by Mike Safe
Thirty minutes later, Harcourt, Poppy and Vinnie had stood next to the Twin Otter on the pontoon. Then Dutton and Inspector Petero led the way as the two soldiers and two Johns carried the body, now in a proper retrieval bag, down to the pontoon and loaded it through the twin doors of the plane’s cargo hold. They could have driven it down on one of the old Mokes but this silent procession along the beach seemed more appropriate, a final farewell from the place that had given Vargas a sense of peace and belonging, even if its untameable dangers had taken his life. The plane’s twin engines fired up and Lailai Atoll was left behind.
Little was said on the flight back to Nadi. They were met by two large black SUVs, one to transport the body to the Nadi public hospital where it would be examined by Vinnie’s pathologist and a Fijian counterpart, the second to convey Harcourt, Dutton and Poppy to a police station where they would give their statements. The three of them were updated by Vinnie’s SC. ‘I’ll accompany you to the police station in case there are any problems there. Brad will be with us. It would be helpful in speeding matters along if we could get in touch with Mr Vargas’s immediate family and have their compliance in taking the body back to Australia. He has both Australian and United States citizenship and several former wives in America, but his immediate relationship status, if any, remains unresolved …’
‘No it doesn’t,’ said Poppy. ‘I’m his wife.’
Harcourt looked surprised – when did this happen? – but Dutton seemed impassive as the rest of them fixated on Poppy as a sort of ‘please explain’ silence descended. She swept the golden hair back from her face, the red flower still in place, and Harcourt glimpsed the shine of a ring on the third finger of her left hand, something he hadn’t noticed before. There was also a gold ring on the thumb of that hand, no doubt the one she’d taken from Vargas’s finger when they were about to shock him with the defibrillator paddles on the beach the previous day.
‘We were married in a civil ceremony in the garden at Mike’s house at Noosa a week before we came to Fiji,’ she said. ‘Dexter was the best man and my sister acted as bridesmaid and they were witnesses as well. Only a couple of others, my mother and my closest friend from there, were present. The ceremony was performed by a local marriage celebrant. It was something we just needed to do – we wanted the time on Lailai, our first time there together, to be special. The place meant so much to him and he wanted it to mean the same to me, for us to be able to share it as husband and wife.’ She looked ruefully at Vinnie and Harcourt. ‘Anyway, you know there was going to be the big public wedding at Mike’s place in Malibu in a couple of weeks …’
She closed her eyes as her head dropped and silence all but descended, just the cry of a wayward seabird and the distant drone of an aircraft labouring off from the airport runway as the undertaker’s man and Brad, assisted by the two drivers of the SUVs, carried the body bag from the float plane’s pontoon and loaded it into the back of one of the SUVs. The SC told them he would contact his office in Sydney and get the necessary details of the marriage and its certification emailed to him within the hour.
They drove to the police station, the other SUV with Vinnie on board proceeding to the hospital for the examination of Vargas’s body. The SC instructed the trio to keep their answers to Inspector Petero as simple as possible. ‘There are no legal complications for any of you in what happened. It’s clearly a case of death by misadventure, meaning it’s due to a risk being taken that was voluntary and is legally defined internationally as a manner of death that’s not caused by any violation of law or criminal negligence. The police here understand that – it’s something they deal with from time to time with divers and, yes, surfers and other visitors. We’ll get through it, okay?’
This was met with a muted response, Harcourt knowing that Dutton, as Vargas’s long-time friend and minder, couldn’t help but feel some sort of responsibility. But the big man simply sat there in the back seat of the SUV, saying nothing, eyes straight ahead.
The police station turned out to be only a few minutes’ drive from the seaplane site. It was a big and airy building on an otherwise nondescript street. They were ushered inside by Inspector Petero and his sergeant, who would take their statements. Dutton was to be first, followed by Poppy and then Harcourt, with the SC sitting in with the three who were now his clients. Poppy and Harcourt hung around the waiting room for a few minutes but surrounded by the day-to-day workings of the police station they decided to wait outside where it was quieter and they could talk freely. It was hot with barely a hint of a breeze and Brad said he would find them something cool to drink and disappeared back inside the building.
Harcourt looked at Poppy and could sense she was becoming frazzled by the whole deal.
She met his gaze. ‘Don’t worry, I’m handling it. The meltdown will come soon enough, but it won’t come here, not in front of this ever-changing cast of characters.’
‘Fair enough.’
She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘You know, I’m just kind of numb at the moment. It’s about the only way I can be until I have some space, some time.’ She smiled wanly. ‘Had you going with the wedding in the garden revelation, didn’t I?’
Harcourt smiled back.
‘It was Mike’s idea. I mean, I wanted it for sure,’ she said, ‘but you know what he’s like – what he was like, I guess. We already had the Malibu big deal locked in. But then he said “what the heck, let’s do this anyway.” So we did. Dexter pretty well pulled it all together, He’s quite an operator.’
Caught in the moment, they were surprised by a ratty-looking individual who came walking alongside the building. He carried a digital movie camera with microphone attached.
‘Hey, Johno Harcourt,’ the man said on spotting them, ‘remember me? Hellman Heller, from the old days back at the paper.’
Oh, no, thought Harcourt. This can only be bad. Hellman Heller – real name George Heller – had been a subeditor on the Sydney newspaper way back when. He’d hung out with the likes of Mudguts Millbank. Heller could not help but tick every wrong box in the book, hence the nickname ‘Hellman’. A philanderer, sexist, drunkard, druggie, all-round malcontent and finally the one that mattered most – talentless. After being fired, he’d drifted around on suburban papers for a while and then went north to Queensland where he worked in country newsrooms and now here he was, wearing a loud shirt and gripping an expensive news quality digital movie camera.
‘So what’re you doing here, Johno?’ asked Hellman.
‘Oh, just here for a brief holiday,’ said Harcourt. ‘This is my friend, um, Mary, and her boyfriend’s just inside clearing up a minor matter with his passport. Shouldn’t be long.’ He chanced a look at Poppy.
‘Oh, okay,’ said Hellman. ‘There’s a rumour going around Suva that there’s been a drama on one of the outer islands. Some big shot died in some sort of accident and they were supposed to be flying the body back. The cops are saying next to nothing.’
‘Wow,’ said Harcourt. ‘Who’s it supposed to be?’
‘Dunno as yet. But a few filthy rich types own islands north and south of here. Could be one of them. That actor? The Aussie bloke who went to the States years ago, made a mint, bedded all those hot women?’
‘Russell Crowe?’ said Poppy.
‘Nah. Anyway, he’s a Kiwi, isn’t he?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Mike Vargas.’
‘So why come here, to the cop shop?’ asked Harcourt, eager to move the conversation on from any thought of Vargas.
‘I know one of the inspectors who’s out here,’ he said. ‘Thought he might have heard something. Tried to ring him but they said he was caught up and wouldn’t be available for a while. So I thought I’d come down, check it out for what it’s worth.’
‘Oh, okay,’ said Harcourt. This wasn’t getting any better.
‘I’ve only been in Fiji a coupla months,’ said Hellman. ‘I don’t have too many contacts as yet. Still sizing up who’s who and what’s what.
They’re a hard bunch to crack – the native Fijians hate the Indians and vice versa and all of them don’t have much time for us white guys, well, at least a blow-in like me. My guy the inspector seems all right though. Met him at a rugby carnival where I was shooting some footage for local TV. He was mixed up with the winning team and I got on the kava with him later on. Now that’s a bonding experience if ever there was one.’
Brad came out the door carrying two bottles of fizzy-looking orange drink. He handed one to Poppy and the other to Harcourt, all the while sizing up Hellman and the camera in his hand.
‘Oh, is this your friend?’ asked Hellman.
‘Yeah, well sorta,’ said Harcourt.
‘And who are you?’ asked Brad, looming over Hellman in an up close, if not quite threatening way.
‘I used to work with Johno in the good old days,’ said Hellman.
Then Dutton walked out the door, engrossed in conversation with Inspector Petero. They stopped abruptly at the sight of the sweaty and dishevelled Hellman. There was an odd silence and exchange of looks.
‘Hey, Inspector Petero, it’s me – George, the TV cameraman, from the rugby carnival last month,’ said Hellman. Apparently, his nickname hadn’t made the journey with him from Australia. ‘Remember? We had a few drinks afterwards.’
The inspector looked confused, but then it was as if a switch turned on in his brain. ‘Oh, yes, I remember you now,’ he said without enthusiasm.
‘Look, can I talk to you for a minute,’ said Hellman, getting in while the getting seemed good. ‘I wonder if you can tell me anything …’
Inspector Petero cut him off. ‘I’m sorry. There’s some business I have to finalise with these good people and I need them all back inside to sort out some paperwork. It’s a priority.’ He started to herd the four of them – Dutton, Brad, Harcourt and Poppy – towards the door.
‘Hey, it will only take a minute …’
The inspector turned on his heel and loomed over Hellman. ‘I can’t help you at this stage. If you have some sort of media inquiry you must go through the proper channels. I suggest you contact police headquarters in Suva. Now please step back, thank you.’
Once they were inside a small room with the door closed he offered a grim smile. ‘I do remember him. He is a drunk and not a very nice one at that. He made a nuisance of himself that day and then well into the night. We couldn’t get rid of him.’ He sighed and looked around the small space. ‘I’m sorry. But I think it best that you all stay in here for the moment.’
There was a knock on the door. The inspector opened it and their SC came in. ‘Word’s just come through that approval’s been given for us to take Mr Vargas’s body back to Australia. The High Commission’s staffer has just been informed that we’re good to go when the medical examination and police statements are finalised. The medical side is all but done.’
The SC looked expectantly at the inspector. ‘I believe a similar message is being sent through from Suva to here as well. Can we get Miss Parmadour’s statement now please, inspector? And then Mr Harcourt’s? We truly appreciate your cooperation in this.’
‘Of course. I know this is difficult for you, Miss, but it shouldn’t take too long.’
Inspector Petero is a bit of an old charmer, but a pretty good bloke, thought Harcourt as the big policeman left the room with Poppy and the SC, who was also earning his five-figure-a-day retainer. Dutton, Brad and Harcourt sat there for the next thirty minutes with nothing much to look at but the walls and each other.
Poppy came back, her eyes red rimmed from crying. She smiled bleakly, ‘Well, that was hell minus the fire and brimstone.’
Harcourt was called in and was done within fifteen minutes. Asked about what had happened out in the water and why Vargas had willingly taken greater risks than he and Poppy, Harcourt could offer little insight. ‘I can’t really answer that. When it gets big and then bigger, some people can go for it, others can’t. The ocean can kill you. Most surfers work that into their thinking after they’ve been at it for a while. But a few take their thinking somewhere else.’ He paused, thought for a moment and said, ‘We were talking about just that last night and Poppy said – and her words have stayed with me – “for whatever reason, he had to take that last long drop out there today on that wave that wasn’t meant to be ridden.”’
Later, at the airport, they were ushered through formalities, put on a minibus and driven out to where a plain white Gulfstream G3 stood ready for take-off. As they drove across the tarmac, Harcourt glanced out the window of the airport minibus. There at the chain-wire fence that separated the restricted airport grounds from a public roadway was Hellman and a couple of others, cameras at the ready, scrambling for positions.
‘Over by the fence,’ Harcourt said wearily. The others barely bothered to look.
Vargas’s body, now in a plain wooden coffin, was already stowed in the aircraft’s cargo compartment, as was their luggage. All was ready to go.
Five minutes later the jet lifted off from the Nadi runaway with a burst of smooth power, angled out over the deep blue ocean and headed towards the media maelstrom that surely awaited them.
The death of Mike Vargas became the celebrity sensation of the year. It was like the whole world wanted to know the where, why, what, how and who of it. And the biggest question of all … ‘Who the hell is this surfing babe Poppy Parmadour?’
Poppy and Dutton retreated to the Vargas property at Noosa, where they were joined by her mother and best friend who took to running the daily gauntlet of the media pack permanently parked outside the locked front gate. Any coming or going by these trusted supporters, be it to a supermarket to haul back fresh food and groceries or to run other errands, was met with a mad cluster of cameras and shouting reporters. ‘What’s Poppy doing today?’ … ‘How’s she coping?’ … ‘When did she and Mike become an item?’ … ‘Is it true they were going to get married?’… ‘Is it true they are married?’… ‘When’s she coming out?’ … ‘Just one photo!’
All sorts of stuff was being written and broadcast about her – what a hot shot surfer and man magnet she’d been and still was even though she was almost forty! The wildly speculative commentary was supplemented by photographs and footage from back then and more recently. It appeared Poppy had never taken a bad photograph – but there seemed to be none anywhere that showed her and Vargas together. A couple of more intrepid reporters managed to track down her ex-husband turned surf bum who was living on the dole in a desert encampment at a remote surfing hot spot on the west coast of South Australia. He even cried on camera for one thrilled interviewer whose network had bought him off with a handy sum for ten minutes of teary television.
Vinnie Vincenso called in a team of Sydney spin doctors in an attempt to get a grip on the madness. Still, it all ended up on the front pages and led news services, gossip shows and websites around the globe.
Back in Sydney, Harcourt was contacted by numerous media outlets, international and local, from the prestigious to bottom feeders. Initially, he’d answered with a polite if perfunctory no, but as they continued to jam up his mobile and home phones he changed his voicemail greeting to a message that he had nothing to say on the matter. He even knocked back his new best friends at Rampart Media, telling boss Darrell Farnsworth it ‘wasn’t the right time’ – whatever that meant. Being an old media hard head, he was canny enough to realise there was probably a pay day, maybe a big one, for him somewhere in all this, but a start-up outfit like Rampart would be easily outbid by the big players. Harsh and cynical? Yes, but that was the avaricious media world. He wasn’t on any social media platforms so if anyone was getting stuck into him for whatever reason he didn’t know, or care.
But one phone call he couldn’t avoid came from Amanda Peers.
‘Is there any way we can resurrect this, John?’ she asked him. ‘Is there another angle we can take? A life and times book? Him and this surfie woman? I mean, for god’s sake, she’s young enough to be his d
aughter. You were there. You were a witness to it all.’
Well, I was there for a day and a half, thought Harcourt, and now this pushy person who didn’t want me anywhere near the project can’t get enough of me. ‘Hmm, I don’t know,’ he replied to her. ‘Let me have a think about it for the time being. I mean, there’s so much going on. And, after all, I haven’t even signed a contract with you.’
The call didn’t end well.
When he told Tess about the conversation with Amanda, she couldn’t help herself. ‘Oh, that’s good. I couldn’t have put it any better myself.’
After getting over the initial shock of what her husband had survived and one of the most famous men in the world hadn’t, Tess became more and more bemused by the media extravaganza. Harcourt had revealed, swearing her to secrecy, that Poppy and Vargas had been secretly married before travelling to Fiji and that Vinnie Vincenso, having been hastily installed as Poppy and Dutton’s business manager, had told him in a phone conversation that the woman who was now the most famous female surfer in the world, even though it was years since she had competed, stood to inherit millions in cash and property as Vargas had signed a new will the day of the secret wedding. Dutton was also in line for a fair share of the vast estate.
‘Wow, talk about poor little rich surfer girl,’ said Tess.
‘Well, according to Vinnie, who says he has the best team of probate lawyers he could find on the case, the will was drawn up, signed and registered to the letter of the law,’ said Harcourt. ‘And I know you haven’t met Vinnie, but that crafty geezer knows where all the bodies are buried – sorry, bad cliché there – as far as Vargas is concerned, although he’s a bit pissed off he wasn’t told of the Noosa wedding, just the Malibu money-making one. No doubt he’ll also cop a slice of the action from the will.’
Harcourt started having long telephone conversations with Poppy and sometimes Dutton. Maybe it was nothing more than because of what they’d been through together and the need to talk about it in what had become an all-consuming aftermath, for her at least. She cried occasionally, but mostly seemed in control as far as Harcourt could tell from the other end of a phone.