by Maggie Groff
Bill drained his coffee, put his glasses away and stood up. ‘You still want to sail?’ he asked me.
‘Yep,’ I said, lightly slapping my thighs. Pleased that I no longer felt queasy, I stood up, shook Geoff’s hand and then followed Bill outside; Admiral Davis was ready to be piped aboard.
The Bombora 23 Classic, which Bill had borrowed from a mate, was tied up on the jetty. Her name was Summa Breeze, and she was as pink as a chimpanzee’s bottom and heavily outclassed by her spectacular high-tech neighbours. For some reason I’d been harbouring a notion that O’Leary could be using the Bomboras in his business. There was no way Splash Charters would be using such a tired old tub. The reality was that both Bomboras were long gone, one way or another.
‘What’s wrong?’ Bill asked as he held out a hand to help me on board. My face must have shown my consternation.
I forced a smile. ‘I’m just a bit annoyed about the story.’
‘As you said, love, win some, lose some. I’ll show you where the manufacturer’s serial numbers are anyway. You never know, something might turn up.’
The serial numbers were engraved on two plates that were attached to the yacht—one on the inside of the transom, which was the board at the stern of the boat, and the other, well hidden, on the inside roof of a small cupboard in the cabin. Unless you knew where to find it, you’d never know it was there.
Next to the plate on the transom was a label bearing the registration number, and below that another numbered plate, which Bill informed me was the HIN assigned to this yacht. Both numbers, he showed me, were also displayed on the outside of the hull.
Over the next couple of hours Bill gave me his version of Sailing 101, and by the time we arrived back at Bosuns Marine I was starting to relax and enjoy myself, although I wouldn’t be joining the navy any time soon. I’d found the abundance of other boats on the harbour quite nerve-wracking and I’d probably be hearing Bill shouting, ‘Don’t worry, love, there’s plenty of room,’ in my sleep.
Before leaving Bosuns Marine I purchased a nifty sailor’s cap bearing the word Skipper for my nephew Fergus, and took a couple of pictures of Summa Breeze. Then I thanked Bill for his help and assured him he would get a mention if I ever did write the story.
Somewhat morosely I walked back to my car, resigned to the fact that there was no way to track down O’Leary’s yachts. Even knowing the serial numbers didn’t help much. Not unless I physically checked every Bombora Classic in the sea, and even then the plates could have easily been chiselled off long ago.
Chapter 33
There were two things preying on my mind as I pulled into the traffic on Spit Road and headed towards the city.
The first was what to do about Harper and Andrew. I couldn’t stand seeing my sister suffering needlessly if there was a simple explanation for Andrew being with the young woman. But was there? I had been fairly confident from Daisy’s observations that the relationship was innocent, but until I knew the complete story there would remain an element of doubt. Should I embrace my mantra of watch, see and decide and follow Andrew myself? Or should I call Andrew and tell him that he’d been seen with a young woman? After all, he was, I believed, still unaware of this quite important fact.
Unable to reach any resolution, I switched my thoughts to the second thing on my mind: O’Leary’s yacht registration applications. I now had the numbers, but I had an inkling that there was something informative about the applications, though I couldn’t grasp what it was.
My phone rang and I turned left into Awaba Street and pulled over.
‘Hello,’ I answered.
‘Is that the journalist Scout Davis?’ It was an elderly male voice and he sounded breathless.
‘Speaking.’
‘My name is Norman Smith,’ he puffed, and then he had a coughing fit, which gave me time to collect my thoughts. Unusual for me, I hadn’t prepared any questions for when he called.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I’m recovering from pneumonia.’
I wasn’t sure what Rafe had told Smith, but as Rafe hadn’t known anything more than the bare necessities, I figured I could be conservative with the truth. I needed to be. It’s never wise to infer that a retired policeman might have messed up an old case or indicate that the file might be reopened.
‘I understand,’ he went on, ‘that you want to talk to me about a yacht that disappeared during the ’83 storm.’
‘Yes, I do. I’m writing a story about the storm and looking for background information on the man who drowned. To give the story a human angle.’
‘I’m not sure what I can tell you after all this time, but I’ll give it a try. What sort of information do you want?’
‘Did you contact O’Leary’s family in Ireland?’
‘I remember we couldn’t find any family, which was strange for an Irish Catholic. I notified the Belfast police but they couldn’t find any O’Learys with a family member called Michael in Australia. I didn’t pursue the matter because his wife insisted he didn’t have any other family, although if we hadn’t been short-staffed, and I hadn’t been reassigned to a homicide, I’d have chased that up. It didn’t sound right to me.’
Smith’s actions, or rather inactions, sounded reasonable, as Nemony had told me that Mick had no family. Smith also sounded as though he hadn’t been satisfied the case had been fully investigated, so I decided to be more adventurous with my questions. I had nothing to lose and he’d either play along or not.
‘I’ve talked to his wife,’ I said, ‘and she told me his passport was lost before the storm. Did you know about that?’
‘I can’t remember. I recall she’d told me he’d filed a report on some document that had been lost, but I couldn’t say what it was.’
‘Do you think you would have followed that up through immigration?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t remember, but I don’t think I would have. As I said, we were busy and probably would have just relied on the wife’s statement. We had a lot of big cases at the time. I would have stated everything I knew at the inquest, which was the usual evidence that he hadn’t used his bank account or credit card. The coroner concluded O’Leary had drowned.’
I seized the moment. ‘Did you think the coroner’s verdict was correct?’
He paused. ‘In all honesty, the coroner made the right decision on the information she was given, but I thought the case required further scrutiny. I’d wanted to put more resources into an investigation, but my request to higher up had been turned down. There were a couple of things that really bothered me, the first being the lack of family for an Irish Catholic.’
A motorbike roared past my car and I waited until it was out of earshot. ‘Can you remember what the other thing was?’
‘I can’t, which is annoying. Senior Sergeant Kelly said you were an investigative journalist. If I were you I’d be looking closely at O’Leary’s disappearance, though God knows where you’d start after all this time. Or are you already following that line of enquiry?’
Time to be honest. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Good for you. I’ll help all I can, and if you want to run anything past me, that’s fine too.’
‘That’s very kind of you, and I’m sorry if I misled you at the beginning.’
‘I’d have done the same,’ he said. ‘How was the wife when you talked to her?’
‘She’s fine. She lives on a farm near Byron Bay.’
‘I remember she was a really nice person.’
I laughed. ‘She said the same about you.’
I heard a doorbell ring and frenetic barking.
‘There’s someone at the door,’ Smith said. ‘I’ll ring you back when I’ve remembered the other thing that bothered me.’
I put my phone away and stared out of the windscreen. I was on the crest of a steep hill in the up-market suburb of Balmoral Beach, and the sweeping view of the harbour was spectacular. I drove down to the beach, parked and defiantly ignored the parking meter. It’s good
to commit random acts of rebellion whenever you can, though to be on the safe side I sat at a nearby picnic table so I would see if a parking officer approached.
It took me half an hour to write up notes on my conversations with the Shaws and Norman Smith. I was hoping to figure out what was niggling me over the application forms for the yacht registrations, but nothing significant revealed itself.
For a while I toyed with the idea that it might have something to do with the fact that the application had been only in Mick’s name, but after a bit of thought I dismissed this as irrelevant. It wouldn’t have been all that unusual in the early eighties for only a man’s name to be on an official document.
The good old bad old days.
The hotel room was in semi-darkness when I let myself in at three-thirty in the afternoon. The curtains had been partially closed and Rafe was in bed. I tiptoed over to see if he was awake.
A gang of galahs banging tambourines wouldn’t have woken him. He was dead to the world, lying on his back with one arm behind his head and the other thrown casually across the bed. The sheet and blanket had rumpled down below his waist, exposing his broad chest and the dark line of gothic black hair below his naval. I took a moment to admire the potent lines of his body. Honestly, if you had to build a man, you couldn’t do better.
I undressed, showered, switched off my phone and then set the alarm for 5 pm. My parents, Alex and Margo, were expecting us at six and that would give us enough time to get ready and catch the ferry over to their apartment in North Sydney.
Rafe didn’t stir when I moved his arm and climbed in beside him. For a while I lay on my side propped up on my elbow, watching him and listening to his rhythmic breathing.
I had known him for almost as long as I’d known Toby and, looking at him now and knowing how wonderful the past few months with him had been, it was hard to believe I’d previously thought him chauvinistic, and even disliked him.
My misguided character assessment had been based on a stupid comment he had made about me years ago. We had been at the same party and Rafe had introduced me to someone as ‘Toby’s floozy’, a comment I now knew had been fuelled by too much alcohol, too little sleep and Rafe’s firm opinion that I had never been friendly towards him.
On reflection, I had to admit that I hadn’t been friendly, at the time harbouring my own sexist belief that any man as handsome as Rafe would expect women to fawn over him, and I had been determined not to be one of them. Winning me over, Rafe had said, was the longest recorded wooing in Australian history.
Unlike Toby, Rafe wasn’t prone to dark periods of brooding intensity. He was easy to have around and would read for hours without disturbing me if I was working, except to deliver tea. Despite his profession, he looked at life through rose-coloured glasses, and for him the glass was always half-full. His tastes were simple—good food, good wine, the beach, the sea and me. On the down side, he was a lousy cook and sometimes put tomato sauce in his beer, but hey, I could live with it.
More content than I think I’d ever been in my life, I closed my eyes and lay down and went to sleep.
Chapter 34
‘William or Harry?’ Niska was asking her sister, Tasha. ‘If you had to.’
‘In uniform or polo gear?’ Tasha queried.
‘Uniform.’
‘Harry, definitely Harry. How about you?’
‘Harry.’
I coughed to let my daughters know I was behind them. They were sitting in old-fashioned deckchairs on my parents’ balcony, drinking after-dinner coffee and taking in the view. The heady smell of a Sobranie Black Russian cigarette, which Niska was smoking, hung in the air.
It was one of those cold, clear Sydney winter nights. Stars twinkled in a midnight canopy over the Harbour Bridge and the Sydney Opera House, and office windows sparkled in the city skyscrapers. I’d long thought the view from my parents’ apartment was more spectacular by night than by day.
The twins turned around. Pretty girls in their mid-twenties, they look alike but are not identical. Each has inherited my blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skin. Neither, thank goodness, has inherited my diabetes.
Tasha didn’t look as tired as she had at Easter, although I noticed that her serviceable ponytail, old jeans and sweatshirt were not up to past standards. It would be foolish to mention my observation, as I’d receive a lecture on the things that were important in the world and then, as punishment, she’d inform me she was thinking of joining Médecin Sans Frontières and working in Ethiopia. Tasha could press all my buttons.
Niska, on the other hand, was her usual glamorous devil-may-care self. Her thick wavy hair was bouncing around her shoulders, and she was wearing a tight-fitting persimmon-coloured twin set, tailored black pants, red lipstick, pearls and black heels.
‘Where are the others?’ Niska asked me.
‘Grandpa, Max and Rafe are in the spare room playing with Grandpa’s train set. Grandma is on the phone to her bridge partner.’
‘Come and sit with us, Mum,’ Tasha invited, patting the cane seat beside her, ‘and tell us about the birds and the bees.’
I acknowledged the ulterior question behind her comment with a mildly annoyed parental frown and sat down.
‘My love life is really none of your business, darling,’ I said, pulling across the two sides of my grey cardigan and doubling them over my chest.
‘Mum’s right, Tash, it’s none of our business,’ Niska chimed in, her words dripping with sarcasm. ‘Toby hasn’t been a big part of our lives for the past ten years, and we don’t need to know anything about the new man our mother is stepping out with. Apart from the fact that he’s drop-dead gorgeous.’
Her remark hit home. They cared for Toby, and I was being insensitive by not informing them of what had happened. They probably also needed to know a little, though not too much, about my current relationship.
‘Stepping out?’ I echoed, hoping to lighten the atmosphere.
‘It’s Grandma’s term for sex,’ Tasha explained.
Niska stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Come on, Mother. Give! You know you’re dying to.’
Glancing over my shoulder to make sure we were alone, I related a heavily sanitised version of what had occurred between Toby and I, and then between Rafe and I. Naturally I gave a brief mention to Toby’s affairs so that I wasn’t the total villain of the piece. I also told them I understood if they wanted to stay in contact with Toby.
‘So you won’t be taking Grandma’s advice and signing up with a dating agency?’ Niska asked when I’d finished.
‘Why, do you think I could do better?’ I said, and we all laughed.
At that moment my mother called out for someone to take down the rubbish.
‘I’ll go,’ Niska said, jumping to her feet. ‘I can ask Grandma if she’s found me a nice job on a bridal magazine yet.’
When she’d gone I turned to Tasha. I hadn’t had a quiet moment to talk to Max, and I knew he and Tasha had talked.
‘How’s Max?’ I asked her.
She finished her coffee and then placed the cup and saucer on the floor.
‘He doesn’t think his father would have an affair, and there has to be another explanation. He’s had an almighty row about it on the phone with Jack.’
‘I think Max is right,’ I said, although I didn’t elaborate.
‘Men!’ Tasha exclaimed, seemingly dismissing my remark as a pointless platitude. ‘How’s poor Aunt Harper?’
‘Confused, sad, a little lost and a lot angry.’
‘Has anyone told Grandma and Grandpa?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘and we should keep it that way. Harper will tell them when she needs to.’
Just then, Niska came back onto the balcony and said, ‘Grandma says we are all to come into the living room. She’s going to show us photos of their Katoomba cottage.’
The Blue Mountains cottage had been a recent acquisition. When my father had retired and sold his small-animal veterinary practice, they had also sold
the family home and downsized to this apartment. Dad sorely missed his patch of green to potter around in. Hence the cottage.
Tasha groaned. ‘Poor Rafe,’ she murmured. ‘I hope she doesn’t start talking about renovations.’
‘He won’t mind,’ I told her.
‘I like him, Mum,’ Niska said, and she came up behind me, put her hands on my shoulders and affectionately kissed the top of my head.
‘Me too,’ Tasha said with surprising enthusiasm. ‘He’s a keeper.’
I stood up and gave them both a hug and a kiss and, as always, wished we lived closer. It was a very Oprah Winfrey moment.
Inside, Mum and Rafe were standing in front of her latest painting of the harbour, which was propped up on a new bamboo easel: my father’s birthday gift to her. Mum had been a food photographer for a publishing company before she’d retired, and had taken up painting to satisfy her creative urges. So far everything she’d painted looked the same—like Jackson Pollock on speed.
‘Is that white splodge the Opera House?’ I asked, joining them in front of the canvas.
‘How clever of you, Scout,’ my mother said, and she beamed me a smile as wide as a four-lane highway. No doubt I’d be getting the damn thing for Christmas.
‘Do you like it, Rafe?’ Mum asked, looking expectantly at him.
He rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t know much about art,’ he said tactfully.
‘So you don’t like it?’ Mum pressed.
He hesitated. ‘Sorry. I’m not big on landscapes, but I do like paintings of Ned Kelly.’
Uh-oh! My mouth went dry and my heartbeat kicked up a notch. Had Rafe seen the news coverage of the painting hanging beside the GKI artwork on the ATMs? I didn’t dare look at him for fear he might register my apprehension.
Fortunately my father roared with laughter at Rafe’s comment, which provided a welcome distraction. ‘That’ll teach you to fish for compliments, Margo,’ Dad said, and my mother, ignoring my father, patted Rafe’s back and smiled at him, his honesty forgiven.
My parents had adored Toby and I knew it was difficult for them to suddenly have a new man introduced to the family. Rafe had already earned my father’s approval by presenting him with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin and admiring his model train set. My mother, who couldn’t be bought with a box of Thorntons truffles, would take a little longer to add Rafe to her family Christmas list.