by Ian Edward
‘There’s something else, Betty. I’ve been checking and re-checking the records here. Looking for anything, any small detail, that might offer a clue.’
‘And?’
‘The virus first appeared exactly 48 hours after Rhonda’s death. It was a Thursday. Rhonda would’ve normally logged on to the system twice by then.’
‘You’re suggesting the virus was programmed to raise its ugly head after two of Rhonda’s log-ons were missed?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know you have a vivid imagination, Kate, but…’ Betty paused briefly. Then: ‘You’ve been pulling my leg…?’
‘No, Betty. Not over something like this. I’m deadly serious.’
‘Whatever got you thinking this way?’
‘I’ve been trying to look beyond the obvious. Something about this virus starting just after Rhonda’s death; and the random, elusive aspect of it. Something felt…very weird.’
‘Granted. It’s weird.’
‘I decided to scan Rhonda’s personal files. I knew she’d maintained a daily diary on her PC. So I went in. The diary’s listed on her screen menu but guess what? It’s been deleted. The whole thing. So I ran a print report on all data entries on her PC for the previous four months.’
‘I’m not liking the sound of this, Kate.’
‘The command to delete the diary was made on Wednesday, the day after Rhonda died.’
‘There’s an awful big series of question marks over this…theory of yours,’ Betty said. ‘Why would someone have any interest in deleting Rhonda’s diary? How would they know her password? And why would Rhonda herself create a virus?’
‘Rhonda could’ve programmed this virus to start after she’d missed a couple of log-ons. For some reason she may have had reason to suspect something could happen to her. In that event, a virus like this would need Abcess to investigate it…’
‘And in doing so,’ Betty, seeing where this was headed, completed the thought, ‘would lead one of us to suspect that there was something odd about Rhonda’s accident.’
‘Yes. Look, I know there’s no motives, no reasons, no actual proof of any kind. It’s just I’ve been casting my mind about, looking for something…anything…’
‘And you found these strange little inconsistencies.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘So what’s next, Kate? You want to speak to the boss about this?’
James Reardon was the founder and CEO of A.B.C.S. Kate had always thought of Reardon as a typical young dot.com entrepreneur who’d survived as much by good luck as good management. He’d started out just ten years earlier as a software creator, saw the business opportunities for a firm like A.B.C.S. and set it up, modelling its style and structure on similar start-ups in the U.S., where he spent much of his time expanding the company.
‘I haven’t got any proof to go to James with,’ Kate said. ‘You know what he’s like, a total workaholic. Doesn’t relate to anything outside of the industry.’
‘I’m glad you said that before I had to,’ Betty said. ‘For James to take it seriously you’d need facts, details, crystal clear evidence. Of which you have none. Our baby-faced leader would’ve gone into one of his hyped up lectures about pragmatism and practicality. The last one went for days. What do you plan to do?’
‘Not sure. But I want to start by reading through Rhonda’s diary. See if it yields a clue. I know all her work files were sent over the ISDN for archiving at HQ. But what about personal files, like the diary? Would she send them as well?’
‘Yes. Rhonda gathered all her files, every day, and sent them as one big digital package. The same thing, my dear, I’ve been telling the rest of you to start doing more than once a week.’
‘Okay, so occasionally there’s some benefit to bureaucracy.’
‘I’ll send you an email with the diary as an attachment. In fact, I’ll download it and have a read through myself.’
‘Betty, you know I keep a private email address?’
‘You want me to send the file there?’
‘Yes. I want to keep it away from the network here. Just a precaution.’
‘Kate, you be careful out there, okay?’
‘Now that’s a little melodramatic, even for you.’
‘Hey, you’re the one who started with these nasty little conspiracy theories. I’m not convinced you’re on the right track, though, and in fact I hope you’re not.’
‘I hope not too,’ Kate said before saying her good-byes and hanging up. But like Betty, Kate had been around IT systems long enough to know her theory was a likely possibility. It explained the virus’ ability to outmanoeuvre the ant-viral software.
But why?
Kate didn’t like the way her thoughts kept snowballing, from one possibility to another. It had been happening since she’d discovered the diary had been trashed. She’d managed to switch off during the evening, while she’d been with Adam, but her mind had been back to doing its cartwheels again this morning.
Turning to her screen, Kate saw that her Meetings Menu had flashed. ‘Damn,’ she muttered to herself, leaping up from her chair. She didn’t want to be late for William Westmeyer’s boardroom presentation to potential investors.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Melanie Cail arrived at the office early, 7.30, as was her routine. Over a steaming coffee she waded through the e-mails and voicemails from the previous afternoon, the latest updates from the news services, and the morning dispatches from local police and emergency.
The only thing to pique her interest was the police dispatch about the drowning victim. It was the kind of item that might find a small spot toward the middle of the newspaper’s general news section.
But if Melanie could find a strong angle then it could be a much bigger story – maybe even front page – and after several slow weeks, Melanie Cail, reporter for the Northern Rocks Express, needed a big story.
As usual the dispatch was brief, but as she sipped the coffee Melanie’s instincts went into overdrive. Why was the young woman naked? Why hadn’t someone reported her as missing? Was she a murder victim? A suicide? Had she been part of a boating accident that left others stranded, or in peril?
She knew she was being monitored closely by the management of the Brisbane City Chronicle and that their final decision on the vacant reporting post was just weeks away. She cursed under her breath as she had every morning for the past fortnight. She’d never known a quieter, blander time, news wise, in Northern Rocks. Not that the region ever hopped with excitement from a dramatic news standpoint, but right now it had never been slower. Melanie needed something to sink her teeth into, to showcase her investigative skills.
She needed a big story…
She put down her coffee and reread the last sentence of the dispatch. The body had been discovered by a local fisherman…
Her older sister’s boyfriend was a keen after-hours fisherman. Costas often cast his line from the local beach. Was it possible…? She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers rapid fire, machine gun speed. Petite, blonde and vivacious, Melanie was the kind of person who was hyper from the moment she opened her eyes of a morning. Once her reporting instincts and the caffeine had taken hold she started firing on all six cylinders plus.
Barbara’s number was engaged. Melanie cursed again, then swivelled her chair to face her PC. The newspaper’s vast library of information, drawn from its own and other papers’ news articles, was on hard drive. She entered her password and then typed ‘Drownings-Queensland’ and the menu listed over a dozen recent incidents. Anything over twelve months ago would need to be accessed from the archives stored on disk.
Melanie scanned the list. In the back of her mind she could remember something similar, not too long ago. At the moment she was prepared to search for anything and she did, clutching at straws, anything to uncover a potential angle to pump up the story. Something to push her onto the front page. Where she belonged.
She found the relevant listing from four mo
nths earlier. Highlighting the text, she clicked on it, and an article from sister paper The Castlemaine Courier filled the screen. Another young, naked woman had been washed ashore over three hundred kilometres north.
Melanie scrolled through that article, then into two more on the subject and smiled inwardly. What she hadn’t realised was that the identity of this previous drowner was still not known, despite exhaustive investigations.
She leaned back in her chair and grinned. She’d known the big story would not elude her for long. She had found a wonderful, sinister link. Oh yes.
The paper’s editor, Eddie Cochrane, walked by. ‘Mornin’, Mel. Anything interesting in that lot?’
‘I think I have a B-I-G story, Ed.’ Melanie told him about the two drowning cases.
‘It’s news, but what makes you think its big news? This local girl might be identified today or tomorrow.’
Melanie placed her index finger to the side of her nose. ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen, which means this has that sweet, familiar whiff of newsprint to it,’ she said and she broke into a wide, knowing grin.
Eddie smiled. ‘Well, that’s good enough for me. See what a little digging turns up, eh?’ Eddie was an old fashioned newspaperman who still loved the old lingo; terms like “nose for news” and “putting the paper to bed.” He was a small man with tired eyes, who’d seen newspapers evolve from hot metal and slugs of type to a digital push-button operation. It was less than a year until Eddie’s official retirement. He’d resisted going early and it was common knowledge the powers-that-be wanted to bring in a fresh, young editorial management team. Melanie saw no mileage going through such changes on a local paper. She needed bigger and better things.
Her phone’s auto redial bipped. She picked up the receiver as her sister answered.
‘Hi, Barb. A body was found by a fisherman last night. Would I be right in thinking that fisherman was Costas?’
Barbara was hesitant. ‘Well…’ She knew how persistent her sister was, and she didn’t want Costas being troubled further.
‘I knew it. It was him.’
‘Melanie, I really don’t want him being bothered at the moment.’
‘He’s there? Now?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘Can you put him on, Barb. I understand if he’s a little shaken. I won’t keep him a sec. I just want a quote, anything, one word will do and I’ll leave him alone.’
There was silence on the line.
‘Barb?’
‘No,’ Barbara said. ‘For once, I wish you would listen to what I’m saying and consider the feelings of others.’ And she hung up the phone. Twelve months earlier Melanie had written a series of articles on aspects of modern divorce. For direct quotes, she’d used a number of things Barbara had told her in confidence.
To give the articles a personal touch, Melanie had identified her sister. She hadn’t asked permission and Barbara had been mortified.
Ever since their childhood Barbara, although twelve years older than Melanie, had been overshadowed by her prettier, savvier little sister. From time to time she’d felt her resentment get the better of her. She’d never been comfortable with Melanie’s unrelenting style. That particular incident had put an added and lingering strain on their relationship.
When one approach didn’t work, Melanie Cail simply shifted to another. She would do the unexpected. Drive out to Barbara’s place and appear at the front door, unannounced. She would see Costas Yannous. And she would get exactly the quote she wanted.
CHAPTER NINE
At Barbara’s insistence, Costas had not gone in to his deli. He’d organised his assistant to look after the shop.
He was sitting on the back patio, enjoying the filtered sun that peeked through the bamboo pergola, when Adam arrived. ‘He claims he’s okay but he’s not,’ Barbara whispered to Adam as she led him through the house. ‘You men and your damned macho pride.’
Adam grinned. ‘I guess no one’s perfect.’
‘And men are far from it.’ She smiled back. But Adam saw behind the smile: her eyes revealed her concern for the Greek shop owner who was well respected in this beachside community.
Barbara left the two men alone.
‘You didn’t get me to come in to the station to make my statement,’ Costas said.
‘We’ll get to that. No rush. Something like this is a dreadful shock to the system. So while I’m here to take down anything you can tell me about last night, I also want to talk with you as a friend, about how you’re feeling.’
‘You’ve been listening to Barbara. She’s making such a damn fuss.’ He shrugged and rolled his eyes skyward. ‘I guess that’s why the Lord put them here. To make a fuss.’
‘Sounds like my mother. Made a monumental fuss over everything. But in the end we love them all the more for it.’
Costas’ eyes met his. ‘Of course we do.’
‘In situations like this, I usually suggest a counselling session with Dr. Enderby, over on Trindon Street. If you’re agreeable he’s available this afternoon. Tentative time of four’o’clock, which you’d need to confirm.’
‘You’re pushing,’ Costas said.
‘He doesn’t bite, mate, and you just might find it beneficial. I know what I’m talking about, I saw him after I attended my first violent crime scene. One visit, hear what he’s got to say.’
‘Okay, okay. It can’t be any more painful than listening to this.’ Both men laughed and inside the house, that sound warmed Barbara Cail’s heart.
Adam began his questioning about Costas’ observations the night before.
Listening in, Barbara marvelled at Adam’s common touch. It reminded her of the natural manner in which he coached the boys at basketball.
She could see how easy it was for her son to idolise Adam Bennett. She just wished Joey could feel a little of the same for Costas.
On an impulse, Melanie decided not to rap on the front door. She might stand a better chance of talking to Costas if she surprised both him and her sister in the kitchen or on the patio.
She was halfway up the side passage when she heard male voices. She stole a glance around the rear corner, saw Costas and recognised Adam Bennett. She whipped out her recorder. The voices would be distant and muffled but clear enough to act as a reference.
Her story took shape as she listened: fishing enthusiast Costas Yannous seeks counselling, on the advice of the police, after discovering gruesome remains.
Yes. She liked the sound of this.
Sensing the detective was finishing up, she slipped the recorder into her pants pocket and rounded the corner. ‘Oh hi, Costas,’ she said, feigning surprise, ‘I called over to say hi to Barbara, but I guess she didn’t hear me knocking.’
Costas was startled, but quickly regained his composure. ‘Hello, Melanie.’ He gestured toward Adam. ‘Do you know Detective Bennett?’
‘Oh yes.’ She beamed a wide, toothy grin in Adam’s direction. ‘Always running into each other, aren’t we, Detective?’ Then, to Costas: ‘How are you, Costas, after that awful business last night? Barbara mentioned it on the phone.’
Adam was well aware of Melanie’s reputation. ‘I guess you’ve seen the morning dispatches as well. Co-incidence that you’re here?’
‘Oh yes, I didn’t know Costas was here. It must’ve been terrible, Costas, finding a murder victim like that.’
‘There’s no evidence as yet to suggest murder,’ Adam said.
‘So it’s not a murder, Detective?’
‘I can’t comment further at this stage, Melanie. You know that.’
‘What did you think, Costas, when you realized you’d hauled in a naked corpse?’ The last two words spoken with an inflection that suggested relish.
‘I think that’s quite enough, Melanie,’ came a voice from the doorway. Barbara Cail made no attempt to mask her anger. ‘Costas needs rest and relaxation. And Detective Bennett’s visit is police business. You shouldn’t be here.’
Melanie
raised her arms, shrugging in defence. ‘Not wanting to stir anything up. But you have to admit it’s fascinating, this girl being washed up on the beach like that. Similar to another case, up in Morrissey, just a few months ago. Don’t you think?’
‘There’s another one…’ Costas began.
‘Sure is.’ Melanie focused on Adam. ‘Have the police noted the similarities?’
‘I can’t comment on that, either,’ Adam said.
‘But you know of the other case, referred to as The Mermaid?’
‘Yes, Melanie.’
‘And you’re aware of the similarities?’
‘As I said, I can’t comment-’
‘But if there are similarities, Detective, wouldn’t you be looking into any possible connections?’
‘It’s too early for that kind of speculation. But nice try.’ It was his turn to grin.
Melanie gave Costas a hug. ‘You take it easy, okay?’
‘Yes, yes.’
She kissed his cheek, then waving, headed off. ‘Thanks for putting up with me, Detective. ‘Bye, Barbara.’
‘She should’ve been an actress, not a journalist,’ Barbara said with disdain once her sister was out of earshot. ‘I have to apologise for my sister, Adam.’
‘You don’t have to apologise for anyone else,’ Costas said, ‘and I don’t want you worrying and fussing over me, either.’
‘Oh, enjoy it while it lasts.’ She winked at Adam and then walked back into the house.
Back in her car, Melanie smiled inwardly and imagined the angles her article could take. “Police refuse to speculate on similarities between the unidentified drowning victim and an earlier case known as The Mermaid. ‘It’s far too early to speculate,’ was all Detective Sergeant Adam Bennett would say.”
She was headed for the front page and she’d be on the phone to the Brisbane City Chronicle to make sure they were along for the ride. In the meantime though, she used her free hand to punch the numbers of the Mayor’s office into her cell phone.
