The Forgotten Sea

by Beverley Harper

  ‘I’ve admitted it several times but you weren’t listening.’

  ‘I’m listening now.’

  He kissed her forehead. ‘I needed a smokescreen but it had to be done right. Publicity wise, I had to appear reluctant. You came along at the perfect moment.’

  ‘When you were with Liang Song?’

  ‘The timing couldn’t have been better.’

  ‘I don’t understand. She knows why you’re here.’

  ‘It’s complicated. And I still can’t tell you the whole story.’

  ‘There’s another reason why you want to get at Raoul Dulac, isn’t there? It’s not just the shipping deal.’

  ‘No comment. Look what happened today. You got away with it but telling lies is not exactly your best thing. You’re too intrinsically honest.’

  ‘Is it dangerous, this thing you can’t, or won’t, tell me?’

  ‘It could be.’

  Her fingers tensed on his skin. ‘Meaning?’

  He held her tightly. ‘Meaning it could be.’

  ‘What if I continue to pretend to be covering your treasure hunt?’

  ‘No. I’d rather know you’re safe.’

  ‘But, if it helps –’

  The kiss was long and hard, dominating and full of caring.

  ‘Here’s another truth for you,’ he said, his breathing a little unsteady. ‘I admit I needed a freelance reporter to suit my own purposes. I didn’t expect to fall in love with her. Now that I have, I want her out of danger.’

  ‘What if she won’t leave?’ Holly slipped easily into the third person conversation.

  ‘If she loves me, she’ll leave.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  His fingernails traced imaginary patterns down her bare back, making her shiver. ‘Won’t she?’ he asked relentlessly.

  ‘Don’t do that. I’m not going anywhere while you do that.’

  His dark eyes said it all. ‘I want you,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve never wanted anyone more.’ He saw her look of uncertainty. ‘No, baby.’ His lips were on hers and he spoke against them. ‘I’m not using you now.’

  ELEVEN

  Holly left Rodrigues on Thursday. She and Connor had spent all the previous day together, combining her interest in the island with an overwhelming desire to simply be in each other’s company. Given the circumstances, it had been an extraordinary day. Still unanswered questions could so easily have caused tensions between them, but both were determined to ignore anything even vaguely contentious. They behaved like two lovers with nothing more on their minds than each other. Not even the lurking presence of what was probably a very surprised Justin Parker, given Holly’s denunciation of Connor yesterday, was intrusive. In fact, Connor actually remarked that having him underfoot all the time was probably a good thing, since it inhibited his almost obsessive desire to behave like a love-struck, hands-on teenager.

  The only time a note of seriousness intervened was when Holly expressed concern that, should the need arise, Connor might not be able to shake off their persistent shadow. To that, he simply smiled and said, ‘I’ll manage.’

  As the Air Mauritius ATR 42 bit into the air and turned westwards over the coral shallows, Holly wondered when she would see Connor again. They had reached a compromise of sorts. She needed more time in Mauritius to finish her feature on the island. Connor would remain on Rodrigues. With fingers crossed Holly agreed not to try to contact him or involve herself in any way in what he was doing. The understanding was reached with grudging acceptance on both sides.

  Connor wanted her back in Australia. She could see why. He could operate better without constant concern for her safety. But Holly had to stay closer than that. She had to be on hand in case something went wrong, though what she could do if anything did was far from clear.

  As soon as the seatbelt sign rang, Holly angled her chair back as far as it would go and stared out the window, not really seeing anything. She was looking inwards and backwards and felt that she had entered a world of intangibles. Considering all the false starts and misunderstandings with Connor, the fact that she could fall in love with him came as something of a surprise. But falling in love was exactly what she was doing. No. Scratch that. Had done. The process, although still requiring time and attention, was complete. She was no closer to knowing his third reason for being in Mauritius – and considering he’d talked about the drug deal she still had no idea what could be so dangerous that he wanted her out of the way – but she was finally trusting her instincts. When he said he loved her, he did. Yes, he had used her, but making love to her was not part of it.

  With her mistrust at last out of the way, Holly knew that she had never enjoyed simply being with a man so much. There were many things about him that touched her. Genuine feelings shown in numerous little ways – ways he couldn’t possibly have faked. Just before they went to sleep on Tuesday night, with his arms firmly around her, he’d said, ‘Stay close. If you run away, Holly Jones, I’ll retrieve you.’

  ‘Retrieve me!’ She’d been amused at the word.

  ‘Retrieve you.’

  And sure enough, at some stage during the night she’d turned over and left the circle of his arms only to be woken by him searching the bed and sliding her back against his body. His whispered, ‘Bad Holly,’ and the sleepy kiss on her hair spoke volumes. She was certain he wasn’t properly awake and that his actions had been instinctive. A little later in the night, or was it earlier in the morning, he’d turned over and simply taken her with him. Just wrapped her tighter in his arms and over she’d gone. His breathing told her he was still asleep.

  In the morning she’d woken to the lightest touch of his fingers on her cheek. She’d opened her eyes and there he was, his face just centimetres from hers, watching. He kissed her tenderly.

  ‘I’m still in your eyes,’ she whispered.

  ‘You always will be,’ his quiet words came back.

  And she was. During the entire day and evening of Wednesday, the way he felt about her was there, unhidden. Although an enigma in many respects, when Connor Maguire committed himself he left Holly in no doubt that her feelings for him were fully reciprocated. Rodrigues, perhaps sensing a special something, turned on its very finest weather for them.

  They talked of so many things. Walking hand in hand along the beach, music – he liked opera, she liked jazz. On the top of a hill behind the hotel, the results of the Republic vote in Australia – he hadn’t wanted it, she had. They slithered and slipped their way up Mont Limon, the highest point on the island, to take in the 360 degree vista. A lively conversation about political correctness in journalism revealed they shared the same views on the subject – boutique idealism and ruination of the English language.

  Lunchtime found them in Port Mathurin, at Le Capitaine restaurant. Both opted for the creole lamb.

  ‘Goat,’ Connor announced, after the first mouthful.

  ‘I don’t care,’ she replied. ‘It’s absolutely delicious.’

  ‘Will it always be this good?’ he asked suddenly. He was not talking about the goat.

  Holly smiled easily. ‘Probably not. I can be bloody grouchy sometimes.’

  ‘Really!’

  Holly ignored his mock surprise. ‘How about you?’

  He grinned. ‘I’m the most even-tempered man in the world.’

  ‘Good,’ she said airily. ‘I hate grumpy people.’

  That night, Holly was ‘retrieved’ at least twice and woke in the morning on the other side of the bed. She had no memory of him turning over with her. She’d slept on as he’d taken her with him.

  ‘If I get up for a wee in the middle of the night,’ she complained, ‘I’m likely to take a wrong turn and walk into the wall.’

  ‘It’s okay, my baby,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll come and pick you up.’

  Holly emerged from her memories and realised she had an idiotic grin stretched from ear to ear. Connor Maguire was the reason. He was her kind of man. Never having been a devotee of
American-style slang, she now, in a complete about-face, loved the way he called her ‘my baby’. She adored the taste and smell of him. His sense of humour connected to hers, his hands on her drove her wild, his body joined to hers was pure bliss and, as an added extra, she thought he was so good-looking he probably should be bottled in preservative for future generations to fawn over. Okay, so she was biased. That was allowed. And here she was leaving him on Rodrigues for an unknown length of time on an unknown and dangerous mission for an unknown yet important reason. She had to be out of her mind!

  As the ninety-minute flight progressed, so too did Holly’s thoughts.

  They had a great deal in common but sufficient differences of opinion to ensure a debate that was both challenging and enjoyable. Connor Maguire was not afraid to be different. And if she pushed him too far, he was more than capable of giving as good as he received. Holly knew she needed that in a man. Pushovers might be easier to live with but their willingness to acquiesce when the chips were down would quickly lose its appeal.

  She sighed. When would he return to Mauritius? At what point should she return to Australia? Would Connor get in touch with her? He knew she was returning to the same hotel.

  Touching down in Mauritius, Holly’s thoughts were still 650 kilometres away on Rodrigues. She had to admit though, it had been a long time since she’d had such nice ones.

  With a bit more local knowledge than before, Holly decided it would be a waste of time hiring a car. The Merville Beach Hotel had a bus service to and from the airport. Once through to the baggage hall, she made inquiries and found that the next international flight was not due for two hours. That meant at least an hour before the hotel bus would arrive with departing passengers. She found a seat from where she could see the hotel buses arriving and settled down to wait.

  ‘You weren’t being entirely honest with me on Sunday.’ The voice so close behind her made Holly jump. Oblivious to everything external, she’d had no idea of his presence.

  She spun around. Guy Dulac had a kind of triumphant gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Son of Raoul,’ Holly said, trying to sound friendly.

  He sat on the plastic seat next to her, leaned close and murmured confidentially, ‘You’re not gay.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Holly would have moved away but she was already on the end seat.

  ‘My spies tell me everything.’

  His proximity was positively intrusive. He was making her uncomfortable. Perhaps he was used to girls who didn’t mind him taking up a large chunk of their personal space. Holly was not one of them. ‘Would you mind sitting back a bit, you’re crowding me.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He moved, but not very far. ‘So when can I see you?’

  The over-the-top youthful enthusiasm made Holly smile. ‘You can’t. I’m too busy.’

  He didn’t smile back. His voice became a shade harder. ‘Come on. You journalists are all the same. All you ever do is sit around drinking.’

  Holly sighed. Time to see him off. ‘Sorry, Guy. I’m not interested.’

  He blinked. He hadn’t expected her to say no and mean it. ‘Just a drink. No harm in that.’

  She rose. ‘I said no. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ He stood up and used his dominating height to again invade her space. ‘What’s your problem?’

  Holly stepped backwards. She’d tried to be nice and it hadn’t worked. Let’s see how he handled a sterner line. ‘My current problem is people like you who can’t take no for an answer.’ She turned and walked away, regretting the fact that, since she had her pull-along suitcase to contend with, the departure lacked pizzazz.

  Holly did not notice, and neither did Guy Dulac, a slightly built, smartly dressed Indian loitering beside a flower stall just inside the building. In fact, Detective Sham was carefully observing the two of them. When Holly walked away with her case he subconsciously released a sigh of relief. He’d noticed the tourist earlier and couldn’t help but think what an attractive woman she was. When Guy Dulac made his approach he experienced a feeling of disappointment. Usually a good judge of character, Detective Sham would have put money on her having better taste. However, it was soon obvious from the woman’s surprise and body language that she was not enjoying the encounter. Sham felt some concern. Guy Dulac was not the kind of man who took kindly to rejection.

  Detective Sham had been hard at work on the floater case ever since Francois Prost confirmed that the girl had died of a massive overdose of heroin, most probably administered against her will. Extensive bruising where the needle had entered her arm and damage to the vein itself were good indicators that Corrine had struggled desperately to avoid the injection. She had probably died a peaceful death but she sure as hell hadn’t wanted to. She’d had sex just before the overdose and all the signs pointed to her being a willing participant. An earlier snack consisted of a chicken leg and a few bits of cheese. She had been a young, good-looking girl in peak physical condition and some bastard had denied her old age. And Sham, who had a nose for such things, was reasonably certain that Guy Dulac was that bastard.

  His inquiries had led him to a single suspect, but he had no proof, nothing that would stand up in a court of law. It had not been difficult, just frustratingly slow. A process of elimination, interviewing, cross-checking family and friends, everyone in fact who knew her. Corrine’s boyfriend had been first. Detective Sham believed the lad’s obvious grief. The boy had been devastated, quick to blame himself for an argument which meant they hadn’t seen each other for a week.

  ‘What was the row about?’ Sham had asked.

  ‘Nothing really. There was this fellow always hanging around her. At first, she didn’t pay any attention to him but lately . . .’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Dulac. Guy Dulac.’

  ‘She was okay,’ Corrine’s boss had said. ‘A bit unreliable but that’s quite normal with our casuals. I think she enjoyed partying too much to take work seriously.’

  ‘Did she play the field?’ Sham asked.

  ‘Not really. She had a regular boyfriend but I believe there was someone else she saw occasionally.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Guy someone. Don’t know his last name. Blond, very tall, good-looking boy, around twenty I would say. Wealthy family if his car was anything to go by. French, I think.’

  One of the permanent staff, an older woman who claimed that Corrine had been like a daughter to her, added more. ‘She didn’t get on with her mother, you see. If anything was bothering her, she came to me.’

  ‘And was anything bothering her?’

  ‘No. Well . . . yes. She had man trouble.’

  ‘What kind of man trouble?’

  ‘She couldn’t make up her mind. You know how it is with these young girls. She had a nice boyfriend and she loved him, I’m sure. But there was this other boy too. She was flattered by his attention, dazzled by the money he spent on her. He never stopped buying her presents.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Guy Dulac.’

  Then from Corrine’s best friend. ‘I told her Guy Dulac was trouble. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had something to do with it. He’s wild.’

  ‘Wild how?’

  ‘He drinks. Smokes pot. I don’t know about hard drugs. Corrine was fascinated by him.’

  And then, from Guy Dulac himself. ‘Who?’

  ‘Corrine Vitry.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘I can produce a dozen reliable witnesses who say you knew her quite well.’

  ‘What was that name again?’

  ‘Corrine Vitry.’

  ‘Oh, Corry. Sure, I know her. What’s she been up to?’

  ‘Not a lot. She’s dead.’

  ‘Well, well, how sad. Do I need my lawyer now or later?’

  Detective Sham wanted to slam a fist into that softly supercilious face and wipe out the mocking smile. He had met his kind before. It was inevitably the rich and influential who could fabricate
a watertight alibi from one hundred per cent fiction. Sure enough, Solange and Raoul Dulac supported their son’s story that he was at home, sick, throughout the entire duration of Corrine Vitry’s last few hours on this earth. Sham’s nose was itching. Guy Dulac was his boy, he was sure of it.

  He needed a reliable witness, probably more than one, or evidence so incriminating that, alibi or not, the defence would collapse. But his case would have to be good. The Dulacs of this world believed themselves above the law and were not adverse to lying when it suited their purpose.

  Being the meticulous and thorough kind of policeman he was – dedicated to an unshakeable belief that, regardless of life’s lottery, decent people should be able to live in peace, without fear of violence or intimidation – Sham began collecting information about Guy Dulac. From a reluctant snout in Port Louis he learned that his prime suspect regularly bought brown sugar – Indian heroin.

  Two prostitutes and an ex-girlfriend told him that Guy Dulac did more than dabble in the darker side of life. Group sex, glue sniffing, cannabis, speed, heroin, snow, drug dealing, bondage, bribery. You name it, he was into it.

  Sham discovered that Guy Dulac had no conscience when it came to women. Nor did he particularly care what age they were. One estranged husband had even quoted the boy’s words when he found him in bed with his wife of fifteen years. ‘If you can’t keep it wet and happy, I can.’

  It became abundantly clear that no-one liked Guy Dulac, or any of the Dulac family for that matter. Initially, however, most people he spoke to were reluctant to be specific, obviously afraid of the consequences. It was only when they learned that it was a murder inquiry that tongues loosened.

  In the course of his investigation, Sham gathered enough evidence to put the Dulac boy away for ten years. But he wanted more. He wanted to wipe the smug smile from the upstart’s face. He wanted to do the kid for Corrine Vitry’s murder. It was the least he could do for her family.

  The detective made no attempt to hide when Guy Dulac looked over and saw him. He nodded briefly when the boy’s eyes registered his presence. Instead of acknowledging the gesture, Guy Dulac rose and made his way over to the flower stall. ‘Tailing me?’