So is Justin Parker.
So, if he can be believed, is Connor Maguire.
Maguire’s interest in Raoul Dulac went beyond the treasure. If it also went beyond the deal between him and the Chinese woman, and a desire to strike back at Dulac for the shipping swindle, what did that leave? Holly’s thoughts went round in circles. She was missing something. It wasn’t as if it was there under her nose either. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Connor had something else up his sleeve.
Just to complicate everything further, a little Creole Catholic nun – ex-concubine of both Raoul Dulac and his father, mother of Raoul’s daughter and distantly related to Maguire – flits vaguely on the periphery of this puzzle, as does Justin Parker’s mother.
Somewhere in that lot exists someone Connor Maguire needs to hide the truth from, whatever the truth is. So he plays up the search for buried treasure.
Enter Holly Jones who, ever so obligingly, gives credence to his publicly declared mission.
But why had it been necessary? Who, on Mauritius or Rodrigues, needed to be fooled into thinking that Connor Maguire was only there to do what Connor Maguire does best?
It struck Holly that the information Connor had supplied was vaguely connected to the truth. He probably told her only so much as he thought it would take to get her on side. Lying by omission. She wondered if the story he’d concocted for her father might also have some echoes of truth about it. It would be interesting to find out. Quinn had been downright evasive with his answers but was undoubtedly convinced of a good, if confidential, reason for Connor being here. Holly knew that her father would not have sent her in cold to cover a drug bust. He’d never send any of the journalists into something as dangerous as that without a safety net. So whatever story Connor told Quinn, it had nothing to do with drugs.
She checked her watch. Nearly two thirty. Eight thirty in the evening at home. Quinn would sometimes work as late as midnight. Might as well try. Holly returned to her room.
Given the isolation and basic infrastructure of the tiny island, she expected difficulties. The call went straight through but her father’s direct line just rang and rang. The home number got her mother’s voice on the answering machine. ‘It’s me,’ she told the impersonal tape. ‘Just phoning to say hi.’
Angry with herself for having been so easily taken in by an obvious con man, embarrassed too that he probably thought of her as nothing more than an annoying necessity, Holly went back to the beach and took her frustrations out on the bay. She swam hard, ignoring the slight pain from her bruised ribs. She duck-dived, floated, played hide-and-seek with fish under boats riding at anchor. It didn’t work. Thoroughly exhausted and still out-of-sorts, she showered, dried briskly, turned a beach chair to face west and soaked up the sun’s farewell to another day. She thought briefly of having a second browse through William’s journal, which was still in her camera case, but decided against it. To hell with William Maguire! To hell with the whole bloody lot of it. Above all, to hell with Connor Maguire!
Mosquitoes drove her inside just on dusk. Still in mutinous mode, Holly decided to eat alone rather than wait for Connor. Remembering that the dining room only opened at seven thirty, she considered a drink in the bar, changed her mind, and eventually resorted to the mini-bar selection in her room and settled on a scotch.
The four course set menu and a delightfully chatty maître d’hôtel, who was astonished that she dined alone, restored her humour somewhat. After dinner, Holly watched a traditional sega performed by members of the hotel’s staff. The suggestively erotic nature of the dance left her cold. She was back in her room by ten thirty. Of Connor, there had been no sign.
Somewhere around midnight Holly was awakened by a soft knocking at the door. ‘It’s me. Are you awake?’
It gave her some satisfaction to roll over and ignore him.
TEN
A violent thunderstorm woke Holly before it was fully light and she found it impossible to get back to sleep. Too many thoughts clamoured for attention. The biggest question of all was, what to do from here? The view of the problem, from where she lay staring up at the ceiling, was there were two possible options. One, pack up and go home, forfeit her fee for the treasure hunt feature and forget she’d ever met Connor Maguire. Or two, soldier on and do the job for Quinn, keeping a space between herself and Maguire big enough to engulf the Titanic. There was no doubt in her mind that she had been used. Okay, she could also play that game. She would use Maguire for the article.
Holly opened the curtains, made herself a mug of coffee and went back to bed, propped up on pillows, to watch the sunrise. There had been moments when she’d believed that his interest in her was genuine. What a joke! Maguire was a seasoned ball-player, a hard-headed businessman, one who would stop at nothing to achieve his purpose. All that bullshit about wanting to protect her and how perfect their night together had been was nothing more than window-dressing. He needed her onside, knew how skittish she was about men and took out a little insurance. Well he was welcome to his third agenda, whatever it was. Connor Maguire could duck and weave through that little mind game to his heart’s content. She would cover the search for William’s treasure, but only because it suited her. And if Maguire so much as hinted at anything intimate, she’d deck him.
Showered, she ignored the usual selection of baggy clothes and chose instead to wear a white cotton pants suit. It fitted with figure-hugging allure and the first shirt button was low enough to reveal an eyeful of cleavage. The thinnish material meant it was slightly see-through. To hell with protective coating. Let Maguire see what he was messing with.
She did not wait for him. Breakfast was buffet-style and the choices ranged from light continental to a fully cooked English feast, kippers and all. There was something for every taste, including the cheeky sparrows’ that took advantage of the open-air design and hopped from table to table, availing themselves of any crumb they could scrounge. Where possible, the selection of food was securely covered by cling film in an attempt to prevent any nasty little deposits.
Holly helped herself to fruit and yoghurt, following it up with pale scrambled eggs and spicy sausages. She was almost finished when Connor arrived.
‘Morning. Sorry about last night. I was invited for dinner.’ His stare was an attempt to get her to look up at him.
Flicking eyes briefly to his, she concentrated on stirring powdered milk into her coffee. ‘No problem.’
‘Fancy a trip to Port Mathurin?’ He sounded unsure of himself.
She cut into the last bit of sausage and imagined it was one of his fingers. ‘Sure.’
‘Holly . . .’
‘You have to help yourself. Food’s over there,’ she waved a hand vaguely. Wiping her mouth with a napkin she rose. ‘I’m finished. I’ll be in my room when you’re ready to go.’ Without waiting for his response, Holly left the dining room. She could always have coffee in her room.
It was twenty minutes later when he knocked. She opened the door, camera bag already slung over one shoulder. ‘Let’s go,’ she said briskly.
‘Holly . . .’ Connor went to touch her then let his hands drop. ‘Can we talk for a moment?’
‘Nothing to talk about. Come on, Maguire, we have treasure to find.’ She tried to step around him but he blocked the way.
‘Dammit, Holly.’ He moved forward. ‘Listen to me.’
Holly spun around, strode back inside, put the camera bag none too gently on the bed and turned to face him. Her voice, she was relieved to find, was steady and hard. ‘I don’t like being used, Maguire. I don’t like being lied to either. So from now on, if you don’t mind, keep your bloody distance and your bloody mind on the bloody treasure. That way I’ll get my story and be out of your hair. Is that understood?’
His eyes glittered. ‘Perfectly.’
‘Then let’s go.’
‘I wasn’t using you.’
‘Bullshit, Maguire. You still are.’
; ‘Yes,’ he admitted softly, ‘but not in the way you think.’
‘I don’t want to hear it. Forget the charm. It’s considerable but I’ll only fall for it once.’ She looked him up and down, deliberately and calculating. ‘Not bad either for a one-night stand.’
He sucked in breath sharply. The insult had gone home. He nodded curtly. ‘Let’s go.’
They walked in silence to the hired four-wheel drive. On the road Holly kept up the professional detachment. ‘Exactly why are we going to Port Mathurin?’
‘William lived near there.’
‘In his journal he said something about building a house on one of the small atolls.’
‘I know. Maybe he did. But at some stage, he also lived on mainland Rodrigues.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Local island knowledge. My contact told me. William built his house at a place called Anse aux Anglais.’
‘English Bay. Where is it?’
‘About a twenty-minute walk from Port Mathurin. I thought if we park in town and walk we might see . . . get a feel for his life here.’
‘Do you have the map with you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’
Both lapsed into silence.
The only road led up to Mont Lubin then down through a surprisingly prolific forest and series of steep hairpin bends to the capital. Port Mathurin was little more than a village, perched on the water and sheltering in the lee of the mountain. A deep water channel leading to the man-made harbour, one of only two natural breaks in the coral reef through which ships could pass, was clearly visible as they descended. There was a deep-sea game fishing boat alongside the wharf.
Connor parked in shade nearby. ‘We’ll walk from here.’
She made no comment, stepping from the car and retrieving her camera bag.
‘Would you like me to carry that?’
‘No thanks.’
They came to a war memorial commemorating Rodriguan volunteers who fought in both world wars. Connor stopped and looked at it. ‘Not something you hear about, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Want a photograph?’
‘Nope.’
He shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
The streets were narrow and old, set in a grid pattern, lined with a jumble of shops that reminded Holly of downtown Port Louis. All were practically deserted. ‘Rodriguans get up with the sun and go to bed with it,’ Connor explained. ‘Most business is done early in the morning. The only petrol station on the island is here in Port Mathurin, and it closes at two in the afternoon.’
Holly thought it time she gave more than a monosyllabic response. She knew her behaviour bordered on childish. This man had severely ruffled her feathers but there was no way she’d give him the satisfaction of revelling in it. ‘The banks close then as well. Did you read the information leaflet in your room? The whole place is tucked up for the night by six.’
‘There must have been some life here last night.’ Connor sounded relieved that she’d made a comment. ‘A couple of bars were open.’
They crossed the Winston Churchill Bridge on the edge of town and followed the coast. ‘How far is this place?’
‘Couple of kilometres max.’
It was very pleasant. Shady trees on one side, ocean the other and the temperature in the mid-twenties. Holly took a couple of photographs looking back towards Port Mathurin and suddenly stiffened, zooming the camera lens to its maximum magnification. ‘We have company.’
Connor didn’t turn, he kept looking out to sea. ‘Who?’
‘Justin Parker. He’s following us.’
‘Let him.’ Connor pulled the map from his shirt pocket. ‘In fact, let’s give him something to think about.’ He pretended to study the sketch then shaded his eyes and gazed around, pointing at nothing in particular.
Holly examined it too, which meant standing close to Connor. She couldn’t help but notice his aftershave – Hugo Boss – her father’s favourite and, not surprisingly, hers too. She moved back from Connor abruptly.
‘Come on,’ he said, folding the map and setting off again. Ten minutes later they arrived at English Bay.
‘Where was William’s house?’ Holly stood, hands on hips, looking at the few buildings, none of which seemed very old.
‘Haven’t a clue.’
She frowned, perplexed.
‘His house isn’t important, Holly. It’s the terrain I’m interested in. This is where William’s map comes closest to matching anything here or on Mauritius.’ He pulled the paper out again, seemingly oblivious of Justin Parker. ‘Look over there. With a bit of imagination . . .’ He shook his head. ‘No, perhaps not. Look at the map. It’s reasonably similar, but where are the terraces? It’s too different.’
Holly was photographing him. Her tape recorder was in her shirt pocket and running. ‘How come you’re doing this yourself? I’d have thought some minion would handle the preliminary work.’
‘What kind of question is that? You know why I’m really here.’
Do I? ‘One that perpetrates a fallacy. After all, Maguire, I’ve got to write something. Humour me. I’ll pretend it’s a real question and I’m interested in your answer.’
He looked exasperated. ‘When do you stop?’
‘When I’ve got the story I came to cover.’
‘That’s not what I mean and you know it.’
She was squatting low, photographing upwards, against a backdrop of pure blue sky. A deliberate angle, intended to make Connor Maguire look unassailable, a rock, a skyscraper, a giant in a land of mere mortals. It was an aggressive perspective. Holly thought it was perfect.
‘That’ll do it.’ She stood up. ‘As to your question, irrespective of meaning, my answer is the same. I don’t give a damn what you’re up to. My job is to make it look as though you’re chasing long-lost treasure. Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that why my presence here is being tolerated?’
A nerve ticked near his left eye. He glared at her for a very long moment before turning his head and looking away. ‘No. It is not,’ he said carefully.
‘Come on, Maguire,’ she taunted him, unable to stop herself. ‘I’m a big girl. I can handle the truth. In fact,’ she added cattily, ‘it would make a pleasant change.’
His eyes turned dark with anger, his voice was quiet in an effort to contain it. ‘The truth? Fine, you can have it. I didn’t ask for publicity, you manoeuvred me into it. Take your bloody pictures and get the hell out of my life. Is that clear enough for you?’
Holly flinched as if he’d struck her. Her face drained of colour. ‘You bastard,’ she choked. ‘Using me is one thing but attacking my professionalism is quite another.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘I’d have completed this assignment whether you slept with me or not.’
Connor was breathing hard. ‘Holly . . . I didn’t mean it like that.’
Tears blinded her. ‘I’ll wait at the car.’ She turned and walked swiftly away.
Connor groaned and closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, baby,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I can’t have you mixed up in this.’
Justin Parker, had Holly been in the right frame of mind, would have appeared comical in his attempt to hide from her. Wearing red shorts with a white and blue striped shirt, he stepped behind a tree to try to conceal himself. Unfortunately for him, he looked like a walking British flag and was as obvious as a broken leg. Holly drew level and stopped. Almost a minute went by before Justin looked out to see where she had got to. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw her waiting on the road.
She spoke through clenched teeth, taking all her anger and humiliation out on him. ‘Just so you are up to date, Justin, I’m fully aware that you’ve been following us. I know you have a copy of William Maguire’s map. I know your mother was a Maguire. And while you are indeed a biologist I’m reasonably certain that cloning the dodo has sod all to do with why you’re here. That established, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop this ridiculous ch
arade. It’s getting positively boring. You’re giving me a headache.’ Holly stomped away.
Holly Jones had made many mistakes in her life. Assuming Justin Parker was nothing more than a misguided fool acting on some stupid feud that was 250 years old was possibly her biggest yet. Had she known, had she seen the look on his face as she left, she might have regretted her hasty words.
When Connor reached the car some thirty-five minutes later, Holly was composed enough to remain civil. Hiding behind the job at hand, she spoke her mind in a neutral voice. ‘This assignment has become awkward to say the least. I need a few more photographs and one last interview. If we work on that today I’ll return the journal tonight and get out of your space. From tomorrow, you’ll be free to do whatever it is you are doing. If, by any chance, you do find the treasure, a fax with some details and a pic or two should wrap it up. Other than that, the article will be ready to roll. Is that a deal?’
‘I thought you wanted to write a piece on Rodrigues?’
‘I do. I’ll move out of the hotel and into one of the guesthouses here in Port Mathurin. It’s more central.’
‘Deal.’ He sounded relieved.
She nodded curtly. ‘If you don’t discover anything the feature will be mainly fiction and hearsay. Is that okay with you?’
His voice matched hers in neutrality. ‘As long as you stress the charity angle.’
‘It’s one of the few truths I’ve got.’
‘I’d like to see the copy before it’s published?’
‘Quinn will have it.’ She realised that her tape recorder was still running and turned it off. ‘Can we go back to the hotel now?’
‘Not yet. Since we’re out and about, let’s explore a bit.’
‘Come on, Maguire. You don’t need my company any more than I need yours.’
The Forgotten Sea Page 25