by Maggie Groff
I thanked Hank and Yoyo and they left us to unpack. Then I checked the bar fridge. Yay! Real milk again.
‘Look what I brought,’ I said to Daisy, and handed her the teapot and tea.
‘Just what I need,’ she said, and she set about making tea while I sat on one of the cane chairs and called Bill Shaw.
He greeted me warmly.
‘I didn’t think I’d hear from you again so soon,’ he said.
Briefly I advised Bill where I was calling from and that I needed to get in touch with the boat code agent, Tom, who had checked the previous numbers for me.
‘Don’t tell me you’re sailing up there?’ he said.
‘On Tuesday,’ I told him, hoping the chitchat wouldn’t go on too long.
‘Lucky girl.’
I waited while Bill looked up Tom’s contact details, and then I wrote down his phone numbers and email address.
‘Good luck,’ Bill said. ‘Let me know how you go.’
After we rang off I flicked through Daisy’s camera until I found the photographs of the two yachts. Then I called Tom’s mobile number.
He was picking up one of his kids from soccer.
‘I’ll be quick,’ I said, and after thanking him for his previous assistance, I briefed him on the two luxury yachts and their numbers and asked if he could check them out.
‘Do you think they belong to the bloke that Geoff told me you’re writing the story about?’
I hesitated, but then realising the truth could help, I said, ‘Yes, he might be using the name Mitch Leary.’
‘No worries,’ Tom said. ‘Email me the photos and if I get time tomorrow I’ll have a look. Mondays are busy though.’
I thanked him again and hung up.
‘Any luck?’ Daisy asked as she handed me a cup of tea.
‘Let’s hope so,’ I said, and relayed my conversation with Tom.
She passed me the camera connection and I set up my laptop on the desk and downloaded the photographs. Then I emailed the relevant pictures with a covering note to Tom.
After I’d shown Daisy the toothpaste tube with its hidden diabetic booty and the talc container with the emergency mobile phone, we showered and spiffed ourselves up before joining the meet and greet. I dressed in black footless tights, a scarlet thigh-length jersey top and my red Jimmy Choos with the peep toes. Daisy wore smart white jeans, a white long-sleeved T-shirt and white sandals. She had a dark navy sweater over her shoulders and looked very French.
The pathway to the Raffles Room was well lit and wove through dense tropical foliage. We trod carefully as sprinklers were shooting stray water onto the path.
‘Do you think there are snakes?’ Daisy asked.
‘Thanks for that, Daisy,’ I said, paying even more attention to where I was stepping.
The Raffles Room was well named. It was a large hexagonal summerhouse with a high roof, wraparound leadlight glass windows, a black and white tiled floor, black cane furniture with large ivory-coloured cushions, and ferns on tall stands.
There were about thirty people waiting; several families with teenage children and couples of all ages. Daisy and I swept the room with polite smiles and then sat down.
The hostess, a striking dark-haired woman in her thirties called Stella, was five minutes into her welcoming talk when my phone rang. Everyone in the room looked at me. I felt like I’d just killed Skippy.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I stammered and rushed outside to answer.
It was Dandy McCormack.
‘Listen, mate,’ he said. ‘I need you to tell me if both Mick and Leila are on Silver Gull. Leila doesn’t work Sundays but she has a manager’s cottage on the island.’
‘I wouldn’t have a clue if they are here or where the cottage is,’ I told him. ‘I’ve only been here an hour.’
‘Where are you now?’ he asked.
‘Outside the Raffles Room.’
‘Okay, walk around to the beach side and look to your left.’
Curious, I did as I was told.
‘Now, do you see a headland with a hill?’
I peered through the dark. ‘Yep.’
‘Beneath that hill are four cottages by the beach, facing the bay. The furthest one is the Learys’.’
I could just make the cottages out. ‘Why do you want to know if they are here?’
‘Don’t ask,’ he said. ‘Just go and see if you can find them. Try the cottage first. If they’re there, call me right back.’
Then he hung up.
Chapter 50
There were two problems.
Firstly, I’d know Mick, but I had only seen Leila in one newspaper photograph and wasn’t sure I’d recognise her. Secondly, I didn’t like not knowing why I was doing what McCormack had asked me to do.
But I did it anyway.
Looking out for wily serpents on the path, I hurried back to our room, swapped my red top for a black one and changed out of my peep-toes into sneakers. I tucked my plait safely inside my top, took a moment to study the island map, sprayed myself with insect repellent, switched off my phone and then grabbed the torch and retraced my steps back to the Raffles Room.
I peeked through the window and caught Daisy’s eye. I held up my left arm and walked two fingers of my right hand along it, indicating that I was going walking. Then I held up all my fingers to indicate ten minutes. She nodded. And so did everyone else in the room.
McCormack is a dead man.
Following my nose, I walked away from the beach, skirting the tennis courts where a mixed doubles game was in progress under lights. Beyond the courts were a couple of large huts, one of which was a machinery shed. I nipped between them and emerged into the narrow service road that ran behind the resort.
The road was deserted except for thousands of moths fluttering around the streetlights. Across the road I spotted a rustic wooden signpost directing me right to Calypso Point, which I knew from the map was my destination. As the service vehicles would be in bed for the night, and there were no cars on the island, I strode along the middle of the road, a guest out for a brisk walk before dinner.
After about fifty metres I heard laughter and a group of young people crossed the road in front of me. They disappeared through a gateway in a brush-box fence on the left. I assumed it was the staff quarters, mainly because of a sign on the fence saying STAFF ONLY. There was also a vague aroma of marijuana in the air.
I pressed on towards tall sinister-looking trees and a dark hilly area where the road took a sharp right turn. I followed it around. There were steps on the left leading up to a Rainforest Bar, which I guessed was a summer venue as it was in darkness.
There wasn’t a soul in sight and, even though there was ample lighting, it was damned spooky. Critters were making strange wild sounds in the trees and I could hear the occasional hoot of an owl. I just knew the critters had sharp teeth and the owl was the world’s only known poisonous bird.
I pulled myself together. If I’d read the map correctly, the main bar and resort should be on my right and the cottages directly ahead of me.
Then I heard footsteps behind me. I spun around. A short dumpy-looking woman wearing pale-coloured overalls was walking towards me. She was carrying a tray with two lidded plates on it.
‘Are you lost?’ she asked, looking suspiciously at the torch I was holding.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m a botanist and I’m following a rhinoceros beetle.’
‘Oh!’ She moved the tray aside and looked nervously at the ground.
‘It’s okay as long as you don’t step on it,’ I said, and she scurried on.
I followed her along the road until she disappeared off to the right along a poorly lit pathway behind a sign saying KEEP OUT—MANAGERS’ QUARTERS.
How about that? Exactly where I was going.
Staying this side of the sign, I switched on the torch and made out that I was watching something in a tree. I expected the woman to return at any moment with an empty tray.
Sure enough,
back she came, looking at the ground and walking fast.
Trying not to laugh, I nodded at her as she sped past. I waited until she was out of sight and then switched off the torch and tiptoed along the pathway. It was difficult to see but I couldn’t risk using the torch so close to the cottages. I tried not to think about snakes.
The first cottage was in darkness, as was the second. There were lights on in the last two. Keeping low, I moved silently past the third cottage and stopped when I realised the door of the last cottage, which according to McCormack was the Learys’, was open. I could hear the theme tune to The Graham Norton Show, so they had the television on.
Slowly I crept up to the open door and peered inside. Seeing the coast was clear, I darted across to the other side. Staying low, I worked my way around to the far side of the building. It was dark and bushy and bugs kept hitting my face. Light from a small window about three metres ahead was casting a yellowish glow on the dark shrubbery. There were spiders. Lots of spiders.
Suddenly a man with a strong Irish accent called out, ‘Hey, Leila honey, bring the wine.’
Flattening myself against the wall, I held my breath. I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears and I felt a strange, almost euphoric high at being so close to my quarry.
I heard a fridge door open and close.
It was good enough evidence for me.
Darting back across the open doorway, I returned quickly and quietly to the service road and then jogged to the main resort. I sat on the first bench I came to and called McCormack. He answered straightaway.
‘They’re both here,’ I told him.
‘Good,’ he said, and he rang off. I pressed his number again and got a recorded message.
‘Bastard!’ I said. He could have at least thanked me.
I checked my watch. By now the meet and greet would be over and they’d be hitting the cocktails. I looked down at my clothes. Oh, brilliant. Just friggin’ brilliant. I was covered in grass seeds and cobwebs.
Ten minutes later I waltzed into the Raffles Room having cleaned up, had my insulin and changed back into my scarlet jersey top and Jimmy Choos. Everyone else had gone to dinner and Daisy was sitting alone talking on her phone. I waited until she’d finished and then went over and sat next to her.
‘That was Dave,’ she said. ‘He and Peppy are having steak sandwiches and he wanted to know where we keep the tomato sauce.’ There was a look of resigned amusement on her face and I laughed.
‘Apart from that,’ I said, ‘I take it everything’s fine?’
She nodded. ‘You missed banana daiquiris. I drank yours.’
I grinned at her. ‘You’ll never guess where I’ve been.’
On the way to the restaurant I recounted my adventure.
‘But why did he want to know if they were here?’ Daisy asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Search me.’
The restaurant was three-quarters full. The décor was similar to the Raffles Room and there was a pleasant ambience enhanced by a man in a black suit playing melodic tunes on a grand piano.
We were seated at a table for two that had a white linen tablecloth, white linen serviettes folded into bishops’ hats, elegant wine glasses and shiny silverware. As the meals were included in the tariff there was a set menu with a choice of chicken cacciatore or grilled snapper for the main course and a choice of sorbets for dessert.
We were both hungry, and after we had polished off a better than average celery soup, Daisy had the chicken and I had the fish. We both had white wine.
‘The food’s good,’ Daisy said, finishing the last of her side salad.
‘So far I like everything,’ I said, and meant it. Despite my somewhat scary foray out to Calypso Point, there was a restful charm about the island that was immediately apparent. I liked the place and caught myself thinking that it would be nice to return one day with Rafe. Naturally I dismissed the idea pronto.
Daisy was having similar thoughts. ‘Dave would like this place,’ she said. ‘It would suit his Hemingway obsession.’
‘Islands in the Stream?’ I suggested.
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘And don’t go thinking I don’t know he changes into that dreadful safari suit in the afternoon and drinks mojitos at the hotel. I’ve known for ages.’
I laughed. ‘Does he know you know?’
‘No, and far be it from me to interfere with the creative-writing process.’
I passed on dessert and Daisy tucked into watermelon sorbet.
‘Early night?’ she said when she’d eaten the last mouthful.
I nodded. I was pooped.
We were almost to our room when my phone rang.
It was Dandy McCormack again.
He dived straight in. ‘Could you use a photograph of Mick’s current Australian passport in the name of Michael Leary, complete with date of birth?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but how the hell will I get that?’
‘Check your email,’ he said. ‘I was looking for his old insurance papers. Didn’t find any but came across the passport.’
‘Came across it where?’
‘In his house at Airlie Beach. Why do you think I wanted to know if they were both on the island?’
‘You broke in!’ I couldn’t believe it.
‘As I told you before, don’t ask. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
He hung up and I stood staring at the phone.
‘What is it?’ Daisy asked.
‘Come on,’ I said, taking her arm and hurrying back to the room.
Once there I fired up my laptop, logged on to the internet and opened the attachment to McCormack’s email.
‘Good Lord,’ Daisy said as we both stared at an excellent picture of Mick’s passport, clearly showing his photograph, name and date of birth.
‘It’s further proof,’ I informed her, ‘that he forged his birth certificate in order to commit fraud and theft.’
‘And bigamy,’ she added. ‘We mustn’t forget bigamy.’
A short while ago all I could think about was crawling into bed. Now I felt too wired to sleep. ‘Do you fancy a walk along the jetty before bed?’ I suggested to Daisy. ‘We can look for turtles.’
‘I’ll take my camera,’ she said, smiling warmly at me. Nothing much gets past her.
We put on jackets and sneakers and wandered along to the end of the jetty. The soulful sound of Neil Diamond singing ‘Jonathan Livingston Seagull’ drifted from the bar and people were larking about on the beach. The tide was out and kids in sturdy sandshoes were exploring the exposed reef with torches and buckets.
We sat on the end of the jetty and dangled our legs over the edge. The water was crystal clear and the lights illuminated a multitude of brightly coloured fish swimming about beneath us. A reddish crab about the size of my hand scurried sideways, and there was a flurry of sand on the bottom before a stingray materialised and hurried away.
‘No turtles,’ Daisy said disappointedly.
‘Not yet.’
We were mesmerised by the fish and I don’t think either of us moved for ten minutes.
Suddenly all the fish darted away and there was nothing.
‘What happened there?’ I said, leaning over and peering under the jetty.
‘Something spooked them,’ Daisy said.
And she was right. Moving slowly and graciously, two large hammerhead sharks swam under our feet. Instinctively we lifted our legs onto the jetty, scrambled onto our knees and watched spellbound as they scanned the bottom for food and then disappeared out of view.
‘Well, that wasn’t in the tourist brochures,’ Daisy said, turning her head to face me.
‘It certainly wasn’t,’ I agreed, frowning.
An hour later I could hear Daisy snoring lightly as I lay in bed staring into the darkness. I was pondering why Nemony couldn’t search for anything with Mick’s DNA on it until tomorrow afternoon, which was also when Hermione was away at a meeting.
Unable to come up with an
y reasoned explanation, I switched my thoughts to McCormack. He had given me valuable evidence, so I couldn’t renege on my agreement to photograph the drop tomorrow night, which was a shame as I was becoming less keen on the idea by the second.
Despite troubleshooting various unpleasant scenarios where Mick caught me photographing Leila, my last thoughts as I drifted off to sleep were of Rafe.
Go figure.
Chapter 51
Monday was another sunny day in paradise. Perfect for yacht hunting.
I badly wanted to see Mick in the flesh, so I rose early and wandered down to the jetty, hoping I’d catch him heading off to the mainland in a speedboat or on a ferry, but he didn’t appear.
After breakfast Daisy and I pulled on shorts and T-shirts over our swimsuits and hired a two-person canoe from a dark-haired youth called Eddy at the beach hut. He was tanned and proud of his muscular torso and took great delight in showing us how to use the oars. Daisy, who’d rowed for Sydney University in her younger days, listened politely. I’d done a fair bit of kayaking in Byron Bay and I didn’t listen at all.
Praying neither of us would fall in, I pulled the canoe into the water and we hopped aboard. Daisy sat in the front and we set off around Calypso Bay, searching for Bombora yachts.
‘Is he looking at our brilliant oarsmanship?’ Daisy asked me.
I looked behind us. ‘Uh-huh. He’s scratching his head.’
I’d shown Daisy a picture of a Bombora 23 Classic, but the reality was that all yachts looked the same to us. They were just different sizes. And colours.
We were moving along at quite a lick. There was a light wind and small catamarans with colourful sails zipped past us and we rocked gently in their wake. A young girl in a red bikini cut across our bow on her windsurfer and promptly tipped over. She surfaced and blew an impressive spout of water out of her mouth. ‘Sorry about that,’ she called, and I smiled at her.
We paddled around the bay for an hour checking the boats, but had no luck. Disappointed, we headed for shore.
A loud toot made us both jump and we turned around. An enormous white launch was berthing at the jetty. We stopped paddling and watched as about two hundred tourists disembarked onto the island.