by Maggie Groff
I rang Daisy’s number.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, launching right into it, ‘you could have bought a house in Sydney for $80,000 in the 1980s, so it seems a lot of money for a yacht.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘Had you already thought of that?’
‘Uh-huh, I’ve been in touch with a dealer in Sydney. The chap I spoke to thinks his father sold the yacht to O’Leary. His father’s in Fiji and he gets back tomorrow. I’m hoping he’ll call me.’
‘How was the meeting with Nemony?’
Using the whiteboard as a guide, I brought her up to date.
‘What’s she like?’ Daisy asked when I’d finished.
‘Different from Hermione. And she’s beautiful.’
‘So I’d heard. How different?’
‘More modern. And she didn’t seem at all depressed. It doesn’t gel at all with what Hermione told me. Someone isn’t telling the truth.’
‘What’s next?’
‘Nemony is supposed to drop by with some documents. When she does, I’ll ask about the yacht purchase.’
‘If there’s anything I can do,’ Daisy offered, ‘I’d love to help. Life can get pretty dull among the vegetables.’
I grabbed the chance.
‘How do you fancy some undercover surveillance on my brother-in-law at Northgate Hospital?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said without hesitation.
‘It could be boring,’ I warned.
‘I don’t care. I’m up for it. Tell me what’s happening.’
Over the next ten minutes I outlined the situation. As Daisy had already guessed that Harper suspected her husband was having an affair, I didn’t think I was being too disloyal divulging the finer details, especially as it was for a good cause.
‘Basically, I’m spying on Andrew,’ Daisy clarified.
‘Yes, you could follow him and see if you can find out where this woman lives and try to get a photo of them together. Any information would be helpful.’
As Andrew was staying at the hospital for a few days, I told Daisy that at some point he would be leaving the main building and heading to the old nurses quarters, which was where hospital staff stayed when they were on call.
‘So,’ she said, ‘there are several options. He may stay at the hospital, he may go home, he may go shopping, he may leave the hospital with the woman and go to her home, or he may leave the hospital alone and drive to the woman’s home or meet her at a motel or hotel. Or he may be doing emergency surgery.’
‘That’s about the size if it,’ I confirmed.
I told her the make, colour and rego of Andrew’s car and that I knew he parked it in the permit holders’ spaces in the parking area at the rear of the hospital. ‘There’s a demountable in the car park that the community health team use,’ I explained. ‘You won’t look suspicious sitting in a car or wandering around. It’ll just look like you’re waiting for someone. Are you sure you’re okay to do this?’
‘Are you kidding?’ Daisy said enthusiastically. ‘Is he working today?’
‘Yes, he has a surgical list on Fridays. He should finish around 5 pm.’
‘There’s only one problem.’
‘What’s that?’ I said.
‘I’ve no idea what he looks like.’
I laughed and then gave Daisy a basic lesson in covert surveillance, the first rule of which is locating the nearest loo. As soon as I was off the phone I emailed her a file of family photos that included Andrew. I could practically hear Daisy humming the theme tune to Hawaii Five-O.
Chapter 21
After a salad sandwich and a rejuvenating nap I decided to walk down to the public phones in town and call Splash Charters.
Aside from the health benefits of exercise and leaving my desk, there are times when I prefer to remain untraceable. Calling Splash Charters, who I suspected of harbouring a fugitive, was one of those times.
The reality is that dialling a prefix to withhold your phone number isn’t always enough. These days, anyone with the right gizmos, or who knows people who are able to access your personal phone records, can track you down. On top of that, using the public phones allows me to indulge in a harmless fantasy that I am a rogue intelligence officer for MI5. Lately, I’ve even been thinking of leaving messages for myself in cracks in walls. Anything to brighten the working day.
It was too soon to post my mother’s birthday presents, but as I would be using a phone near the post office, I decided to do so anyway. Chairman Meow helped me wrap the presents in an old sheet of Christmas paper. Mum wouldn’t mind—we’ve been sending the same birthday card back and forth to each other since 2002, saving the planet in our own peculiar way.
I stuffed the post-it note with Splash Charters’s number on it in my pocket, and was about to head out the door when I saw Chairman Meow looking pleadingly at me.
‘Oh, all right then,’ I said, and attached the lead to his collar and we walked—well, I walked, he pranced—in the afternoon sunshine down to the post office where he was patted and drooled over by both staff and customers.
Package posted, I crossed the road to the bank of public phone boxes, settled Chairman Meow at my feet and then rang the number for Splash Charters.
‘Splash Charters, Kylie speaking, may I help you?’ The voice that answered was young and the speech delivery singsong.
First up I wanted to know the name of the woman in the newspaper photograph, so I gave Kylie the same spiel that I’d given McCormack about an old school friend, hoping she’d come back at me with the woman’s name.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see the photograph.’
Bugger!
‘Can I speak to Mick then please?’ I asked politely. It was unlikely he was using his real name, but it was worth a shot.
‘Does he work for Splash?’ Kylie asked.
‘I think so.’
‘Are you sure you’ve got the right name?’
‘Yes, I thought he was one of your crew.’
‘The boss is Mitch Leary, but we don’t have a Mick.’
Oh, boy! I looked out at the park. ‘No, it’s definitely Mick Park I want,’ I said quickly. ‘He’s about thirty, American,’ I added, scrambling to throw her off the scent, and trying to sound calm as I punched the air with my fist. People who purposely disappear and start a new life frequently retain their initials, but Mick had simply changed the abbreviation of his first name and dropped the O’ from his surname. And no way, I thought happily, had he suffered amnesia and plucked a name so close to his own out of nowhere.
‘He must be working for another company,’ Kylie said, sounding apologetic. If only she knew.
I thanked her, hung up and breathed a huge sigh of relief that I hadn’t asked for Mick O’Leary. If Kylie told him that someone had called looking for Mick O’Leary, he’d be packing for West Bengal by morning.
Gratified by my discoveries, I set off for home with a lively spring in my step.
The short trip took an age as every third person stopped me to pat the Chairman. To amuse myself I changed his name to Sarkozy, Obama or Merkel, the choice dependent on my guess as to the nationality of the fawning tourist.
I got stuck on Spain.
Nemony Longfellow was waiting for me outside my front door. She had just stopped by, she informed me, to drop off the documents.
‘This is a lovely old apartment,’ Nemony said as I showed her into my postwar kitchen.
‘Thank you. Would you like tea?’
‘Please. Milk, no sugar.’
Nemony sat at the kitchen table and took a pile of documents from her basket and placed them on the table in front of her. I unclipped Chairman Meow’s lead, washed my hands and put the kettle on.
‘I do love old kitchens,’ Nemony said, looking round. ‘They’re so much nicer than those modern stainless-steel autopsy rooms people seem to be installing. You have to wonder what’s in their fridges.’
I acknowledged her comment wit
h a brief smile and set about preparing a pot of Darjeeling tea. I didn’t know her well enough to road test the Punkah Chi.
Today Nemony was wearing black jeans, a long-sleeved black shirt, and a black and tan waistcoat with long black fringing. I badly wanted the waistcoat. Her hair was swept up into a French roll and she looked very Audrey Hepburn. Like Hermione, there was an aroma of lavender about her.
‘Can I ask a personal question?’ I said.
‘Why do we wear black?’
Embarrassed by her perception, I blushed and said, ‘Actually, yes, I was wondering.’
Her lovely hazel eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘I know people think we’re spooky witches, but the truth is that we just like black!’
‘So, you’re not . . . witches?’
She chuckled. ‘We’re not anything except sisters, although our intuition does seem to be more finely tuned than other people’s. Obviously, mine wasn’t working the day I fell in love with Mick O’Leary.’
Nemony sighed, and I gave her a sympathetic look before asking, ‘Does Amelia wear black, too?’
Nemony stiffened, as she had done when I’d mentioned Amelia at Brunswick Heads.
‘Sometimes,’ she said dismissively.
‘When Amelia gets back from her business trip I would like to speak to her,’ I said.
‘There’s no need,’ she replied somewhat sharply.
Warned off, I didn’t pursue the issue.
Chairman Meow, who had been sniffing around her feet, hopped up onto her lap.
‘Push him off if you want,’ I said.
‘No, it’s fine, I like cats.’
Using my small white bone china mugs I poured our tea and then made a bowl for Chairman Meow and put it on the floor beside the fridge. He jumped down from Nemony’s lap and, to her great amusement, attacked his tea with gusto.
I sat down opposite her and picked up the documents. ‘Are these copies?’
Nemony nodded. ‘The top one is Mick’s birth certificate. I have the original at home.’
I sipped tea and looked at the birth certificate. Mick had been born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, in April 1953 and christened Michael O’Leary. There was no middle name.
‘Did Mick have a Belfast accent?’ I asked.
‘Uh-huh. It was one of the reasons I fell for him. Sometimes I’d just listen to him talk and not really hear a word.’
I smiled at her. I knew exactly what she meant.
‘Just to confirm,’ I said. ‘Mick lost his British passport, which you never actually saw, and he had applied for a replacement, which never arrived. Is that right?’
‘Yes. I don’t understand why he didn’t take his birth certificate with him when he ran off. You’d think he’d need it, wouldn’t you?’
‘It’s odd, I grant you, but there’s a reason for everything.’
My mind was doing cartwheels. Had Mick left his birth certificate behind because he was now using the surname Leary? And had that been the name on his passport, which was why Nemony had never seen it and he’d pretended it was lost?
I picked up the copy of the coroner’s report and flipped to the conclusion on the last page. The coroner had noted that she was required to find whether the suspected death happened, and if so, how, when and where. She noted she had regret, but no hesitation, in finding that Michael O’Leary was dead. There had been no transactions usual for the living, and no indication he had conspired to stage his disappearance with a view to setting up a new life.
The coroner went on to say that she could not be definitive about the manner of death, but had found no evidence of foul play. Although shark attack could not be excluded, nor fatal injury acquired aboard the vessel, drowning following a boating accident in a wild storm was stated as the most likely cause of death. In conclusion, the coroner stated that Michael O’Leary died in the sea off Sydney Heads, New South Wales. The date was noted and condolences offered.
‘I’ll read the rest of the report later,’ I said, putting it to one side. I registered that Nemony hadn’t appeared at all upset while I was reading the report.
The next two documents were their marriage certificate and Mick’s death certificate. Both identified him as Michael O’Leary.
I spread the bank statements out in front of me. The account had been opened with a deposit of $100,000. There were two major debits: $80,000 to Bosuns Marine and $12,000, which Nemony had said was for their car.
‘Can you tell me about the yacht purchase?’ I asked, wondering how much further we’d get with our conversation before she’d ask me if she could smoke.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Well, did you go shopping for a yacht together, or did Mick find it?’
‘Mick found the yacht and then we both went to see it at the marina.’
‘Did the yacht have a price on it, like vehicles in car yards?’
Nemony looked thoughtful. ‘No, it didn’t,’ she said at length. ‘I think Mick told me that’s how much it was. Why do you ask?’
‘It was a lot to pay for a Bombora 23 Classic in 1983.’
‘Was it? I wouldn’t know.’ Nemony took a sip of tea and her expression suddenly changed to one of concern, as if a light bulb had switched on in her head. She put down her mug and said, ‘I co-signed a cheque to Bosuns Marine for $80,000. It never entered my head that the amount wasn’t for the yacht. Do you think Mick did some sort of deal with the marina and they gave him back cash?’
‘It’s possible,’ I told her. She had stated my thoughts exactly.
‘The bastard,’ Nemony muttered.
The end of the bank statement showed that there was, as Nemony had said, forty dollars in the account when she’d closed it. Running through the other debits, Nemony confirmed they were for food, rent and normal living expenses. Apart from interest, there were no credits.
‘Did either of you work?’ I asked.
‘No, we had fun.’
Chairman Meow had finished his tea and was sitting beside the fridge cleaning his paws. Nemony was watching him, apparently charmed by his behaviour.
‘Did you ask Hermione the name of the firm that handled your Uncle Willard’s estate?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, it was Dansy, Barker and Howe.’
I made a note of it on the edge of the bank statement. I wanted to talk to Overton Siliphant, the family solicitor who had been executor of Willard Longfellow’s will. I couldn’t shake the unpleasant notion that somehow O’Leary might have known about Nemony’s inheritance before he married her. Maybe even before he turned up at the lavender farm. Hopefully I could track down Siliphant and he might be able to shed some light on the matter.
‘Have you found out anything yet?’ Nemony asked.
I shook my head. If I told her what I knew, she might be on the next plane north to confront Mick, and then he’d never be seen again. And maybe she wouldn’t either. The first time he had managed to hide for thirty years. Next time it might be forever and I could say goodbye to any hope of finding out how and why he had disappeared in the first place. Or of proving he was alive. There was a lot more groundwork to do before anyone ventured north.
‘Do you mind if I ask another personal question?’ I said, changing the subject. I wanted to see what sort of reaction I received this time to my asking about her reported depression.
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘Hermione told me you were suffering from a lovesick depression, but you’re not, are you? Why would Hermione tell me you were depressed if it wasn’t true?’
I was expecting her to be evasive, but instead she leaned forward and said, ‘Hermione told you I am depressed because she believes it to be true.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Is this off the record? You can’t write about this.’
Looking her straight in the eye, I said, ‘I promise I won’t use it.’ My word was good, but she didn’t know that. Or maybe that was one of the things she’d heard about me. I hoped so.
‘I’m afraid that over the years I’ve misled Hermione,’ she said, ‘and please believe me when I tell you that it wasn’t intentional. It is her assumption that I have been depressed all these years and I have never confirmed or denied that assumption.’
‘Why not?’ I asked, genuinely puzzled.
‘Hermione is old-school and straight-laced and pious and would disapprove of what I’m about to tell you.’ She hesitated, as if her resolve to tell me was wavering, but then pressed on. ‘As you’d expect, losing Mick left me unhappy and depressed, and after a lot of pestering from Hermione, who thinks doctors are supposed to fix everything, I agreed to make an appointment with a psychiatrist that our family doctor had recommended, even though I had no intention of consulting him.’
‘But Hermione told me you’d been under a psychiatrist’s care for thirty years,’ I said, even more baffled.
Nemony laughed aloud. ‘Well, it’s partially true. I don’t know about the care part, but I’ve certainly been under him for thirty years.’
‘Oh!’ I gasped. ‘You’re lovers!’ Suddenly I understood the expression of secret amusement that had crossed her face at Brunswick Heads, but it didn’t explain the brief look of concern beforehand. Had that been because she was deceiving her sister?
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I was never his patient. I called and told him that I’d only made an appointment to placate my sister, but wouldn’t be keeping it as I believed grief was a normal human condition and I’d heal in time. He agreed with me and we got chatting about this and that, and then he asked me if I was one of the Longfellow girls who had attended Mosman High in Sydney. It turned out that he was in the same year as Hermione and remembered her well. Then he said he understood why I’d made the appointment and we had a laugh about that.’
I flashed an acknowledging smile at her comment.
‘Go on,’ I said encouragingly.
‘One thing led to another. At first we had coffee and talked about flowers. Then we had dinner and discussed lavender farming. And then, when it was obvious we were attracted to one another, we started an affair.’