by Claire McNab
I shrugged off any thoughts of my duties, and enjoyed the moment. It was close to heaven in this little hidden nook. A brilliant blue butterfly flapped nonchalantly by, and the wind rustled the leaves of blossom-laden shrubs, through whose branches I could catch glimpses of the pastel water and a crescent of pale beach. Aylmer Resort was situated on the quintessential tropical island. Palm trees swayed in the cooling breeze that blew off the surface of the blue-green water lapping dazzlingly white coral sand. There were no dramatic crashing waves, as the Pacific Ocean spent its force on the Great Barrier Reef, which ran as a protective barricade down much of the coast of Queensland.
Half the island was rain forest, stocked like some vast film set with brilliantly colored tropical birds, cycads and ferns of every type, which grew like giant weeds in the gloom under the thick green canopy formed by trees stretching ever upward toward the light. I’d been delighted to find vines draped picturesquely from branch to branch. Less invitingly, an extraordinary range of insects of daunting size shared the island with us, and I’d been told there were leeches in some damp areas. The thought of leeches made me shudder.
The resort’s guest accommodation was based on one word: luxury. The choice was between an individual cabana nestled in the greenery near the water or a suite in the five-star hotel set into the side of a gentle hill. Only two stories high, the hotel was artfully hidden by skillful landscaping, so that from the sea it was almost invisible. The gardens were extensive, and there was even a maze, small but puzzling, that had emergency telephones at intervals in case some hapless visitor failed to find his or her way out.
My stomach growled, so I gave a last glance to a jewellike hummingbird suckling at a huge yellow blossom and reluctantly resumed my walk. In case anyone should think to wander in the direction of the staff housing, stern notices announced STAFF ONLY PAST THIS POINT at the entrance to the driveway that curved away so that even the most determined guest would be unable to view the buildings, which was a good thing, since they would have been an unwelcome shock. In stark contrast to the comfortable affluence of the rest of the resort, the staff quarters were strictly utilitarian.
Not for us the sumptuous interiors, the king-size beds, the private verandas and balconies. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if the initial plans for staff housing had called for something like military barracks. Fortunately someone had decided that a happy staff needed individual rooms. Mine was, as far as I could see, identical to everyone else’s. The walls were beige, the ceiling off-white, with a ceiling fan positioned in the center. A generic air-conditioner blocked the bottom of the narrow window, the top half being covered with a flimsy accordion blind, again in the ubiquitous beige. Cheap and functional furniture had been selected: a metal-frame single bed, a simple dresser with three drawers that doubled as a bedside table, a gooseneck lamp, a desk with a couple of shelves set above it, one beige plastic chair, a curtained hanging space for clothes. A beige-and-brown circular mat covered the floor near the desk, its bland coloring picked up by the cotton bedspread. After only a few days there, I’d become obsessively anti-beige, in fact, I’d vowed to myself that any future home of mine would be totally beige-free.
I vaguely remembered that some famous architect had said that every fully functional building had its own beauty. That architect would have been captivated by our ablutions block. The showers and toilets—one side male, the other female—and the laundry room with a row of washers and dryers, were located in a gray concrete structure with a flat roof. The building was constructed so that every area could be hosed out with a high-powered jet of water. This cleansing happened at five o’clock every morning.
The ablutions block brought back memories of roughing it on camping excursions when I was young, and I recalled my mother’s dire warnings about how every shower stall was guaranteed to harbor the fungus causing athlete’s foot. At that time I’d always obediently worn my rubber flip-flops to shower, and I rather regretted that I didn’t have them with me now.
The most popular areas in the staff buildings were the communal kitchen and the adjacent recreation room. Both rooms, predictably, were painted beige. The kitchen had the usual standard equipment of electric stoves, microwaves, sinks and benches, plus several idustrial-size refrigerators. These were always bursting with food and drink. Everyone labeled their possessions, but there were constant arguments about what bottle belonged to whom, and accusations about stolen milk and pilfered food.
Half the recreation room was set up with tables for dining. The other half had a television set that was always turned on, ancient table-tennis equipment, and an assortment of chairs that seemed to have been collected at a variety of jumble sales.
We weren’t supposed to eat in our rooms, but of course everyone did, and I had arrived with a stock of exotic goodies that could be used to lure people into conversations, working on the principle that it would be difficult to clam up on someone who was being bountiful. It was tiring, but I had already established myself as the most pleasant, cheerful, gregarious person possible, knowing that staff members would gossip if encouraged, and that they could be a valuable source of information about the Aylmers and their activities.
Of course there was one problem with being so outgoing, and that was the expectation that I might be interested in the bed-hopping that seemed to be a major form of recreation. No one seemed alarmed about my sexual orientation, information that Pete obviously had let slip at the earliest opportunity. Almost everyone seemed good-natured, younger than me, and relentlessly energetic. I was rather flattered to receive veiled propositions from several coworkers, both male and female, but I let it be known that underneath my smiling exterior I was nursing a seriously dented heart, so I was not ready for any relationship, however fleeting.
I was peering into a refrigerator and debating if it would be more profitable to walk all the way back to the main restaurant in the resort, where there was a small staff dining room at the back near the kitchen, when Seb slapped me on the shoulder. “Den!” he said. “Whatcha up to?”
“It’s Denise,” I corrected him, with little hope that he’d pay any attention. When I’d gone undercover I’d kept my first name, but of course dropped my surname, Cleever, for the rather ironic one of Hunter. Back in Canberra I’d trained all my colleagues at the Australian Security Intelligence Organization to call me Denise, but I was fighting a losing battle here. Maybe it was the heat that led to the cropping of names.
In some cases it was an advantage, and Seb was an example. I wondered what his parents could have been thinking of when they named him Sebastian. I figure it’s hard to look like a Sebastian at the best of times, for Seb it was impossible. He looked like a plain, single-syllable name like Ron or Sam, or maybe Joe. Bulging with muscles, he was built like a professional wrestler, but had the sunny, uncomplicated nature that I imagined went with a sweet-natured florist, or maybe a mild kindergarten teacher. He had short sandy hair, a flush of high color on his face, and a wide gap between his top front teeth. Seb was also bisexual, information he’d shared with me shortly after our first introduction.
He reached over me into the refrigerator and purloined a chicken leg from a plastic box clearly labeled JEN’S-DON’T TOUCH!!
“That’s Jen’s,” I observed.
“She won’t mind,” he said through a mouthful. “We’re an item.”
Somehow I doubted that. Jen was a willowy redhead who had her sights set considerably higher than Seb. She’d been seen kissing Quint Aylmer, the youngest son, under a tropical moon, at least that’s what Pete had told me during our shift this morning.
“So what’s the gossip?” I said, settling for a can of Coke to keep me going while I decided what to eat. Seb had been at Aylmer Resort for at least a couple of years, which was more than most of the staff, so he was an excellent source.
He leaned against the nearest counter while he demolished the rest of the chicken leg. Waving the bone at me, he said, “Take your pick. I’m an
authority of practically everything and everybody.”
“What do you know about Roanna Aylmer?”
Seb pursed his lips. “I hear she likes girls,” he said. He grinned knowingly at me. “Or maybe you’ve discovered that firsthand already.”
“Not me. She marched in this morning while I was behind the bar and embarrassed a guest called Eddie Trebonus.”
Seb’s pleasant face darkened. “Trebonus? The guy’s a total fuckwit.”
“You know him?” I was surprised. There were several hundred guests on the island at any one time, and I thought Eddie had only been there a few days.
Seb was still frowning. “I was up at the Big House cleaning the pool when this bloke comes out and starts bossing me around, like he owns the place.” The hand without the chicken bone formed a meaty fist. “I came near as dammit to decking the bastard.”
The Big House was the Aylmer family’s private living area, and although I’d never seen it, I gathered it was even more luxurious than the best of the resort’s guest accommodations.
“So what happened?”
My question brought a satisfied smile. “Mr. Aylmer Senior came out and told him to shut the hell up.”
I blinked. “He told his own guest to shut up?”
Seb nodded. “In so many words. Treated Trebonus like he was a servant or something. I kept working, of course, but I couldn’t help but laugh. Trebonus got red, then he went off without a word.”
I was ready to ask more, but Kay’s skinny body came rocketing into the kitchen. “Guess what! Something awful’s happened. Again.” Her sharp nose twitched. She was clearly gratified to be the bearer of bad tidings.
Kay’s hair seemed to be reflecting her pleasure, standing out from her skull like a miniature beige Afro. Yes, beige. That was probably why I couldn’t stand the woman, a fact I disguised with difficulty.
“Are you coming?” she demanded. “A guest’s got drowned. You should be down at the pier. It’s pandemonium!”
Chapter Three
As usual, Kay had exaggerated. There was no pandemonium by the white wooden dock jutting out into the aquamarine water, but rather a quiet desperation, as Sven, the lifeguard for the resort’s main swimming pool, worked on an inert body. Maneuvering around the knot of spectators, my feet squeaking in the fine-grain coral sand, I managed to avoid Jen, who was doing her best to shoo spectators away. She was a startling figure, with her milk-white skin, flaming red hair, and vehement gestures, but her efforts were doomed. As always seemed to happen with disasters, a mysterious communication process had advised everyone in the vicinity that something dramatic was underway and people were coming from all directions.
Usually I avoid acting like a vulture at accidents, but the person I was playing, Denise Hunter, would be an enthusiastic spectator, so I pushed my way into the group until I could get a better view. The victim was a male, well-built and with a thick head of dark hair matching the thicket on his chest. A wedding ring glinted on his flaccid left hand, and as no one nearby was sobbing inconsolably, I winced at the thought that his wife could be relaxing somewhere else on the island, having no idea that her husband was, in all probability, dead.
“Let me through, I’m a doctor.” A slight, self-important woman in a yellow bikini shoved her way to the front.
I looked sideways at the fleshy man beside me. He had a shaved head and wore a disapproving expression, wraparound dark glasses, a minuscule purple bathing costume, and a coat of glistening oil.
“What happened?” I asked.
He frowned at me, clearly not pleased to be questioned. “Scuba diving,” he said in a strong American accent, that to my amateur ear sounded like one from New York. He added with authority, “Amateurs get into trouble all the time.” He gave a grunt of disapproval. “Diving without a partner—the height of stupidity.”
“Do you know his name?”
He shrugged. “No idea.”
“Lloyd Snead,” said a female voice. Another Yank, but with a lighter intonation. The name she’d given rang an immediate alarm bell. I swiveled my head to look up at her face. I’m quite tall, but this woman was basketball-player height. “Lloyd Snead,” she repeated. “We sat at the same table at breakfast this morning. He was really quite charming.”
She had on a black two-piece, exposing skin that had been tanned so often that it was like lightly-oiled brown leather. She was probably in her mid to late thirties, but her face was a network of fine wrinkles. She looked over my head to flash a toothy grin at the fleshy man, “I’ve seen you around. I’m Cynthia Urquhart.”
She waited expectantly for a reply. After an awkward pause, he said with reluctance, “Fallon. Oscar Fallon.”
“Oscar! Quite a name.” She gave a girlish giggle. Oscar managed not to roll his eyes, but I felt no such restriction.
Cynthia was off and running. “You can call me Cindy. All my friends do.” Oblivious to his expression, which I thought indicated that he would rather be dragged over hot coals than call Cindy, Cindy, she went on, “I thought you knew poor Lloyd. You were talking to him in the dining room this morning when I came in.”
“I didn’t know him.”
His flat denial apparently irritated Cindy. She squinted until a web of wrinkles fanned out from the corner of each eye. “I saw you two together.” She glanced my way, as if for support. “I did, you know,” she said to me.
Oscar pulled back his lips in an irritated grimace. “So, we were talking. Doesn’t mean I know a thing about him.”
He turned his head away from her, indicating the conversation was over. Cindy muttered, “Rude bastard,” and moved off.
Oscar might not have known anything about Lloyd Snead, but I did. My preparation for this assignment had included intensive briefing of all the possible players I might come across on the island. Snead was a constant visitor, a banker who was rumored to be deeply into money laundering, but so far he’d evaded any specific charges. I inquired mildly, “Any idea who found Mr. Snead?”
Oscar gave a quick nod in the direction of a young boy, biting his lower lip, who stood back from the crowd. “That kid. He was swimming twenty meters off the beach when he started yelling for help. I went in and we dragged the guy out onto the sand. He was dead then, so it’s a waste of time trying to revive him now.”
It seemed he was right. The only movement in Snead’s body was caused by Sven’s unceasing efforts at resuscitation. The doctor put a hand on Sven’s arm, and shook her head. A hush had fallen over the crowd, as it became clear that the man was dead.
When I made my way over to the kid I saw that he was shivering, even with the tropical sun heavy on his shoulders. “Hey, that must have been awful,” I said, genuinely feeling the sympathy I was putting into my voice.
He looked at me, blank eyed. “Yeah, it was.”
“So what happened?”
“Dunno.” The boy gestured toward the mangroves that marked the end of the beach. “I was snorkeling over there, and I thought I saw a dolphin.” He wiped a hand over his face. “But it was this guy, sort of hanging in the water. I thought he was alive, at first, because his arms were sort of waving.” He swallowed. “but then he sort of rolled over, and I saw his face.”
“Was he wearing scuba gear?”
The kid nodded. “Yeah, tanks and all that, but the mouthpiece was loose, just floating by his face.”
“Do you know where the tanks are now?”
He frowned at me, as though at last he was wondering why I was asking all these questions. “The guy who helped me—we pulled the tanks off and left them on the sand.”
I looked in the direction he was pointing, but the pale beach was bare of any scuba equipment. I opened my mouth to ask another question, but a deep masculine voice behind me said, “You the kid who found him? Yes? You’d better come with me.”
I turned around to the handsome, petulant face of the younger Aylmer brother, Quint. He looked me up and down, read my name badge, and said, “Are you supposed t
o be on duty, Denise?”
“No. I’m between shifts.”
Quint gave me an electric smile that lasted just long enough to show off his superior dental work. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Denise, but it doesn’t make a good impression to have staff hanging about. Get my drift?”
I got it, sending him a you’re-the-boss look that brought an infuriatingly satisfied expression to his face. I was aware that Jen was hastening in our direction, so I sauntered off, not too fast, in case Quint Aylmer really thought I was rushing to obey him. I lurked in the palm trees until he and the kid left, then went back to check the beach for the scuba gear. It wasn’t there.
Even if Snead survived, the Queensland cops would be called in to investigate the accident, so I knew that my boss at ASIO would be alerted that something had happened. I was deep undercover, so I couldn’t risk a telephone call, even on a cellular phone, especially as we had information that the Aylmers had equipped the island with cutting-edge electronic surveillance apparatus. They also checked out staff exhaustively, and ASIO’s work in establishing my identity had paid off there. Denise Hunter had a birth certificate, educational records and a string of jobs that suited an itinerant worker. Documentation showed she’d spent quite a lot of time traveling overseas, which made it simpler to fill in the gaps here in Australia.
I recalled my trainer saying, “You’ve got to believe you are this person, Denise Hunter, twenty-four hours a day. Maybe no one’s observing you, but always act as if there’s a video camera following you everywhere you go, even watching you while you sleep. Take it as a given that your things may be searched, so everything you have with you must fit the personality and lifestyle of the individual you now are. Never, ever step out of character, no matter what happens.”
“So I can’t pack my collection of leather-bound Jane Austin’s?” I’d said. He’d rolled his eyes.
Together, we’d built up a personality and a history for Denise Hunter. She is a hard worker but is easily bored, so she doesn’t last long at any job. A bit of a gossip, Denise loves travel, and is always out for a good time. Not into deep thought, she is basically pleasant, shallow and hedonistic.