The Forgotten Sea

by Beverley Harper

  The magazine was the whim of its flamboyant and eccentric managing editor-in-chief, the very wealthy Sir Richard Aitken, and began as a bimonthly with an audited circulation of six hundred. To the surprise of everyone and the annoyance of Sir Richard, who wanted to keep it small and manageable, the magazine rapidly gained in popularity to its present official circulation figure of almost two hundred thousand, with thirty per cent of that falling beyond the shores of Australia. Despite its best efforts to steer clear of the popular media arena, Out of Focus had actually broken several significant news stories, including the recently acclaimed exposé of a networking child pornography ring that extended around the globe, above and below the equator.

  Holly, as a freelance journalist, had worked for Out of Focus before. Her father, Quinn Longford-Jones, was the features editor. Not that he gave her preferential treatment – he didn’t. In fact, stories that might have gone to Holly were often allocated to others so that there could be no mutterings of favouritism. In typical Quinn fashion, the briefing – and she had to assume that was what she was going to – always took place at his convenience and no-one else’s. Despite the fact that this pissed her off totally, there was always a sense of excitement that accompanied a summons from her father. The assignments were never dull. She had covered the landmine issue well before Princess Diana made it vogue. She did a tongue-in-cheek piece on what happened to old advertising men and women concluding that, since the industry appeared to be run by children barely out of nappies, anyone over thirty who did not get an offer to join one of their clients probably, at best, wrote a bad book of memoirs or, in extreme cases, contemplated donating their bodies to the mechanical expertise of the office shredder.

  She had tramped all over Mexico with an eccentric, retired British actor who now collected geodes and was in search of the agate-lined amethyst crystal-encrusted variety to add to his collection. His addiction to the world’s geological wonders played second fiddle only to the one abiding passion in his life. He had an absolute thing about strange men in bars. Holly had spent a great deal of time drinking coffee, or tequila, depending on the time of day or night, while she waited for him to fall out of love. Fortunately, he seemed to do this at the same speed with which his heart first succumbed, otherwise the article might never have seen the light of day.

  Out of Focus seemed to have a bottomless pit of crackpots with missions just interesting enough to be different and a profile just different enough to be interesting. Earlier this year, she had spent time in Japan, in the company of two scientists with stars and research grants in their eyes who were investigating the plight of the macaque or snow monkey. Nothing unusual in that except the dedicated duo intended to publish a controversial paper, in which they had stated in a blare of publicity preceding their departure, that DNA findings would prove conclusively that the macaque was man’s closest relative.

  The trip was cut short when the two men could not agree on the wording of their conclusions. One wanted an academic paper that was slanted exclusively towards scientists, the other argued that since their findings would cause considerable media interest, the paper should be presented in such a way that it held appeal for a broader readership. Neither man would budge and, in an outburst of surprisingly childlike pique, they abruptly cancelled the study.

  Returning to Sydney, two days before expected, Holly surprised her husband in more ways than one. Dennis had been in bed with one of her best friends. Holly had a lot of friends. She wasn’t going to miss one. But she only had one husband and the split from him had been painful.

  She was driving across the Harbour Bridge now and the little MG was fighting hard to go where the wind blew it. Holly was fighting just as strongly to prevent it. Her legs were on fire and hands frozen. The windows had misted over and she repeatedly wiped at the condensation to see where she was going.

  She wondered if Dennis was still in bed and with whom? The pain and shock of his betrayal was never far from the surface. Although he’d pleaded with her to give him another chance, she’d been unable to remain under the same roof. She moved into a unit, wanting time to think. That was when the full extent of his deceit became clear. Friends, unwilling to speak out before, told of his ongoing infidelities. He’d been unfaithful to her from the beginning, even before they married.

  Holly didn’t know which hurt more: his breach of her trust or her own blindness to it.

  The divorce went through uncontested. Dennis, when he saw how much pain he had caused, knew he’d never get her back. Holly bought the two-bedroomed cottage in Cremorne Point and moved in. She had as much work as she wanted and threw herself into it, leaving little or no time to dwell on the past. When she wasn’t working, she was renovating. Time passed quickly but Holly wasn’t healing.

  The streets of Sydney were practically deserted, a change from the normally congested narrow thoroughfares of the week. She drove to the underground car park and ignored all the deserted bays to park right next to her father’s new BMW. Silver grey, sleek and solid, the dripping MG by comparison had a dejected, sad appearance.

  An express lift sped Holly to the twenty-second floor, where the reception area was deserted. Quinn Longford-Jones occupied a corner of the floor which gave sweeping views over the city, Pyrmont Bridge and Darling Harbour. The office was as impressive as his car and, indeed, as Quinn himself. Holly’s father was tall, with a thick thatch of silver-grey hair. He kept himself fit and tanned with regular rounds of golf and twice-weekly tennis. His only child had inherited her grey eyes and full lips from him and wished she also had his beautifully aristocratic nose. Actually she did, but couldn’t see the similarity. Quinn’s voice was a boom and his laugh a deep, raspy chuckle. Where Holly’s feelings were always reflected in her eyes, Quinn’s sparkled with enjoyment and mischief, irrespective of inner emotions. Both Holly and her mother adored him.

  She knocked briefly and opened the door. He was on the telephone and waved her to a chair. Listening to him convince a hard-nosed and highly experienced journalist, whom Holly knew slightly, to tone down the political angle on a story he was writing about Bosnia and to concentrate on the effect the unrest was having on art and artists, she wondered how, with a role model like Quinn, it had been possible to marry a rat like Dennis.

  Holly hadn’t waited for her divorce before reverting to her maiden name. Unlike Quinn, who revelled in the double-barrelled surname, Holly had always resisted it. When she was fourteen and her peers’ opinion of her had mattered more than any later-developed tendency to revel in her independence, she had taken to calling herself Holly Hyphen in a kind of inverted show of snobbism. These days she usually dropped the Longford, but only because Jones was easier for others to remember.

  ‘Hi, Big Shot. Hang up that wet jacket.’ He pulled a face at the receiver as he put it down. ‘Damned fool never listens to the brief.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Couple of hours I suppose, why?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know how Mummy stands it.’

  Quinn laughed. ‘She doesn’t. When I left she was flat out in bed, fast asleep.’

  Holly smiled.

  ‘How you doing?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Bullshit. You look like hell.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And take off that ridiculous hat. It makes you look about ten.’

  She whipped it off and shook out her short hair.

  ‘That’s better. Now you look about fifteen.’

  ‘What’s with the age thing?’

  ‘You’re twenty-nine next month. I’m just trying to make you feel better.’

  ‘I feel fine about my age.’

  Grey eyes twinkled at her.’ And the rest of it?’

  ‘It’s . . . still difficult.’

  Quinn nodded. ‘How’d you fancy an assignment that every journo on our books would kill for?’

  ‘Preferential treatment?’

  ‘For your o
wn sake.’

  ‘Your detachment is slipping.’

  ‘So what. You’re my daughter.’ He rose suddenly and extended his arms expansively. ‘Hug time.’

  Holly went into his arms. She felt him lay his cheek against her head. They stayed like that for nearly a minute.

  Finally, Quinn pulled back. ‘Your mother said I must invite you to lunch.’

  Holly sat down. ‘I don’t suppose it occurred to you that you could have briefed me at the house?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Good God, no! Ruin a splendid lunch!’ He grinned. ‘Besides, you know how your mother gets when I bring work home.’ He sat down opposite her and leaned forward. ‘Well? You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘About the assignment? Yes.’

  ‘Know what I like about you, Big Shot?’ He didn’t wait for her to reply. ‘You sure as hell know your own mind.’

  Finally, Holly laughed. Quinn could always get around her defences.

  Eyes alight with satisfaction and pleasure, Quinn began the briefing. ‘Ever heard of Connor Maguire?’

  ‘Australia’s answer to Richard Branson? Sure.’

  ‘Is that disapproval I hear?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Holly defended her tone. ‘The guy is born wealthy, fancies himself as an entrepreneur, has businesses all over the country, and always seems to come up smelling like a rose.’

  ‘Is that a crime? He’s never hurt anyone.’

  Holly inclined her head in agreement.

  ‘He does a lot of good work for a host of different charities.’

  ‘Sure. And he always milks the publicity machine like hell whenever he does. Look at that ride he did on horseback across Australia a few years back. Raising money for kids with cancer. Okay, I agree, he raised a lot of money but I’d like to see the guy get honest and admit that he’s a publicity-seeking adventurer at heart.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  Holly thought about it. ‘Nothing, I guess.’

  ‘You appear to dislike him on principle rather than performance.’

  ‘What principle?’

  ‘That he doesn’t have to slog for a living.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just that . . . well, he seems so frivolous.’

  Quinn wagged a finger at her. ‘Do you want this assignment or not? I can’t send you to cover this one if you don’t approve.’

  Holly sighed. ‘What’s he up to this time?’

  ‘Looking for lost treasure in the Sea of Zanj.’

  Holly’s eyebrows showed interest.

  ‘Know where it is?’ Quinn often tested her general knowledge. It was a game they played, to see who could catch the other out.

  ‘Kind of.’ Holly knew he hated vague responses. And he’d obviously forgotten how she used to devour stories of the Arabian Nights as a child.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Um, somewhere between the Tropic of Capricorn and the equator, off the coast of Africa, ah . . . full of islands, coral reefs and atolls . . . Madagascar, the Seychelles, Mauritius, somewhere around there.’

  Quinn took it philosophically. ‘Good girl. Go to the top of the class. But don’t take your books cos you’ll be back.’

  ‘It’s all part of the Indian Ocean. The Arabs called it the Sea of Zanj or, to be more precise, Bahr-el-Zanj, which means sea of the blacks. But it hasn’t been called that for centuries.’

  ‘Okay. Take your books.’ His eyes approved but Holly could almost hear the wheels turning behind them as he tried to figure a way to get even.

  ‘What the hell is Connor Maguire up to this time?’

  ‘I told you. Looking for lost treasure.’ Quinn watched her, waiting.

  ‘Pirates,’ she said eventually. ‘The place was once crawling with them. I suppose it’s just possible . . .’

  Quinn inclined his head. His daughter had won that round. ‘Maguire thinks it is.’

  ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘Mauritius.’

  ‘Mmmm. Sounds interesting. I’ve always wanted to go there.’

  ‘Excellent. Ah . . . one thing though, this time he doesn’t want the publicity.’

  Holly folded her arms and sat back. ‘Super. A crackpot philanthropist is one thing. A reluctant crackpot philanthropist is quite another.’

  ‘The organisation that will benefit if he finds anything has asked us to cover it.’

  ‘Here we go again. What charity is it this time?’

  ‘Not a charity. AIDS research.’

  Holly gave a cynical laugh. ‘Connor Maguire and Elizabeth Taylor. He probably wants to meet her. Good publicity and all that.’

  Quinn shuffled some papers around. ‘He already has met her.’

  ‘Okay, okay. The guy is a modern-day knight in shining armour. He doesn’t need the money. He’s doing this out of the goodness of his heart. And, just for a change, he doesn’t want publicity. Why?’

  Quinn didn’t answer the question. ‘Did you know that I’ve met him several times?’

  ‘When?’ She was surprised. Her father loved to talk about interesting people.

  ‘Last year when he launched that Flower Power thing. You know the one. In competition against Interflora. It’s doing very well.’

  ‘Everything he touches does well.’

  ‘Not everything. I saw him again a couple of months ago. He was telling me that some shipping deal had just gone horribly wrong. Lost squillions, I gather.’

  ‘He can afford it.’

  ‘He’s never asked for publicity. It just seems to follow him around.’

  ‘Okay, Quinn. Okay. He really is a nice guy. So, where do I find him?’

  ‘With a bit of luck he’ll still be on Mauritius. If not, I gather he plans to head for Rodrigues. You’ll find him easily enough.’

  ‘You’re talking a bloody big area here.’

  ‘Piece of cake.’ Quinn grinned at her. ‘Fancy something to eat? They do a great continental breakfast downstairs.’

  Over croissants and coffee, Quinn filled her in on a bit more detail. ‘Early in the eighteenth century, the Dutch pulled out of Mauritius. Apart from the garrison and officials of the Dutch East India Company, there were about three hundred settlers on the island, mainly retired pirates. They weren’t too enthusiastic about being left behind. Local Creole people were a cut-throat bunch and the pirates were afraid of them. Many fled to whichever country they had originated from to try for a pardon. Some never returned. For example, the English would not hear of clemency and so-called reformed pirates foolish enough to set foot back on British soil soon found themselves at the wrong end of a rope. It’s a known fact that most of these men hid their fortunes, buried them, stashed them in caves, that sort of thing, while they were off pleading their case.

  ‘A few years later, the French offered amnesty to any pirate who surrendered. The pirates were suspicious. Not many jumped at the chance because they thought it was a trick. But a few of them, those inclined to take up the offer, also buried their treasure while they were back in France trying to convince anyone who’d listen that they were really nice guys at heart. It’s possible that some never returned to dig it up again. Picture it, three hundred terrified pirates living with untold riches they couldn’t spend fast enough. They’d all be wary of each other too. What with the law, disease and feuds, why, the whole island is probably knee deep in buried treasure!’

  Holly laughed. Her father usually reached a wildly enthusiastic stage when he was briefing someone. ‘You’re getting the bug.’

  ‘When did Connor Maguire ever take on anything without first going into it thoroughly?’ Quinn asked.

  Holly picked up her croissant and nibbled at an edge.

  ‘Don’t prejudge him. He’s actually a good man. Life hasn’t always been kind to him. He lost his half-brother a few years ago, which knocked him sideways.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  Quinn nodded. ‘Brian, I think his name was. He was killed in the Seychelles during a coup attempt.
Probably in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens. Anyway, Maguire took a long time to come to terms with his death.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘It was in the newspapers. The first time I met Connor was about six months after it happened. When I offered condolences it was pretty obvious that he still couldn’t talk about it.’

  Images of the good-looking playboy adventurer flashed across Holly’s mind. She found it difficult to picture him grieving. ‘Married twice, wasn’t he?’ she said, more tartly than she’d intended.

  ‘You’ve been married once,’ Quinn reminded her gently.

  ‘Yes . . . but . . .’

  ‘But nothing. How do you know the reason for each divorce was his fault?’

  Holly changed the subject. ‘When do I leave?’

  ‘You fly to Melbourne this evening. The Air Mauritius flight takes off at eleven thirty tonight.’

  ‘That’s cutting it a bit fine. I’ve got things to organise.’

  ‘Can’t help that. There’s only one flight a week, unless you’d prefer to go via Singapore or fly to South Africa and then back to Mauritius.’

  ‘No.’ She made up her mind quickly. ‘I’ll go via Melbourne.’ She glanced at her father’s plate. ‘Finish your breakfast. We’ve still got work to do.’

  ‘Done that,’ Quinn mumbled, leaning into a mouthful of crumbly pastry. He swallowed, wiped his mouth and put down the napkin. ‘Cover Maguire’s search. Aussie icon’s latest challenge. Push the haves and have nots as well – you know the sort of thing. See if you can throw in a little danger – sharks, cyclones, corrupt politicians, whatever.’ He waved his hands vaguely. ‘That’s your brief.’

  ‘Thanks, Quinn,’ she said dryly. ‘As usual, you’ve been a mine of information. How many words do you want?’

  ‘As many as it takes. If the piece is what I hope, we’ll serialise it.’ He stood up. ‘Finished?’