It was at that stage Joanne exploded. Simon shrunk back against his chair.
“Why the hell do you keep bringing Paul into our conversations? He is a complete stranger. A stranger I am unlikely to ever see again!”
“I keep bringing him up because he seems to be the only thing that breaks through that exterior of yours! Go on, tell me honestly that you don’t feel attracted to him.”
Joanne was shaking; she steadied her hands by locking the fingers together. When she spoke it was in a level calculated voice.
“I really do not feel that I should have to justify myself to you. But if you must know, yes, I felt attracted to him on an irrational level I have not felt before. Simon, no man gets to his age, looking like he does without either accumulating a wake of misery behind him or having a personality that is not in keeping with the exterior.”
“So you met him before the accident and he scares you?”
Joanne shook her head slowly.
“Right now I scare myself. Even if he was interested, even if he has no romantic attachments, I would never rely on someone else to make me whole. I need to get my life together and make some good choices before I ask anyone else to be part of my journey. At the moment I would latch on to a tree just because it was solid.”
Simon regarded her quietly the anger had drained from his face.
“Not every man is like Stephen you know.”
“But not every man is unlike Stephen. I might take the risk again one day. But that will be when I am stronger, when the tragedy of Sandy isn’t this painful and when if I was to get it wrong it wouldn’t devastate me.”
Simon nodded in understanding.
“This was our first argument.”
“And if you ever bring up the subject of Paul again it won’t be our last.”
“Have you checked the medical kit?” It was mid-morning and Geoff was checking and restocking the boat. He waited for a reply before impatiently repeating his question. Everyone involved was exhausted and the clean-up needed to be completed before they could go home and wash off the sadness of the search.
Muttering under his breath he came out of the cabin. Paul was standing on the wharf his broad back turned towards the boat. Bradley was walking slowly towards them, he was in uniform and even from a distance his face looked grim and set. The baritone of the policeman’s voice carried clearly over the gentle lapping of the water.
“The police launch found a body about an hour ago. It was washed up on Motutapu Island.” He shifted uncomfortably.
“Obviously there has been no formal identification yet. But it is a young woman with very little hair and the hair she does have is red. She wasn’t wearing a life jacket. I am guessing it was your call out.”
Bradley shook his head.
“It just doesn’t seem right, someone of that age. At least it will be closure for the relatives. They have been notified but I thought you should also be told after the effort you all put into the search. I imagine it will be in the hands of media by this evening.”
Bradley looked up pointedly and an unspoken understanding passed between them.
“The late night news is a very unfortunate way for Miss Cunningham’s friend to find out her body has been located.”
Bradley had overheard enough of Joanne’s disjointed, shock induced conversation to know the victim’s relatives were unlikely to contact her. Somehow that didn’t seem fair. The poor woman had been through enough. He hesitated, wrestling with the constraints imposed by his professional obligation.
He cleared his throat.
“I assume you will treat this information as confidential?”
Paul looked up and smiled.
“Of course. Thank you.”
Paul walked to the office and began thumbing through the pages of the invoice book. Geoff stood motionless watching him from the doorway.
Paul spoke without looking up.
“I don’t have any other option. I know it is not correct procedure. But would you do anything differently? If you answer yes, you would be lying.”
“I would do exactly the same. But is it the right thing to do? I really don’t know. Just remember to keep a professional distance for everyone’s sake.”
Paul continued to turn over the pages.
“Here it is. Lucky Lady, refill, Sergeant’s Channel owner Sandra Cunningham.”
He copied the address before turning to Geoff.
“I don’t know if it is the right thing to do either. But I do know until the body was found she would be hanging on to a remote glimmer of hope. I also know losing that remote hope in front of an impersonal television screen is unnecessarily cruel.”
Geoff didn’t have a chance to respond.
Paul stood undecided in front of the tiny white villa. It was surprisingly unspectacular with its neat picket fence and the weeping cherry tree that sat in pride of place in the small front yard. The only sign of life was the faint ringing that was emitted by the numerous wind chimes hanging around the grey painted veranda and the persistent yap of a small dog from behind the faded front door.
Paul looked at his watch. If he left now there was still enough time to catch the returning car ferry. He really had no business being here. Would she view his presence as a kind consideration or a blatant intrusion of her privacy?
Joanne looked up from the employment section of the newspaper. Critter had positioned himself at the front door and was scratching furiously on the frame between fits of excited yapping.
“Will you please shut up?”
He hesitated for a second to regard Joanne before continuing to bark.
“OK, you win.”
She opened the door and before there was even a chance to look outside Critter slipped past and careered down the path.
Paul stood casually leaning against a black Range Rover, his arms folded across a pale blue polo. He was regarding the infuriated little dog with an expression that conveyed a mixture of disgust and amusement.
“What are you doing here?”
Joanne spoke without making any effort to hide her irritation.
Paul scooped the indignant dog up and walked forward. He placed Critter in Joanne’s arms and looked at her sadly through his glacier blue eyes.
“She’s been found, hasn’t she?”
Paul nodded. There was a movement in the window next door. The curtains parted slightly revealing the enquiring face of an elderly neighbour.
“Perhaps you should come in.”
An awkward silence enveloped the room.
“I wasn’t sure if you would think it inappropriate for me to come to your house,” he shrugged. “It will probably be on the news tonight. I thought that was an unfair way for you to find out.”
The defensive shell seemed to slowly evaporate. Paul watched doubt play across Joanne’s face. A wisp of short honey blonde hair had broken loose from her bandana. For a moment her face seemed to flicker with indecision before she looked up and her slate grey eyes held him in a moment of intense intimacy.
“It was suicide.”
Paul spoke carefully.
“I thought a wake from a passing launch caused her to fall overboard.”
“A launch did pass too quickly and too close.”
Joanne looked down at her hands. When she looked up Paul’s expression was troubled.
“No! I did not assist her if that is what you are thinking!”
He relaxed.
“Was there a note? That would make things easier for you. There is always an official enquiry into a sudden death and in Sandy’s case there may be some questions asked as to why her life jacket had been removed.”
“There wasn’t an actual note but there was a diary. I cannot discuss the contents.”
“You might want to reconsider that if there is an enquiry.”
“There would be nothing positive to gain from her death being attributed to suicide.”
“No one can control or judge anybody else’s actions when they ar
e not living that person’s life. You must have your reasons for wanting to protect her choice.”
Joanne held his eyes.
“It would destroy her family. But do I have the right to sensor what I know? What does that make me?”
Paul smiled and reached across the table gently taking her hand.
“Sandy’s friend.”
Again Joanne seemed to struggle with some inner conflict. She removed her hand and moisture pricked behind her eyelids. Paul got up and walked to the tiny kitchen.
“Can I get you a warm drink?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t even think to offer you something.”
“Let’s forget etiquette for today.”
He turned towards the bench.
“What is this between us, Joanne?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Paul walked to the drawer and removed a spoon. He allowed a moment of silence and watched as Joanne’s eyes betrayed her.
“You know exactly what I mean. I realize the circumstances are not ideal but don’t you think we should talk?”
He walked to the rubbish bin to discard the tea bag and stiffened.
“I guess there is no reason for conversation.”
“I’m sorry, your flowers! Let me explain please.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.” He carried a cup of tea and placed it in front of Joanne. “Is there someone I can call so that you are not alone?”
Joanne ignored his question.
“Are you going to listen while I try to explain?”
“They were only flowers, it isn’t important.” Paul looked pointedly at his watch. “If there is no one I can contact for you I had better go or I will miss the next ferry.”
On the evening news a detached reporter announced the body of a young woman had been found in the Hauraki Gulf. The body had not as yet been formally identified but was located close to where twenty five year old Auckland woman Sandra Cunningham went missing last Monday. Sandra Cunningham was presumed drowned. An autopsy would be performed to confirm the identity and the cause of death.
Chapter 33
“Miscommunication”
“The acoustics are great. They make our studio sound live.”
Chloe put her guitar down on the edge of the grass amphitheatre and turned to Paul.
“Have you confirmed a date for the opening yet? If you leave it much longer you will miss the last of the summer weather.”
“They are predicting good weather for February and into March. It has taken so much longer to organize than I had expected but I am almost ready to finalize the advertising. At least with the new open fireplace we have something unique to offer dinners over the winter months.”
“Mari showed me that last week. It is very impressive. It gives the restaurant an English pub atmosphere.”
Paul nodded and continued to fine tune the strings of his guitar.
“Are you going to the funeral?”
“What funeral?” He looked confused.
“The poor young woman that drowned in Sergeants Channel.”
“Sandra Cunningham? No, why would I go to her funeral?”
Paul felt irritated by Chloe’s knowing smile. He got to his feet and brushed off imaginary grass.
“Chloe, I do not think I would be welcome at the funeral after my last conversation with her friend.”
“You can’t expect her to behave normally under the circumstances and from what you have said you didn’t exactly give her a chance to explain herself.”
“I really don’t want to discuss Joanne with you. I obviously misinterpreted the situation.”
He knew that Chloe would not drop the subject easily and had already started to walk away when she spoke.
“Paul, at least consider going. Your timing wasn’t exactly ideal and perhaps at the risk of a damaged pride you should give her the opportunity to explain.”
“It really isn’t important Chloe. Maybe she didn’t like pink and white flowers,” he smiled boyishly. “And it isn’t a matter of pride. It is a matter of dignity.”
“There is very little that divide dignity and pride. In the end they can both result in the same negative outcome. It is probably the last time you will ever have a reason to see her. You can either risk loss of face or wonder if you should have given her one last chance.”
“I will think about it. Now how would you like a glass of good red before you head home?”
Paul reached down and helped Chloe to her feet.
The persistent knocking on the door woke Joanne from a fitful sleep. Critter was yapping and his eyes were bulging in alarm. Joanne opened the door and was formally greeted by two uniformed police officers. The woman was in her mid to late twenties, she had cold detached eyes and the man was not much more than twenty. He appeared far too young to be in authority and exuded an abundance of confidence in his abilities. Joanne recognised them as a combination of vivid imagination, crisp newly acquired uniforms with information from their textbooks fresh in their minds and ready for quotation.
“Joanne Kyle?”
“Would you mind answering a few questions regarding the death of Sandra Louise Cunningham?”
Joanne stiffened. She had accepted there would be some sort of official enquiry to establish that there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding Sandy’s sudden death. But waking up to this formality made her nerves stand on edge. She took a minute to gather her composure.
“Of course not, please come in.”
Joanne glanced towards her drawers. She had placed the diary deep underneath layers of clothing.
Once settled at the table, the woman who had introduced herself as Detective Donovan spoke.
“You were the last one to see Sandra alive?”
“Yes.”
Obviously, Joanne thought.
“Did you know she was suffering from a terminal illness?”
“Yes.”
No, you’re kidding. I thought her hair fell out and her body shrunk to the size of a ten year old for no reason.
“Was there any sign of depression recently or any changes in her routine?”
“Not that I had noticed.”
She actually was happy that her life was almost over and had taken up marathon running in her spare time. What was it with these people? Were they stupid? Joanne struggled to retain her professional face and composure.
“Where were you when Sandra fell over board? Did you see her fall? Or did you perhaps hear anything?”
“I was bringing in the anchor. I had my back turned to where she was sitting. The noise was loud, too loud for me to hear anything.”
Joanne smiled sweetly and explained.
“The anchor is attached to a chain. The chain drags on the front of the boat when coming in. There was also noise from the passing launch and the wind and water.”
“In your statement you advised a vessel passed within a few feet of your boat, the Lucky Lady.” The woman referred quickly to her notes. “You said it was moving quickly and the wake created was severe. Did you warn Miss Cunningham?”
“That is correct. The launch did not slow down and was very close. The wake was severe, in fact I was bruised when I was thrown against the hatch. I yelled to Sandy but as I have said previously there was a lot of noise and whether she heard me or not I have no way of knowing. In fact I cannot be sure she was even on board at that stage.”
“Were you in control of the vessel known as Lucky Lady at the time that Miss Cunningham disappeared?”
“Are you asking if I was literally in control or if I was considered the skipper and therefore responsible?”
Joanne’s voice had taken on the tone of a defence lawyer. The police officer looked up in surprise and ignored the answer. She continued, but this time appeared more cautious in her questioning.
“Was Sandra Cunningham wearing a lifejacket? If so, did she put it on herself and was she competent enough to make sure it was correctly fitted and secure?”
“Sandy was wearing a safety approved lifejacket. I can assure you it was correctly fitted and secure. I can also assure you that I personally checked it before leaving her to attend to the anchor.”
“I understand she was physically affected by her disease?” The male officer had remained silent during the interview but both officers had been studying Joanne intently.
“She was terminally ill, of course she was affected by her disease!”
It was then that Joanne lost the tiny thread of composure she had been fighting to retain. This line of questioning had pushed her over the edge of the cliff she had been standing on.
“For fuck’s sake!” she yelled like a mad woman. “Sandy not Sandra was having one of the few good days she had had for months. She was an empty shell, living in a private hell while a cruel disease ate her from the inside out! What do you want me to say? Yes, she was depressed. What do you expect? Sandy loved life more than any one I have ever met and she knew she was running out of it.”
“I didn’t see her fall overboard, I didn’t hear her fall overboard, I didn’t see the bloody lifejacket slip from what was left of her ruined body and if I had, you know something? I really don’t know what I would have done to prevent it.”
Joanne burst into tears.
The male officer spoke in a lowered voice. The air of confidence had evaporated revealing doubt and inexperience.
“But the fasteners on the lifejacket were not done up when it was found.”
The two police officers sat silently although the icy woman continued to scribble notes on her page. Eventually she looked up and her expression seemed slightly softer.
“Did Sandra Cunningham, in your opinion, die as the result of accidental drowning?”
Joanne sighed.
“Absolutely. I have no doubt whatsoever.”
Chloe pushed through the front door impatiently. Geoff followed; he paused briefly to smile an apology at Paul.
“You are not even getting ready.”
The Quilt Page 30