by Anna Legat
In all her innocence, her mother is oblivious to her misgivings. She says, ‘So when are you coming back? It’s just that when you do, you could pop over for tea. I know there is little point cooking for one –’
Gazing out into the horizon, Gillian notices two people emerge from the chalet next door and head towards the water. ‘Must go, Mum! Talk later!’
They are going for a swim. The woman is slim but shapely with a narrow waist and a perky behind; she is wearing a bikini that is made of narrow strings and knots, and very little else. The man is past his prime; his overhanging stomach and thinning hair point to someone over forty. They’re holding hands. It is an unpleasant chore, one Gillian is most familiar with, to barge in on their intimate moment, but she has a job to do. She charges towards them and nearly knocks the woman over as she stops unexpectedly to dip her foot in water.
‘Oh, sorry! So Sorry! Are you all right?’ Gillian is brimming with apologies.
The woman gawps at her and nods. ‘Yes, I’m fine. No problem.’
Gillian sighs with relief. ‘Great … And hello …’
‘Hello,’ the man says and eyes her up and down as if she was a nasty barnacle stuck between his toes. Gillian is glad to hear he is English. At least no language barriers to reckon with – only his attitude!
‘Sorry I ran into you like that …’
The woman presents a friendly smile. She is not as young as Gillian first thought: at least in her mid-thirties. ‘I’m fine, honestly. Don’t worry.’
‘I couldn’t help noticing you’re my neighbours. I’m staying in number 42,’ she points to her chalet.
‘Oh …’ The man has little interest in Gillian’s revelations.
‘Nice to meet you,’ says the woman.
Gillian is no good at diplomacy. This is as far as she can take her respect for guests’ privacy. ‘Same here,’ she tries to smile. ‘I’ve only just got here. This morning, as a matter of fact. A woman was staying here before me. Nicola Eagles.’
The man is gaping at her. He is puzzled and annoyed in equal measure. ‘OK, if you say so. We’re going swimming if you don’t mind.’
‘I do. I mean – I don’t mind you swimming. I need to ask you about that woman. Nicola Eagles.’
‘We don’t know Nicola Eagles.’
‘Early forties, shortish brown hair, average build? I have a photo –’
‘No,’ the woman shakes her head and furrows her brow. Unlike her partner, she looks like she wants to be helpful. The man on the other hand, doesn’t.
‘Look, lady, we don’t know Nicola Eagles. And we want to go for a swim. We’d really appreciate if you –’ The end of that sentence would have been buggered off or something to that effect, if Gillian hadn’t interrupted: ‘I am investigating her disappearance. DS Marsh, Sexton’s Canning CID.’
The man closely examines her ID card. ‘Far away from home,’ he comments and returns the card to Gillian. ‘We still don’t know Nicola Eagles.’
‘Here is her photo. Have a look, please.’
‘We only got here last night,’ the man explains. Gillian realises their arrival date should have been the first thing to ask them about before she embarked on the full-blown interrogation.
The woman is examining the photo. She asks, alarm rising in her eyes. ‘How did she disappear? How can you disappear here? I thought it was safe –’
‘We don’t know yet. Please don’t be alarmed. This is just an informal inquiry,’ Gillian says sheepishly. ‘Enjoy your stay.’
As she is strolling back to her chalet, she can hear the woman ask her husband, ‘Do they have those Somali pirates operating in these waters, Mark?’
‘How should I know?’
Hassan is openly dismayed to see her. He has only just left her at her front door. She has found him in one of the restaurants, kitchens to be more precise, discussing the menu with the chef. The kitchen is hot as hell, hotter than outside, which says a lot about the unbearable temperature. How can people function in this heat? Gillian pushes across the sandy floor, manoeuvring amongst stainless steel tables and steaming hobs.
‘Sorry, I need to ask you for something,’ her manner is matter-of-fact but she tries to avoid eye contact with the distraught manager. In vain.
‘Can it not wait? I am busy,’ Hassan’s eyes are large and bulging – accusatory.
‘The quicker I get what I need the sooner you’ll see the back of me.’
He speaks, fast and furious, to his chef, presses the menu into his hand and leads Gillian out of the kitchen. For which she is hugely grateful. They sit at one of the tables in the restaurant. It is nearly lunchtime and tables are beginning to fill with diners: colourful, relaxed, laughing, radiating heat through their sun-tanned skins. Hassan steals a few nervous looks, but no one seems to take any interest in his tête-à-tête with the dreadful policewoman.
‘What can I do for you?’ He is patience personified – his hands are clasped together and placed on the table with his chin resting on them.
‘It occurred to me that some of my witnesses may no longer be on the island. People who were here a week ago may by now be long gone. Am I right?’
‘The standard stay is for a week, sometimes two weeks,’ Hassan agrees, still unsure how he can be of any assistance short of herding all the last week’s guests back to the resort.
‘Yes, precisely. I need to talk to anyone who may have witnessed something when Nicola Eagles was here. That includes all staff members as well as the guests. So that takes me to your guest list. I need a full list of your guests – everyone who stayed here between January 31st and last Friday … that’d be 6th February – I’ll need their contact details, names, etc. …’
‘That is out of the question!’ Hassan’s chubby cheeks and his double neck are shaking with indignation, his eyes bulging even more than before, his fingers clutching the edge of the table. ‘I’m not prepared to disclose personal information about any of our guests.’
‘This is a police inquiry.’
‘This is an informal police inquiry. I’d lose my job! We’d lose custom if this got out –’
‘If it gets out that a guest has vanished from this resort without a trace, you will definitely lose custom. I suggest discreet co-operation –’
‘No! I can’t do that. You’ll have to go through official channels, DS Marsh. The privacy of our guests is paramount.’
‘I do suggest you get in touch with your superior.’
‘I will. And he’ll get in touch with yours. This is an intrusion! I have co-operated fully with the local police – Detective Nasheed. I know how far you can push me. I know I don’t have to do this!’ He is hitting the table with the flat of his palm. The table vibrates, which makes him stop. ‘I have to get back to my duties. If you excuse me!’ He is getting up, the conversation over. Nasheed has obviously done some damage control before releasing Gillian on his patch.
‘Staff members?’ she shouts after Hassan. ‘Can I have their names?’
He stops, thinks. ‘You can collect that from my office. Tomorrow.’
A svelte, brown-eyed waiter arrives, wearing a sarong, sandals and a friendly grin. Oblivious to his boss’s wrath, he greets Gillian with utmost cordiality, inquires after her wellbeing and asks for her chalet number. He wonders if she would like a drink with her lunch. A cool beer would be nice – but she was on duty. She orders orange juice. She is told to help herself to the buffet. That is when she realises how hungry she is.
Jon calls her halfway through sushi with green salad – Gillian’s first starter. ‘What time is it back there?’ she almost chokes. ‘Must be close to midnight! Do you ever sleep?’
‘Going that extra mile for you, you should be grateful. Do you want to hear it, or not?’
‘Fire away!’
‘Boring stuff out of the way first: Peter Bird. He checks out. Water sports freak. He was where he said he would be, came back yesterday. Spoke to him. He said something similar to what Paul Collins
said, except he phrased it better – called her strange. Said she lied about a few things, but then everyone lies on those dating sites – his words, not mine.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Gillian smirks under her breath.
‘Interesting thing he said …’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘He said she was a crap swimmer. Nearly drowned when he took her kayaking.’
‘Ahhh …’
‘I thought you may find it to your liking. Maybe she did drown?’
‘That’s what the police here think.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘Would she go swimming if she couldn’t swim?’
‘Maybe she wanted to drown?’
‘That takes us back to suicide and I don’t believe she was planning to do that.’ Gillian catches a moment to push the last medallion of sushi into her mouth. She speaks with her mouth full, ‘The blood? Do we have a match with Nicola Eagles’?’
‘They haven’t sent any samples from Malè.’
‘Bloody-minded Nasheed!’
‘Interesting bits now. Ready?’ While Gillian mumbles encouragement, Jon gets on with it, ‘The will. Spoke to her lawyer. You owe me – had to go out, put on a suit and sweat like a pig. I bloody hate lawyers. My ex’s –’
‘Is there any profession out there you don’t hate, Jon?’
‘Never mind that. You owe me, like I said. House calls are not in my job description.’
‘Thanks, Jon. Will take you for a drink when I get back.’
‘Right you are! So then – spoke to the lawyer. He handled her inheritance and the sale of her flat in London. Doesn’t look like she might have another lawyer. So he says no will. He had suggested she made one and she was going to, but it didn’t happen. So as things stand, guess who gets it all?’
‘The brother?’
‘Exactly. Robert Eagles, our friendly salesman! And this is where it gets juicy – the man is broke. Flat broke. He works on commission: high stakes and that, but the software company isn’t doing too good. Nine months ago he lost his house: mortgagee sale. He’s renting now … some rent-to-buy scheme. Wife’s unemployed. Two kids. The guy would be interested in a nice little windfall …’
‘He most certainly would.’
‘And he was in Hong Kong around the time of her death! Tell me I’m good.’
‘Almost, Jon, except that Hong Kong isn’t precisely in the heart of the Maldives. And you aren’t telling me he’s come this way …’
‘He could’ve hired someone to do the deed for him. That’s what you do in Hong Kong, if you know the right people. He didn’t do it in person, of course he didn’t! Even I wouldn’t do my own sister with my own hands! He paid some scum to do it for him.’
‘But what would he pay them with? Flat broke, remember?’
‘If there was an expectation of inheritance, they would’ve done it on credit, high interest rate. Or maybe he just sweet-talked them into it. Sales reps are good at this kind of shit …’
Gillian has to smile. ‘So how’s that new car of yours?’
‘Don’t mention.’
‘OK , I won’t.’
‘I’ll get my fucking money back, if it kills me. I will! The gearbox is fucked.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Never mind. I’m cycling to work. Good for the heart.’
‘Did you get to Nicola Eagles’ mobile records?’
‘Waiting. Should have something by tomorrow if they stop being obstructive and get on with it.’
‘No worries. I’ll look through her calls on the handset.’
‘You’ve got it there? Did you lift the phone from the evidence box?’ Jon is impressed. Thinking outside the box – he never would’ve suspected Gillian of that!
‘The coppers here have no need for it. I doubt they even turned it on. Anyway, I’m hoping someone may call on it. There is a valid reason for hanging on to it. They may call on it to ask for a ransom.’
‘If they haven’t by now …’
‘I know – small chance.’
‘Let me know if there’s anything else.’
‘There is, come to think about it,’ Gillian remembers the scrap of paper with random foreign words and numbers on it, which she has also lifted from the box and forgotten all about. It is buried in her jeans pocket. She pulls it out, smooths out the paper. ‘I can’t make sense of this. I’ve got some handwritten notes. Foreign language, I can’t read it. I’ll send you a photo of it. See what you can make of it.’
Four courses later, Gillian is full. She is so full that she decides to stay at the table to help her overloaded stomach with its digestion. Having found no recent call history of any interest, she is paging through the phone’s photos. Most of them she has already seen on Nicola Eagles’ Facebook. There are also a few pictures of Fritz the cat – Jon hasn’t reported any success in tracking the creature down, she will have to remind him tomorrow or speak to Miller about it. Then there is that one photo of ‘Count Karenin’: the only person featuring in Nicola’s gallery of images. Gillian wonders if Nicola knew the man, whether he was a real presence in her life or just the fantasy of an old spinster with a penchant for Russian literature.
A group of diners takes a table behind her. She hears them comment loudly about the debatable quality of last night’s venison – in English. She might as well strike up a friendly conversation, she tells herself, conveniently forgetting about Hassan’s plea for respect of his guests’ privacy. She turns around as soon as they order their drinks and before they wander off to the buffet.
‘Good afternoon! I couldn’t help overhearing you’re from London!’ She flashes her ID card. ‘DS Marsh – Sexton’s Canning CID. May I have a quick word?’
‘Is something the matter, officer?’ The man who addresses her looks positively shifty. He is slim-built, with wiry, grey hair and deep-set eyes that blink nervously. Gillian briefly contemplates the odds of his involvement with a dodgy scam, tax evasion or some other dubious practice that has paid for this holiday.
‘George?’ a woman on his arm asks him. She is bottle blonde and heavily made up.
The other man in the group, a chubby individual with a David Jason moustache, says, ‘Sexton’s Canning – where’s that?’
‘Somerset. Can I ask – how long have you been here?’
‘What is this all about?’ asks the woman on George’s arm.
Gillian shows her Nicola Eagles’ photograph that Jon printed from her Facebook page. ‘I am looking for this woman. Do you recognise her? Have you seen her here?’ They all examine the photograph.
George is visibly relieved, and already very keen to be of help. ‘Yes, we did see her, didn’t we, pet? Look at that,’ he stabs his finger at the photo. ‘She was older than in this photo, mind, but I remember her. She was one of them dykes, if you pardon my French.’
‘George has a way of putting it,’ his wife looks at Gillian, screwing her face in embarrassment, ‘but yes, the lady in the photo was … well … friends … she was friends with the other ladies. In fact, we saw them dine together the other night. How long ago?’
‘A good few days ago. A proper spectacle that was!’
‘They were quite loud, weren’t they, Paula?’
‘Yes, I remember now. The woman in the photo was having a good chuckle with one of them. The younger one. They were all over each other!’
‘She was well pickled if you ask me!’ George comments.
‘The woman in the photo?’ Gillian finds it hard to follow.
‘She was too, but the younger of the two dykes was –’
‘George, we don’t call them dykes!’
‘So what do you call ’em? Merry-go-round?’ George makes his companions snigger.
Gillian is beginning to lose her composure. ‘I don’t care what you call them. Can you get to the point, please? Who was pickled?’
‘You tell her, Dawn. You’re so much better at the … the … vocabulary,’ George snorts.
‘But not the one in the photo?’
‘She’s had a bit too much too, if you ask me!’
‘No one’s asking you, George. So the other – older – lesbian lady looks none too pleased ’cos the other two are falling over each other …’
‘Were they?’ the other, so far silent, man asks.
‘Oh, they were, Mick, they were! You was sat with your back to them. You didn’t see their antics!’
‘But we heard the argument, didn’t we, Mick?’ says Paula, stealing the limelight from Dawn.
‘What argument?’
‘The next day, or maybe two days later, there’s this big row next chalet to ours.’
‘That is the chalet where the ladies was staying,’ George clarifies. ‘And now there’s only one of them left.’
‘Hang on! Go back.’ Gillian thinks she is, at last, onto something. ‘Go slowly.’
‘I’ll say it, Mick, OK?’ Paula says. ‘It was, like Mick said, about two days after the restaurant antics. We didn’t see the one in the photo after that, but the other two went on as if nothing had happened until about two days later. Huge row! There was shouting, things flying. Embarrassing for us to listen to.’
‘Did you hear what was being said?’
‘Well no. Not really. But something about letting go.’
‘And fucking up the other’s life …’
‘In so many words! The language, ouch!’
‘Then one of them storms out –’
‘The younger one!’
‘The other one follows. They keep on arguing on the beach, but we can’t hear what’s being said. Then again, the young one breaks away and runs back inside their chalet. The old one sits alone for a while, till it gets dark. It gets dark very quickly here …’
