Swimming with Sharks

by Anna Legat

  ‘Like I’m seeing you now!’ Now that he got it off his chest, George is incensed at her lack of confidence in his talent for observation.

  ‘It is a long way … You saw them hugging … you saw her crying? From the shore? Are you certain?’

  ‘That’s why he didn’t tell you in the first place,’ Dawn interjects. ‘He’s got them binoculars on him for bird-watching, he says. He didn’t want you to think he been spying on people.’

  ‘I was scanning the horizon, minding my own business …’

  ‘Course you were, George! And the lesbian ladies just got into your line of vision.’

  ‘That’s why I didn’t want to bring it up! You see – that’s what I get for coming forward!’ George seethes.

  Gillian needs to do some damage control. ‘You get a thank you for coming forward with this information. It’s very important.’

  ‘I told you so!’ Dawn points her finger at her huffing husband.

  ‘Did you see what happened later? Did she walk back? What did she do?’

  ‘Don’t know, do I?’ George shrugs. ‘All hell broke loose in the dykes’ chalet, didn’t it? We been watching them in action. They was at each other’s throats, gloves off, claws out … Don’t know what happened to your missing person one. Didn’t see her after that. I wonder that myself – maybe she jumped and drowned. Wouldn’t surprise me.’

  The sultry evening air does little to help Gillian think. She is sitting on the deck of Chalet 42, feet on the railing, wearing her skimpy nightdress, hanging on to a misty bottle of water which she hopes will keep her mind cool. She has been inventorising the facts for the past two hours. In the distance people are laughing and cheering, their voices blending with the artificial glow of fairy lights.

  The facts do not make sense; Gillian is at a loss. Probably the brother is the only one that fits the profile, though he could only be tracked down to Colombo airport, and no further. But yet, oddly, he was so close! So close he could smell her blood. Assuming that killing his sister was on his mind. After all, the only reason he would’ve had for killing her is the one fabricated in Jon’s mind: a stab at a fat inheritance. It could be a compelling reason for some, especially those in dire straits, as Robert Eagles appeared to be – according to Jon. Gillian weighs the advantages of investigating Mr Eagles discreetly from a distance, without letting him know that he is a suspect. Once he knows, he may sever any links, destroy evidence. If there is any evidence …

  Nevertheless, it is a lead worth following. Gillian will need to convince Scarface to authorise inquiries with the Sri Lankan authorities. It would be interesting to find out what Mr Eagles was up to during his prolonged stopover in Colombo. Did he leave the airport? Did he meet with anyone? Gillian sucks in her upper lip. It does seem so far-fetched – the whole idea that a brother would order his sister’s … what? Murder? Kidnap? And yet, here, in this part of the world, far away from home, in an uncharted territory – it may be easier to buy into: some obscure Asian gang, pirates, abduction gone wrong. No one would blame the brother. Everyone would think the sister was silly travelling on her own, asking for trouble … No, Gillian cannot eliminate the brother.

  Then there are the two conflicting love scenarios. Now, that is where Gillian is really lost. There is the one Nicola: ‘frolicking with a man’ in the ocean, ‘verrry much in love’ with a gentleman in the French restaurant. And there is another Nicola: the hard-drinking, hard-living, gay marriage wrecker, canoodling with a newlywed Amy on the pier, under the very nose of the woman’s hurting spouse. Both scenarios cannot be true, surely? And if Gillian is to trust her instincts at all, neither of those scenarios is true! Nicola Eagles is a shy, middle-aged spinster who cannot swim very well, is awkward with the opposite sex, attracts no attention from the same sex, is all alone in the great big world that sails by her, utterly oblivious to her existence. And that is why the brother cannot be eliminated. Because he fits. Because it would make sense if it were him.

  Be that as it may, Gillian cannot disregard what she has heard from independent witnesses. She would have dismissed Sarah Ludlow-Gray’s account of Nicola frolicking with a man had it not been for the Count Karenin photograph on Nicola’s mobile and the French garçon attesting to the man’s existence. Monsieur Lakso – someone to track down and talk to. Hassan will have to co-operate and share his guests’ personal data. If it means getting a warrant, Nasheed will have to be rubbed the right way …

  And then there is Amy. She saw Nicola with the mystery man, or so Sarah would have Gillian believe. Because if Nicola did come between those two, then Sarah has to divert attention away from herself and Amy. She lied about not seeing Nicola after the drunken dinner. She saw her two days later. She saw her with Amy. They were right at it, George said. He saw Sarah approaching them, ‘prising them apart’. She couldn’t have forgotten that small episode. What happened to Nicola after she was left alone on the pier, crying? Crying … She was crying. Upset. Depressed. Defeated. Could she have jumped? She wasn’t a good swimmer. She had nearly drowned kayaking with Paul. Or was it Peter?

  Gillian’s telephone rings. It’s the Sexton’s Canning station, she knows the number. What time is it? She glances at her watch. It must be 10 a.m. back home. Good old Mark, she smiles, must’ve already tracked down Amy.

  ‘Hi! An early bird, you! How was the hols?’ she chirps.

  ‘DS Marsh!’ It’s Scarface.

  ‘Sir! I’m sorry. Thought it was DC Webber.’

  ‘DC Webber is on the wild-goose chase mission you sent him on without discussing it with me first. In London, I believe. PC Miller is on another mission you sent him on without discussing it with me. He’s looking for a cat, I understand!’ Scarface’s tone is getting dryer and chillier with every well-enunciated syllable he utters. He leaves no room for Gillian to explain herself. ‘The Forensics are entirely at your disposal, DS Marsh, analysing blood samples and flight itineraries of various innocent individuals – innocent until proven guilty. But guilty of what, DS Marsh? We haven’t got a crime yet. We have a missing person inquiry. A discreet missing person inquiry. Except that, hold on, not so! I’ve just received a second complaint about you harassing holidaymakers –’

  ‘Sir, with all due respect, I’m only trying to interview potential witnesses before they all go back home. Somebody must have seen something, knows something. The problem is that the holidays come to an end, the holidaymakers go back home and take what they know with them. That’s not a way to conduct an inquiry. I asked for a guest list. I was refused. I need your help to –’

  ‘Quite rightly so! You had no right to ask. The consensus is Nicola Eagles has drowned. An accident. Her drowning has nothing to do with the guests at the resort.’

  ‘We don’t know that!’

  ‘We don’t know anything otherwise, DS Marsh!’

  ‘I have clues to follow. If only I was given a chance –’

  ‘No! You’ve done enough damage. You will be on the next flight back home. First thing tomorrow morning. You’ll follow your clues from here. In your own time. And without engaging my entire manpower in your crusades! And that’s final.’

  Day Twelve

  Gillian is lying in bed, wide awake. She is waiting for her 6 a.m. wake up call, which Hassan will no doubt execute personally. His ends have been achieved: he has got rid of Gillian and her snooping around. Without her, the resort will be back to its silky and luxurious self, without a care in the world and with well-looked after residents. Nicola Eagles and her unpalatable disappearance will be put out of mind, like a bad dream. Business as usual! Hassan must be gloating. He will make a point of seeing her off with a bottle of champagne. Gillian is fuming. How can she let it go? No one cares about Nicola Eagles and what happened to her. She is easy to forget, and that is just not on! Riotous thoughts wreak havoc on Gillian’s mind. Does she have to obey orders, stupid orders? Her mortgage is paid off. Tara is about to fly the nest. Nothing to lose. Gillian could leave the force, something that s
he contemplates every now and again when things become too ridiculous to stomach. Stupid directives. Pointless, and unattainable, performance management targets. Convoluted priorities. Budget restrictions. Cotton wool wrapping, under-the-carpet sweeping, political correctness gone berserk! Gillian can’t bear unfinished business, just because there is a new priority or the funds have been withdrawn. She thinks about Scarface’s words: In your own time … She could do it: in her own time, on her own terms. What does she have to lose? Her mortgage is paid off. Tara is about to fly the nest …

  Recycled ideas pass through her head, swirling, swelling. The telephone rings. Her wake up call.

  ‘Yes! Thank you! I am up.’

  ‘Gillian, Nasheed here. I told you you’d be the first one to know: we found her.’

  It takes her a while to digest his words. She is leaning against the table, gathering her thoughts. ‘You found her? Alive?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Despite those words, Nasheed sounds triumphant. He was right: ‘Local fishermen fished her out early hours of this morning, not far from Itsouru. Literally, pulled the body out of the ocean. Caucasian woman, apparently drowned. Just like we thought. We’re bringing the body to Malѐ – I thought you may want to join us for the autopsy.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be on my way. We need to notify the next of kin. Her brother in Australia. He’ll have to identify the body. No one else really knew her.’

  ‘We’ve done that already. He’s making travel arrangements.’

  ‘So I wasn’t the first one you contacted?’ Gillian wishes she had been the one to break the news to Robert Eagles, just to hear his reaction, the extent of his grief, the exact words he would use. By the time he arrives in Malѐ, his reactions will be well-rehearsed.

  Nasheed is astounded. ‘You were the first one after the immediate family members! We thought it rather appropriate to contact the brother in the first instance.’

  ‘How did he take the news?’ she asks, for what it’s worth.

  ‘He was shocked. How else?’

  The body is small and slim, naked. Whatever shreds of clothing they found on her, have been taken away and bagged. Gillian will examine them later. She wants to listen to every word the pathologist will utter. Unfortunately, the post-mortem will be conducted in Dhivehi; Nasheed will be translating. It will be a few days before Gillian will be able to read the full report in English.

  Gillian’s own assessment is inconclusive. The corpse is a mess. Empty eyeholes and a number of gaping cavities testify to a frenzy feeding by carnivorous fish. Hair is thin, bleached of colour. There are no signs of blood. The edges of all wounds look well-cleaned and disinfected by the salty water. She is frighteningly skinny, though bloated. Somehow Gillian has pictured her as voluptuous and fit. It is unbelievable how much life a few days in water can drain out of a body.

  ‘How long has she been in water, did he say?’ she asks Nasheed.

  ‘His rough estimate is about four days.’

  ‘Only?’ Gillian is doing quick mental maths in her head. Nicola Eagles was last seen alive on the pier, Wednesday week, according to George. That is a whole week ago. That leaves the period between Wednesday evening and, say, Saturday unaccounted for.

  ‘He wouldn’t commit himself to anything more precise at this stage.’

  ‘What is he saying so far?’ Gillian wishes she could understand Dhivehi. Nasheed’s version of what is being said may be tailored to what he thinks Gillian needs to know. She does not trust him.

  ‘Going over the external wounds, all incurred post-mortem.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Yes, the body has been in water for a few days. You’d expect it to be affected.’

  Gillian watches as the pathologist makes an assured incision in the corpse, and begins the ritual of examining what is left of Nicola Eagles’ internal organs. A photographer takes pictures, using a flash. The pathologist’s speech is fast, but monotonous, matter-of-fact like a shipping forecast, and as indecipherable. Nasheed is passing on to Gillian scraps of irrelevant information. He stops, says something quickly to the pathologist. He sounds like he is annoyed. The pathologist replies with equal fire, and shrugs his shoulders. Nasheed frowns.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘He says there is no water in the lungs.’

  ‘She didn’t drown?’

  ‘She was dead when the body entered water.’ Nasheed carries out another rapid exchange with the pathologist.

  ‘She was killed. How?’

  He looks at Gillian as if it were all her doing. ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. If you just kept quiet. Let him do his job. I’ll tell you as soon as he tells me!’ His irritation is unabated and he isn’t trying to hide it. Gillian doesn’t mind. She has been vindicated. Nicola Eagles has been murdered.

  The pathologist is conducting another, more thorough, external examination. His narrative has slowed down. He is attentive and detailed. More photographs are being taken: of Nicola’s fingers, neck … Nasheed translates.

  ‘Broken nails indicate defensive wounds. Any tissue, any foreign DNA would’ve been destroyed by now. She’s been in salt water for four days. The post-mortem injuries, especially segments of skin eaten by crabs and other scavengers, conceal most of the original wounds and discolorations. But there is the damaged windpipe and … Hang on …’ He is listening to the pathologist who has cut across the base of the neck and buried his latex-gloved fingers in the corpse’s throat. ‘The spinal cord has been … He’s saying it looks like her neck has been snapped. No, hang on. She’s been strangulated. Someone wrung her neck – that’d be more accurate, I think.’

  ‘She couldn’t have wrung her own neck and then dragged herself to the ocean and thrown herself in, could she, Ali?’

  Nasheed realises it is a rhetorical question, and says nothing.

  Within minutes Gillian is on the phone to DCI Scarfe. The circumstances have changed, Scarface accepts that. She can stay on, but the case belongs to the local police. She has to be respectful of their procedures. She must not tread on Detective Nasheed’s toes. She is not to take charge. There must be no more complaints about her. ‘Working together, Marsh,’ Scarface preaches, ‘is how you’re going to go about it. Don’t make enemies or they’ll shut you out. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We want this case solved, not botched up.’

  ‘Solving it is my priority, sir.’

  ‘Assisting the Maldivian police in solving it – that is your priority,’ he corrects her.

  ‘We have a common purpose, sir, but I do wish they shared everything with me. I have a feeling they’re keeping vital information away from me. They don’t want this case to reflect badly on their tourism industry. It’s a big tax-earner here. An example: I’ve asked for a list of guests at Itsouru. It’s been refused on the grounds of guest privacy –’

  ‘The nature of your inquiries has changed. I’m sure the resort management will co-operate from now on. I’ll see to it.’

  Gillian doesn’t doubt Scarfe’s power of persuasion. He will make a case for her. Doors will start opening. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Incidentally, about that woman you’re trying to track down in London – Amy Gray-Ludlow. No sign of her. Webber has been around the flat. It doesn’t look like she’s been back. The neighbours have not seen her, or the other one – her partner – in over two weeks. But they’re due to be back in the early hours of the morning.’

  ‘They were due, but they had a row. Amy left a few days earlier – that’s according to Sarah Ludlow-Gray. The thing is, Amy left about the same time Nicola Eagles disappeared. That makes Amy a material witness. Possibly the last person to have seen Nicola Eagles alive … Or, rather, one of the two people: her and Sarah. I think their bust-up was about Nicola Eagles. Pretty ugly, according to witnesses. I saw Sarah off yesterday. She’s on her way home. She wasn’t very co-operative when I spoke to her before she left. If nothing else, at least she must be intervie
wed again. Until we find Amy.’

  ‘I see … I’m assigning DC Webber to this case. He’ll be reporting directly to me. Both of you will be reporting directly to me.’

  A desk has been allocated to Gillian Marsh. The desk comes with its own, fully enclosed office, tiny as a walnut shell, but complete with all the mod cons a senior investigating officer may ask for. It is duly isolated from the rest of the open-plan area where the Mali detectives are working on the case. Obligingly, Gillian has been included in the briefing, which for her benefit, has been conducted in English by the officer in charge, Ali Nasheed. Gillian has shared her line-up of suspects and the few lines of inquiry she is working on. Going by the raised eyebrows and a number of unabashed yawns, she is not going to be taken seriously by this exclusively male investigating team. Nonetheless, to keep her occupied and out of the way, she has been given the desk and – to her pleasant surprise – the Itsouru Resort guest list she has been asking for.

  And there, on that list, the name Mikhail Lakso strikes her. It is in fact, Mikhail and Agaata Lakso, Finnish nationals. They had been staying in Chalet 41, next door to Nicola’s, but they left the island on Wednesday morning – Nicola was last seen alive that Wednesday evening. Oddly, they checked out three days before they were due to leave. Gillian cross-references their address and telephone number in Finland with the scribbles on the back of Nicola’s itinerary – they match. It is time Gillian made an acquaintance of the man who possibly may answer to the name of Count Karenin.

  The telephone hardly rings once before it is picked up and a deep male voice says curtly, ‘Lakso.’

  Gillian establishes quickly that the man can speak English. She introduces herself, gives her rank and gets straight to the point: ‘You were staying on Itsouru Island, Chalet 41?’

  ‘Yes, we were. What about it?’ His voice is calm, almost disinterested. Perhaps the Finns are made that way: impassionate. Or perhaps he is making a deliberate effort to control his emotions.