The All-Purpose Bodies: A Fast-Paced Thriller (Commander Shaw Book 11)

by Philip McCutchan

  “We just missed saving her, Flair,” I said. “Only just. And I’d guess someone knew we were on our way here. Someone who didn’t want Lily Earring to talk, someone who could have made local arrangements to see she didn’t.”

  “But who?” she asked in a dead, flat voice. She was very badly shaken. She wasn’t liking Australia, this trip. “No-one could have known we were coming here, could they?”

  “Only Tracy Learoyd,” I said.

  *

  I had a hunch and I acted on it right away, no time lost. It seemed fairly obvious to me that whoever had done that killing would be on his way out of Brisbane pronto, to get the maximum distance towards anonymity before the body was found. And he couldn’t have got much start on us. Meanwhile, we had arrived by taxi and I had told the driver to wait some way back up the road. I whistled him along and we got in and I told him to drive as fast as he could for the airport. That was my first choice because again I figured along the lines of the obvious — that air was the fastest way out of town. But it was also luck, of course. Anyway, in a queue of men and women going out to a plane waiting for take-off I saw a face I recognized at once. Very small features cramped up under a high-domed forehead, rather like a turnip with a face in the tail end. The man who had attacked me back in my hotel room in Darwin. He hadn’t seen me, and to make sure he never did I grabbed Flair and we about-turned smartly.

  “What’s up now?” she asked, looking bewildered.

  I told her. “It’s a funny sort of coincidence that he’s showed up here at this particular moment of history,” I said. “He may not have killed Lily Earring, but I’d take pretty fair odds he did. Anyway, he’s worth tailing.”

  “How d’you tail a man in an aeroplane,” she asked maddeningly, “when he happens to know you by sight?”

  “By finding out where he’s booked for, of course, then booking in the same direction though not the same flight,” I explained with a sour inflexion. “At least it heads the tail in the right direction. There’s one thing about air travel, and that’s that you can’t get off before the bus stops — if you follow me.”

  “It looks as if I’m having to follow you all over Australia,” she said, but it didn’t quite work out that way because the flight that turnip-headed man was lining up for wasn’t going to any part of the mainland but to a place called Logatau. Logatau, the clerk at the desk told me, was the principal island of a small group around three hundred miles off the Barrier Reef.

  “Anything worth seeing there?” I asked.

  “Well, just the native way of life,” the clerk told me. “It’s primitive, if that’s what you want. Plenty of holidaymakers go there, but mostly not for long — the novelty wears off and they’ve had enough.”

  “When’s the next flight out?”

  “1500 hours tomorrow,” the clerk said. “There’s a daily flight, but we’re booked solid for the next two weeks. It’s the time of year, y’know. Sorry.”

  “So am I. I haven’t the time to wait that long.”

  “Sorry again,” the man said cheerily. “There’s an inter-island and mainland boat service, but that’s once weekly and you’ve missed this week’s.”

  “Thanks,” I said. We got another taxi into the town. I felt we’d reached a brick wall. Then I saw a poster advertising a place called Ratsey’s Boat Yard. It was down past the meat wharves. I said, “Motor-cruisers for hire. On-the-spot board and lodging. That’s us. In some ways it’s better. We’ll be less obtrusive than coming in by air and staying in a hotel.”

  *

  I rang through to Slattery who told me what I’d half begun to suspect anyway, which was that he’d never called me in Darwin at all and had never been anywhere near the Warrandarralong post office. I cursed myself for all kinds of a bloody fool. I should have known. But the voice had been a good copy and it had been coming from a long way off and the static hadn’t helped. Slattery said not to worry, no real harm had been done, but I thought of Brett Cleland with a bullet in his guts. Slattery didn’t know anything about a man called Brady, nor Bushy, but he would be checking. I fixed for him to have a credit telegraphed for me at once to the Bank of New South Wales in Brisbane and then I went along to Ratsey’s Boat Yard and saw old man Ratsey himself. He had a motor-cruiser, all right. She was stout and seaworthy, with Vickers Supermarine engines propelling twin screws. She would be fast. She was comfortable too, with a well-fitted-out cabin with twin bunks either side of a solid table just aft of the control position. A tiny galley, beautifully equipped, led off the cabin and the access into the stern cockpit was by way of this galley.

  We cast off from Ratsey’s wharf at first light next morning. It was a wonderfully clear day, fresh and bright and at that early hour not too hot, and Flair looked to me more attractive than ever. This morning she had put on a tight white shirt which just failed to meet the bottom half of a scarlet bikini and the combined effect of that and her nut-brown, matt skin was pretty hard to take when trying to concentrate on handling a power-boat that was, at this stage, an unknown quantity to me. As we came out into the Brisbane River, downstream from the meat ships where soon there would be all the activity of loading going on, I said, “A thought occurs to me.”

  “Well?” She moved a little beside me, a bare arm brushing against mine.

  “After this, you’re going to be on a pretty shaky wicket divorce-wise, aren’t you?”

  She laughed. “I’ll chance it! I’ll have to anyway, won’t I?”

  “You didn’t have to come,” I pointed out.

  “You’d have been lost without me. You know you would.” There was mischief in her eyes. I rather liked her this way.

  “I didn’t say so,” I said, grinning down at her.

  “No-o …” She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun sparkling off the harbour water. “You didn’t need to, though. You’ve got a horribly lecherous look from time to time, or have you been told that before?”

  “If I have been,” I said, “I’ve forgotten. But is that all?”

  “All what?”

  “All the reason you came?”

  She said, “Well, not quite. I wanted to come.”

  “That,” I said, “is what I hoped to hear,” and rather dangerously, for I was taking the boat — she was called Gay Venturer which in all the circumstances was a trifle inappropriate — around the stern of a 20,000-tonner riding high and light, I put my arm round her and gave her a squeeze. Last night had been very, very nice. Everything had been right, including the setting, which is always important. The tropic air of the Brisbane River, the moon’s light stealing through the tiny ports, the very fact of being aboard a little ship bound away at the next dawn — it had all played its part.

  Soon, when we had rounded a bend in the river and were passing at ten knots between thickly wooded banks towards the open sea, I started to think ahead again. I thought of Logatau. I’d got some gen from a travel agent in Brisbane, and some more from Ratsey. I’d gathered that the local white population was small enough for everyone to know everyone else but of course they were swamped by the tourist element. And we would have the anonymity of being part of the boat-owning, or boat-hiring, section of the visitors, the part that came and went more often and more spasmodically, and less obtrusively, than the hotel guests. Unless, that was, somebody was specifically on the watch; and I didn’t expect that. Turnip wouldn’t have any idea we were on his track, even though he would soon be reading about the discovery of Lily Earring’s body and the fact that a neighbour had spoken to a couple of poms.

  I reckon we had a chance, all right.

  It took us just under two hours to drop the twenty-five miles down the Brisbane River to Moreton Bay and from there I set a course a little east of north which I would hold until we were clear of the Barrier Reef, after which we would head straight across to Logatau. Which, peacefully and under clear blue skies, we did. We raised Logatau island just before lunch next day and a little over an hour later I nosed Gay Venturer in
to the little sheltered bay that formed the yacht harbour, signalled the harbour office for a berth, and was directed to the outermost of a line of pens. By this time Flair had managed to get herself a nasty burn from the galley stove while she’d been frying up a steak for our lunch, and I decided she ought to see a doctor if there was one around. As soon as I’d made fast we went along to the harbour office and checked in with the authorities — and, in passing, I noted the immigration officer’s sudden startled look when he saw the name Dunwoodie in Flair’s passport. I wondered why that should be; Dunwoodie was an important enough name, agreed, but no-one outside Canberra and a few men in London knew — or were supposed to know anyway — that Jake Dunwoodie was missing. However, there could have been nothing in it and the man didn’t make any enquiries on the point; and when the passport check and customs formalities, such as they were, had been gone through, I asked about a doctor and was told by the harbourmaster that an old-timer called Pomfret-Hopton practised on the island and would see the lady — if he was sober, that was. The harbourmaster, an Australian with a dead-beat look and a filthy white shirt and shorts, with a mat of black hair pressing through the open neck of the shirt, said, “’E’s not often that, I c’n tell yer.”

  “British?” I asked. “I mean, from England?”

  The man laughed. “With a name like that? Sure ’e’s a pom!” He said it wasn’t far to the surgery and he pointed out the way. We walked along a sandy path between coconut palms and lush trees with huge dark-green leaves and through heavily scented air and downward-pressing heat and humidity. We found a tumbledown wooden building with a veranda and a painted wooden sign reading SURGERY dangling from the handle of a door, and a goldfish bowl on the veranda floor with two dead goldfish floating on the surface. There was a sort of gong arrangement hanging outside the door by the sign, and I gave this a bang and after a while I heard sounds from inside and then the doctor opened the door and peered out. He was sober, I think, but he looked as if he’d only just come out of a bender and was thinking of going straight back in at any moment. He was a pathetic sight really. His eyes were a sick, bright red in the whites as though all the blood vessels had disintegrated and his skin was all yellow and shrivelled and dry and his clothes were filthy and so was his hair, which hadn’t had a decent cut in months, I’d have said. He peered at us from steel-rimmed spectacles whose broken frames were held together with string and he said hoarsely, “Come in, then, come in, please.” He gave a racking cough and turned away, shuffling back into the room. We followed. Inside was a leather-topped desk, two chairs, an examination couch with half the horsehair hanging out, and a glass-fronted cabinet filled with bottles and pillboxes and syringes. There was a half-empty glass of whisky on the desk and as he sat down Pomfret-Hopton tried to shuffle this out of sight. Then, with a grunt, he asked, “What seems to be the trouble?” and I handed Flair over to him and he dealt with the burn. His hands were not too clean even after he’d rinsed them in a basin of standing water, and I was a shade doubtful of the lint. The bandage wasn’t going to stay in place for long, either. The job done, the old chap seemed in no hurry to get rid of us; no doubt he was lonely. While he chatted to Flair I looked round the room without making it too obvious and to my surprise I saw, half hidden on the far side of a bookcase, a watercolour of one of Britain’s old battleships — one of the ‘R’ class I think it was, Revenge or Resolution, Royal Oak, Royal Sovereign: and below it a photograph of one of the old light cruisers. I asked curiously, “Were you ever in the RN, Doctor?” and waved a hand towards the photograph.

  Pomfret-Hopton looked up and coughed and said, “Why, yes indeed. Why d’you ask?”

  “I was, too.”

  “Really, really?” The inflamed eyes brightened with interest. “What ships?”

  I told him.

  “Ah, yes, well,” he said hoarsely, “I didn’t cross with you, my dear chap.” I wasn’t surprised at that, considering the difference in our ages. He ran through his ships. “I ended up as PMO of the old Princess Royal. Surgeon-commander …” He brought out a handkerchief and wiped at his eyes. “Well, well, it’s a small world, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” I said.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “On a motor-cruiser in the harbour,” I told him.

  “For long?”

  I shrugged. “It depends.”

  “You must come up and have a drink, both of you. Quite soon. I don’t see many people I can really get on with, you know, people who’re interested, who talk the old language. It gets damn lonely.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

  “We’d love to come,” Flair said.

  “You really would?” He blew his nose. I saw the dreadful shake in his hands. Having an inoculation from Pomfret-Hopton would be like consulting a porcupine by the time the needle finally made it. “I suppose you wouldn’t care to come up tonight?” he added hopefully.

  I said, “Well, I don’t really —”

  “We’d love to, and thank you very much,” Flair said, and gave me a look. I cursed under my breath, but the only man seemed tremendously pleased.

  He said, “Oh, good, good. Say six-thirty then, that’ll give us time to have a decent drink before dinner.” He blew his nose again. “It’s damned providential, really, you turning up like this. Someone who’s been in the Service.”

  “Really?” He’d sounded portentous, but I couldn’t see why.

  “Yes, indeed. You may be able to help. I don’t know, but you may. You see … there’s been some damned odd things happening here the last few months — even longer.”

  “On the island?” I caught Flair’s eye.

  “Well — not this one, as a matter of fact. Kimbau — that’s a rather isolated island, detached from our little group, you know.”

  “What sort of things?” I asked casually, and again caught Flair’s eye. She winked at me and I caught the inference: boozer’s gloom.

  Pomfret-Hopton said, “Well, you know, it’s hard to explain properly, but it seems there’s a new God — or something. A kind of God-man.” Suddenly there was a ding from the gong outside and he jumped a mile. “Great Scott,” he said, “must be another patient,” and he moved for the door to show us out. On the veranda we met his next patient. She was a good-looker, a very well-breasted native girl of around eighteen, but I didn’t like the way she looked at us. In my view it was definitely hostile. However, she went inside with Pomfret-Hopton, who closed the door on us. On an impulse I went over to the goldfish bowl and bent and smelt it. Gin.

  “I thought it was,” I said. “He’s poured in gin instead of water, Flair. That’s what killed the fish.” She giggled. I said, “It begins to look more like the start of DT’s rather than a simple case of boozer’s gloom. God-man! Poor old sod …”

  *

  That afternoon I wandered discreetly around on a preliminary hunt for turnip-head while Flair did a little housework around the boat. I came back latish and unsuccessful to hear Flair singing; it was very pleasant, very domestic. It was a pity we were here strictly on a job. I dived down to the cabin and washed and shaved and put on a clean shirt, and a lightweight tropical suit from my grip. When I was done Flair came in from the galley and tidied herself and pulled on a crushproof nylon dress and we were ready, though I was damned if I knew for what. I didn’t want to spend an evening talking about old navy days with Pomfret-Hopton, and sorry for him as I certainly was, I don’t think I’d ever have gone along that night if it hadn’t been for one thing: in an island like Logatau the doctor must of necessity know everyone who lived there and probably some of the floating population as well. He just might be useful as a kind of link. Besides, in spite of my scepticism, I felt a certain amount of interest in the ‘damned odd things’ he had spoken of.

  Pomfret-Hopton, curiously enough, didn’t seem all that pleased to see us when we turned up. I wondered what had caused the change. He had started on the scotch already and after he had poured dri
nks for us he went on lowering it steadily and quite soon he began to talk in a maudlin way about himself. It seemed that after leaving the navy he had assisted local doctors up and down the British Isles and then had gone back to sea, this time as surgeon aboard a passenger ship sailing under a flag of convenience. He’d lost this job on the Australian coast one voyage, he didn’t need to tell me why, and he’d settled out here on Logatau after a few sordid months bumming around Sydney. It was a living, he said gruffly, and it had its compensations. One of the compensations was currently cooking our dinner out in the back.

  I let him ramble on since it seemed to be doing him good and then very gently I prodded him in the direction of whatever it was he’d referred to as a God-man.

  He gave me a funny look and said, “God-man, yes. Yes. Well, I don’t know, really. It’s what the natives say, you know. The Polynesians … they’re still awfully primitive, which naturally means they’re chock full of superstitions. D’you know much about them, either of you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but rambled on, giving us a not very lucid discourse of the history and superstitions — especially the superstitions — of the Polynesian peoples.

  When I could get a word in I said, “I’d have thought you were a long way too westerly in these islands. Aren’t they Melanesian stock hereabouts?”