her usual tank tops and shorts. Then a couple of nights later, she’d woken in her bunk to find him on top of her, naked and reeking of beer. He’d been all over her, with one beefy hand under her T-shirt and another down her pants.
Billie had yelled and tried to push him off, but that only seemed to get him more excited. He wasn’t a big man, but he felt as heavy as a mountain on top of her. She could scarcely breathe and he was panting and grinding away while she was screaming and struggling. In desperation, she’d poked him in the eye. Hard.
Reg had howled with pain, but it had worked. She’d been able to wriggle free and she’d locked herself in the toilet for the rest of the night.
After that, Reg probably would have skipped docking in Shute Harbour if he hadn’t run out of beer, but it was then that Billie had seized her chance. As soon as the yacht was moored, she’d grabbed her small backpack with her money, phone and passport, a handful of clothes, and jumped onto the wharf and run.
Reg had probably feared she would talk. Seemed he’d only stayed long enough to get his beer and head off again.
She might have reported him. Thinking about it now, Billie knew she probably should have. It was sickening to realise that she’d already been pregnant at the time. But when she’d shared her sob story with a few of the girls over cocktails at the Airlie Beach backpackers’ bar, they’d told her it wasn’t worth the bother. No one would listen.
‘They’ll just say you were asking for it,’ Jess from Edinburgh had told her. ‘Hopping on a wee boat like that, just you and some geezer.’
Later that night Billie heard other similar tales of sex crimes against female backpackers and she had understood how damn naïve she’d been. She supposed this detective would think so, too. Perhaps she’d been so upset by the breakup with Petros she hadn’t been thinking straight.
Now, instinctively, she touched her stomach. Just two nights ago, she’d felt the first tiny flutters. It had been the most amazing, unbelievably exciting moment and since then she’d regarded her body and its awesome responsibility with a whole new level of respect.
Surely this was the very worst time to find herself confronted by a plain-clothes copper and an inquest into the death of a horrible man.
Detective Dexter was still watching her. ‘It appears,’ he said, ‘that Mr Howe didn’t die from natural causes.’
Crumbs. He was murdered? Now Billie was more uncomfortable than ever.
The detective continued. ‘His body was found floating not far from his moored yacht in Quarantine Bay just south of Cooktown. In cases like that it’s classed as a “reportable death” and must be referred to the coroner.’
‘I – I see.’
‘So far, we have his identity, as well as where and when he died, and the coroner in Cairns will hold an inquest to
determine the cause of death.’
Billie gulped. ‘Right.’
‘Our enquiries show that you spent time as a deckhand on Encounter. What can you tell me about that, Belinda?’
‘It was awful,’ she said. ‘Probably the worst experience of my life.’
She sensed the detective’s sudden relief. Leaning forward, elbows on the table now, he narrowed his gaze. ‘I can’t stress how important it is that you tell your story in as much detail as possible.’
‘But he was well and truly alive when I left the boat.’
‘Yes, I know your contact with him was well south of Cooktown, but the coroner will want to know how this man interacted with young women who crewed on his yacht.’
The detective pushed a small phone-like recording device forward on the table. Irrelevantly, Billie noticed that he had nice hands, squarish and strong and brown.
‘In your own words,’ he said. ‘And your own time. What was your experience on board Encounter?’
She drew in a deep breath. ‘Okay.’ She couldn’t get out of this and she wanted it over as quickly as possible. ‘I crewed on Reg Howe’s yacht from Mooloolaba to Shute Harbour and he sexually assaulted me.’
The detective was listening intently now.
‘He didn’t rape me,’ Billie went on. ‘But he tried to. He was naked in my bunk, on top of me and groping me, but I managed to poke him in the eye. Then I locked myself in the toilet for the rest of the night. As soon as we docked in Shute Harbour, I jumped ship.’
Detective Dexter looked solemn. ‘Thank you, that’s very helpful.’
She took another deep breath to calm herself.
‘Is there anything you’d like to add?’
‘No. Well, there had been another time earlier, when he had a grope. He really was a sleaze.’
‘When you joined him in Mooloolaba, did you know you’d be the only crew?’
Billie swallowed, feeling guilty. ‘Reg said there’d be two more joining us at Rockhampton, but then he never stopped at Rocky. He made up some stupid excuse about keeping ahead of the bad weather.’
‘Was the weather threatening?’
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