Good News, Bad News

by Maggie Groff

  It wasn’t Nemony he was following.

  It was me!

  Chapter 29

  At lunchtime I tested my blood sugar level, which was fine, and gave myself an insulin shot. Then I locked the car, put up my umbrella and nipped across the road to a sandwich bar and ordered a chicken salad sandwich.

  There was no sign of Dandy McCormack, but I doubted he had followed me to Sydney. He’d more likely be sniffing around Byron Bay, asking questions, though about what and to whom I had no idea. He must have an important story to be so worried that I was on to it.

  I took my sandwich back to the car and called Miles. He was looking after Chairman Meow while I was away and, after I ascertained that all was well, I described McCormack and asked if anyone fitting the description had been asking about me.

  ‘No, darls. I’d have called you. Should we be concerned?’

  ‘I think he’s harmless,’ I said. ‘He seems to be sniffing around the same characters as me, hopefully for a different reason.’

  Before he rang off, Miles promised to call me if anyone turned up asking questions.

  After lunch I rang Chartered Marine, the company that had insured the yachts purchased by O’Leary in 1983. I told the girl who answered that I was Mrs Michael O’Leary and I had purchased another yacht and wanted to insure with the company I’d used in 1983.

  I waited while she checked the records.

  When she came back on the line she said, ‘Yes, it was with us, Mrs O’Leary, but the policy was cancelled in September 1983 on both yachts, after the first quarter.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I questioned.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. No further premiums were paid after the first three months and no claims were ever made on this policy.’ She read out the policy number and I wrote it down.

  ‘Yes,’ I told her. ‘That’s the number I have too.’

  She assured me that I must have reinsured with another company and I thanked her for her time and rang off.

  The plot thickened. I was pretty certain that O’Leary had cancelled the original insurance to reduce the paper trail from his original purchases. He had probably reinsured with another company before he and the yacht disappeared, although I had no idea how I was going to confirm that.

  It was easier to work on what he might have done to cover up the original boat registrations. I thought back to how Bill Shaw had told me things used to be slack, and that it was possible to take a boat to Queensland and re-register it there by only showing proof of ownership.

  I called the Longfellow house and thankfully Nemony answered. In order to dispense with unnecessary conversation, I told her my phone was playing up and the line might drop out. I had, I said, a couple of quick questions for her.

  ‘After you’d bought the yacht,’ I asked, careful to maintain the single yacht scenario, ‘did Mick go to Queensland at all? Maybe for a couple of days?’

  ‘Yes, he did. How did you know that?’

  Ignoring her question, I asked, ‘Why did he go?’

  ‘To see a friend on the Gold Coast who’d had an accident.’

  Yeah, I’ll bet.

  ‘Did you ever meet the friend?’

  ‘No, he died. Mick was very upset.’

  I tapped my phone a couple of times and said ‘hello’ twice and then rang off.

  There was little doubt in my mind that O’Leary had taken his purchase receipt from Bosuns Marine and re-registered one or both yachts in Queensland, thereby making it impossible to trace the yachts back to their original documentation.

  Geoff Shaw’s friend Tom, the boat code agent, could cross-reference numbers until dawn, but he wouldn’t find anything.

  Using my phone, I logged on to the internet to see if Rafe had emailed me. He had, and had booked a room for two nights at the Intercontinental Hotel. I could check in at three this afternoon and he would be there about six.

  Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I re-read his erotic email about all the things he intended doing to me, and despite my being alone in the car, I blushed. The anticipation was simply delicious.

  A bunch of teenagers in school uniform walked past the car. One of the girls was showing off her cool persona by walking in an exaggerated manner and calling out comments to passers-by. She gave me a cheeky wave and I wondered if she’d have a junior coronary if she could read my mind.

  The rain stopped, so to take my thoughts off Rafe I locked the car and went for a walk. Mentally wrestling the case back on track, I decided the next hurdle to jump was to find out if Mick and Leila had already been married in 1983. This could prove difficult, as it was impossible to know what names they had used. As Mick had been secretive with his passport, I suspected they might have used completely different names, although his birth certificate had been O’Leary. But he’d left that behind.

  A woman in a blue sari was sitting on a park bench, her two young boys zipping around on bicycles. The sight of her fired a synapse in my head but I couldn’t grasp the connection. It wasn’t until I’d walked a fair distance that it hit me.

  Immigration! Mick and Leila were both Irish. What if they had been married even before they came to Australia? Nemony had told me Mick had arrived in Australia in 1977 and, if that were true, I had a starting point.

  I hurried back to the car and called Brian Dunfey at Anzasia Media Group. Brian’s cousin, Gerry Dunfey, is an immigration officer in Brisbane, and earlier in the year I had assisted his department in securing evidence against a number of unpleasant characters. Gerry knew that the information I’d shared with his team had been pivotal to his department scoring major kudos with other law enforcement agencies, and even though we had not actually met, I was pretty sure he would help me if he could. Brian would have Gerry’s direct number, which would save all the telephone transfer la-di-dah.

  ‘Found the missing man yet?’ Brian asked in his usual abrupt manner.

  ‘No, have you sorted out the neighbourhood fence yet?’ I fired back.

  He huffed loudly. ‘I took your advice and paid for the damn thing. Now I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘I need Gerry’s number,’ I said, quickly steering away further grumbles.

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On you taking my name off the mailing list for the Northern Rivers Bare Artists Collective.’

  I stifled a giggle. ‘Why, what have they sent you?’

  ‘Information on an upcoming class called “How to draw male genitalia”. My PA had to go on stress leave.’

  ‘How do you know it was me who put your name on the list?’

  ‘Duh!’

  Registering a cheerful tone, I laughed aloud. ‘Consider your name removed. May I have Gerry’s number now, please?’

  He rattled off the number and I thanked him and hung up. This had been one of our better conversations, and I toyed with the idea of removing his name from the art collective’s mailing list for almost two seconds. But I couldn’t do it. Brian believed that Byron Bay was full of idle, self-indulgent old hippies who wore hemp clothing and lay around drinking herbal tea. Teasing Brian that his theory had merit has become one of my latest hobbies.

  Still smiling, I punched in Gerry’s number. Hopefully he wouldn’t be as socially challenged as his cousin.

  When he answered I was pleasantly surprised that he remembered who I was. His manner was upbeat and friendly.

  ‘How do you find doing business with Captain Fantastic?’ he asked.

  Tempted as I was to share my thoughts on Brian’s character, I knew how easy it was for things to get back, and my loyalties had to lie with Brian. His commissions were my bread and butter. ‘Really good,’ I said brightly. ‘I like him but I know other journalists find him abrasive. Truly, we work well together.’

  Gerry uttered a full throaty laugh. ‘You must be bulletproof as well as diplomatic. He drives the rest of us up the wall.’

  After a little more social chat we got around to the reason for my call. Guarding the bi
g picture, I explained I was seeking information on the marital status of a couple who had possibly arrived in Australia from Northern Ireland in 1977. Could Gerry, if it wasn’t too difficult or against the rules, help me with information?

  ‘Do you know if they had resident visas?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘Not for certain, but can we assume they both did?’

  ‘Okay, tell me the names and I’ll see what I can do.’

  I gave him the names Mick, Mitch or Michael O’Leary/Leary, and then Leila Leary/O’Leary. ‘It could be any spelling of Leila and any combination of the above,’ I told him.

  ‘Passports?’

  ‘British, I think.’

  ‘Any dates of birth?’

  I told Gerry the date on Mick’s birth certificate.

  ‘I’ll get back to you soon,’ he promised.

  The information would be computerised and I hoped it wouldn’t take too long. Impatient, I started the car and headed south along Barrenjoey Road. I was at Dee Why when Gerry called back and I turned into a side street and parked.

  ‘In 1977 a Michael and Leila Leary emigrated to Australia from Northern Ireland,’ Gerry informed me. ‘They were married in Belfast, Northern Ireland, in 1975. Both had a British passport and both had Australian permanent resident visas. Does that help you?’

  ‘What about his date of birth?’ I asked.

  ‘That was correct.’

  ‘Thanks, Gerry,’ I said. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

  ‘While I’ve got the information here,’ he said, ‘I might as well tell you that they both now have Australian citizenship and Australian passports in the names of Michael and Leila Leary, and they have each named their spouse as the emergency contact on their recent renewals. I haven’t found anything untoward in any document searches on Leary. Should I flag this for further attention?’

  ‘No, don’t bother. All I was after was confirmation on the marital status.’ The last thing I wanted was someone else nosing around.

  ‘Let me know if you need any more information,’ Gerry said. ‘Good talking to you.’

  ‘Likewise.’ I thanked him again and put away my phone.

  So, Mick had been married to Leila when he had arrived in Australia and he was still married to Leila. No wonder he’d pretended to Nemony that his passport was lost. However, this didn’t shed light on the name discrepancy on his birth certificate, although I had a fair idea what he had done with that.

  I made a mental memo to call Nemony and ask her to show me the original. If he’d done what I suspected, it would be impossible to tell on the copy.

  Slowly, but surely, I was closing in on my prey.

  Chapter 30

  There were a couple of hours to kill before I could check in to the hotel, and I knew just what to do with them.

  My mother, Margo, teaches aquarobics to seniors on Monday afternoons at an indoor pool on Sydney’s north shore. I punched the address into the GPS and headed towards the pool, parked and went to look for Mum.

  She was in a cordoned-off area at the shallow end, leaping around in the water in front of about twenty ladies. Her students were performing exaggerated arm and leg movements to Pink Floyd’s ‘Another Brick in the Wall’. Suddenly my mother threw her arms out towards the class and they all shouted:

  ‘We don’t need no old-aged pension.

  We don’t need no girth control . . .’

  Then they all ducked under the water and leapt out with one arm raised and shouted, ‘Yeah! Leave us kids alone! ’

  The action bore my mother’s imprimatur and I laughed aloud and sat down and watched them. Mum has never cared what others think, a personality trait that has allowed her to extract a great deal of joy from her life. When Harper and I were young, she had viewed embarrassing us as an art form and, for her, growing old has been a privilege, but growing up has been optional.

  Ten minutes later Mum got out of the pool and hurried over to me. She was glowing with health and smiling happily.

  ‘I got your email,’ she said, giving me a hug. ‘Lovely to see you, darling.’ She towel-dried her hair vigorously and then asked, ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At a hotel in the city,’ I said.

  ‘Where’s Toby?’ She looked around and frowned. ‘Isn’t he with you?’

  I shook my head. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. ‘We’re no longer together, Mum,’ I said flatly. ‘It’s sad, but it was time.’

  ‘Hold this,’ she said, ignoring my remark and handing me two corners of the towel to hang on to so she could change underneath it. With difficulty she peeled off her swimmers and, only partially dry, struggled into her undies.

  ‘Did you hear what I said about Toby?’ I asked, looking around to see if anyone was catching her public striptease.

  ‘Yes. I hope you know what you’re doing. It’ll be hard to find a decent man at your age. You might have to join one of those internet dating agencies.’

  This statement left me nowhere to go. To agree would be to admit that life without a man was incomplete, an ideal to which I had never subscribed. And Mum had obviously forgotten our phone conversation back in March when I’d told her that I was attracted to another man. No way was I going to mention Rafe without other family backup.

  She grabbed the towel from me, rolled it up and threw it on a chair. Uh-oh. Mum was now standing in her underwear, which was all skew-whiff. It was time to repress another memory and I looked away.

  ‘Why don’t you use the change rooms?’ I asked.

  ‘Verrucas,’ she said blithely, as if that explained everything.

  With complete disregard for privacy and decorum, my mother pulled on black trackpants and a grey Griffith University sweatshirt. ‘Sam gave me this,’ she said, indicating the shirt. Then she brushed her hair, tossed the hairbrush in her bag and put her arm through mine.

  ‘Come to the car, darling. I’ve got a thermos of decent tea and some garibaldi biscuits.’

  Just before 3 pm I kissed my mother goodbye, having promised to attend the family get-together she’d organised for tomorrow night. I intended turning up with Rafe, and I was already looking forward to seeing their bemused faces when I walked in with him. It would be a baptism of fire for Rafe, but he was more than man enough to cope. Niska, I knew, would love him.

  I drove over the Sydney Harbour Bridge to the Rocks and headed straight for Toby’s apartment block in Harrington Street. There was no point in forking out for valet parking at the hotel when I could park for free in one of Toby’s two spaces that he never used. I had a swipe card for the underground garage and Toby wouldn’t mind me using it. Well, he would mind if he knew, but as I was hoping he was still in Byron Bay and I wasn’t going to tell him, he wouldn’t know that he didn’t mind. It worked for me.

  It was a short walk to the hotel and I savoured the hustle and bustle of the city. Once in a while it’s a thrill, but I didn’t think I could do city all the time. At heart I’m a big blue skies and ocean girl.

  ‘Lovely jacket, Ms Davis,’ the receptionist remarked as she handed me the access card for the room booked by Mr Kelly. ‘Is it Chanel?’

  I nodded and smiled. She didn’t need to know it had cost only seventy-five dollars from a vintage clothing shop in Brisbane. Or that it belonged to my sister. Feeling absurdly classy, I took the lift up to the room.

  The room was fabulous and boasted a picture-frame view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. My eyes, however, were drawn to the large and inviting bed. I stared longingly at it and felt a deep yearning for Rafe’s arrival. I badly wanted to touch him and smother him with kisses.

  Closing my eyes, I sat on the bed and pictured Rafe putting his gun in the bedside cabinet and removing his belt. Then I imagined he’d turn and look at me, his smiling eyes as blue as the Aegean, the colour accentuated by his dark curly hair. I saw myself slowly undoing his shirt and stroking my hands over the tight fabric across his chest muscles. I imagined kissing his strong neck and feeling dwarfed by his
powerful body. My legs tingled and I breathed in deeply. The thought of the things Rafe had said he would do to me was almost too much to bear.

  Mentally undressing law enforcement officers is thirsty work, so I unpacked my teapot and Assam leaf tea, boiled the jug and made proper tea. And, oh joy of joys, there was real milk from a real cow in the bar fridge.

  Grabbing my notebook, I took my tea over to the table by the window and sat and updated my notes. Then I inspected the room. By the time Rafe arrived I’d gone through every drawer and cupboard, worked out how to use the remote control, tried all the complimentary bottles in the bathroom, sprayed my perfume on the pillows and was showered and dressed in charcoal slacks and a fitted pale-blue, short-sleeved cashmere jumper. I’d accessorised with opera-length pearls and Mitsouko. My hair was loose, falling below my waist.

  Rafe wasn’t wearing his police uniform, which scuppered my imagined foreplay, but he looked spectacular in jeans, a white shirt undone at the neck and a dark jacket. He dropped his overnight bag on the floor and closed the door, leaned back against it and stared at me. I wanted to run to him but I was frozen to the spot. His lustful eyes swept lazily over my body and then a wicked smile spread across his face.

  ‘Did you knit that jumper yourself?’ he asked playfully.

  I suppressed a look of alarm. This wasn’t the first time I’d wondered if Rafe knew about my secret GKI activities. He’d made cryptic comments in the past, but nothing that told me definitively that he knew.

  Recovering fast, I said calmly, ‘Of course not, I can’t knit.’

  Still smiling wickedly at me, he walked slowly into the room. Rafe oozed raw sexuality and I watched spellbound as he came over to me. Smiling and looking into my eyes he gently felt my hair and then put his hands on my shoulders. Hardly able to breathe, I waited.

  Slowly his hands moved over the back of my jumper. Then he turned me round and nuzzled and kissed the back of my neck and leaned into me, moving his hips against me as he caressed my breasts. I think my heart missed a couple of beats. ‘I want to make love to you now,’ he said, his voice thick with desire.