The Secret Agenda

by Jacquelyn Webb

  She thanked him and drank the coffee, staring absently at the other guests. The politician had gotten very friendly with one of the greenies, a lady with long dark hair down her back, wearing a patterned Indian cotton caftan.

  An overweight man stalked over to the couple, smiling as he joined them. As he smiled there was the glimpse of a gold tooth, and a gold ring flashed on one of his hands. He looked over-prosperous as well as overweight, Donna decided as she watched him. The lady looked up, scowled, and walked away. The politician shook hands with the other man, and they stood talking for a while.

  “Who is that talking to the politician?” she asked. “Madame Greenie just snubbed him and left.”

  “Our mayor, Alex Vallison,” Lang said. “The greenie is Sapphire Green.”

  “Sapphire Green,” Donna repeated.

  “She changed her name by deed poll,” Lang explained. “Alex is a property developer. He’s always fighting with Sapphire over what areas he thinks need civilizing with lots of high rise apartments.”

  “Might be worth getting an interview from him,” Donna mused.

  “Doesn’t do interviews, only press releases,” Lang warned.

  “Hum,” Donna said, interest aroused. “What about Sapphire Green?”

  “That contradiction in terms,” Lang laughed. “She is independently wealthy and touchy about it. She has much more in common with Alex than the real greenies.”

  “That sounds interesting,” Donna mused.

  “I’ll email your photographs later this afternoon, so what about dinner afterwards?” Lang suggested.

  “If I finish writing up my stuff for the afternoon, that would be nice,” Donna agreed.

  “Nice is a dreadfully over-used word,” Lang teased. “I’ll take back our mugs, and we move off. The action seems to be over.”

  Donna nodded. She watched as he put the tray back on the trestle table. She would see about an interview with the big property developer. It would give more interest to her series of articles to have some conflict thrown in.

  Lang said something to the laughing tea lady, who gestured to the streaked blonde heads bent over the washing up. One of the heads raised in a very familiar way. Donna gasped, grabbed her stick and flung herself out of her chair towards the pavilion. Shocked blue eyes met hers. It was her brother Matt!

  Chapter Seven

  The tall, broad-shouldered figure flipped off the apron, snapped something to the other man drying dishes and sprinted away. Donna hobbled after him, shouldering through the crowd. He reached the beat-up Holden parked on the edge of the car park.

  “Matt!” she yelled. “Come back here at once.”

  Her brother didn’t even turn his head. He got into the beat-up Holden. It coughed into life and bumped off along the track. Donna watched it leave in helpless fury. She dragged out her notepad and pen. Her fingers shook as she wrote down the registration number. What had she done for her brother to stare at her with such horror? Why was he working at dish washing? Lang arrived at her side.

  “What was all that about?”

  “Nothing,” Donna assured him. She put her notebook away. She had a registration number, and she would check what name he used with the other man helping with the dish washing. She took a deep breath. “Have to skip the invitation for dinner. Something’s come up.”

  “I can see,” he said flatly. “I’ll drop you back at the hotel.”

  “That would be nice,” Donna agreed. “I have something to check out first. I’ll meet you back at the car.

  Lang nodded and strolled towards the car without further questions. Donna glanced around as she limped back to the pavilion. People were starting to move off. Fortunately the caterers were still packing up.

  Mrs. Jensen, a dumpy little lady with a round face shiny with sweat, was inclined to be flattered by Donna’s compliments about the efficient way the afternoon tea had been laid on. She stacked crockery neatly into boxes as she talked. She and the bustling Mrs. Watson ran a small business doing catering, and often did functions for private companies, as well as the odd government departments.

  “You have a very well-trained staff,” Donna continued, watching as the trestle tables were dismantled and stacked into a waiting truck. “Do you manage all this with a staff of just three?”

  “Heavens no,” Mrs. Jenson said with a laugh. “The business is just us two partners. We hire casuals depending on the size of the function.”

  “You must have a reliable source of labor,” Donna probed. “You’d be in trouble with a big function if your casuals let you down.”

  “I try to get the same people all the time,” Mrs. Jenson explained. “If they can’t make it, we accept their replacements.”

  The chairs had been stacked and put into the truck. They moved out as the tent and awnings were collapsed and folded. The clearing got a deserted look to it as the cars moved off one by one. Over by the silver BMW Lang glanced casually at his watch.

  “Well, again I compliment both you ladies for a lovely well-organized afternoon tea,” Donna said. She started to feel desperate. Mrs. Jenson had developed an absent look in her eyes as she watched a man in a blue apron circle the clearing swooping on rubbish. “You must have a very reliable agency for your casuals?”

  “No agency, just word of mouth,” Mrs. Jenson said.

  Donna paused, and waited for Mrs. Jenson to grumble about staff leaving early. Mrs. Jenson’s eyes flicked around the clearing.

  “Rabbit,” she yelled. “You’ve missed a bin.”

  “So you must be very well-known,” Donna said. She sneaked a look at the truck. It had ‘Orchid Catering’ printed across the side.

  “We’ve been going for years,” Mrs. Jensen said.

  “Well, my compliments to you both and your helpers for a lovely afternoon,” Donna said. “Rabbit and who were the other two?”

  “Young Mark and Mal McMahon, Rabbit’s friends.”

  “Very competent washer ups,” Donna commented in what she hoped was an admiring tone. “Only one has left early.”

  “Mark and Rabbit can finish up because we are almost through” Mrs. Jensen explained.

  “Thank you again for the lovely afternoon.”

  Except for the big truck, a small blue car, and the silver car that was waiting for her, the clearing was now deserted. Donna limped slowly across to the patient Lang and slid into the car. For an efficient investigative journalist, she hadn’t really got that far. Still, she had a name! Matt was calling himself Mal McMahon, and he was a friend of Rabbit’s.

  “The ladies run a very efficient catering business,” she remarked.

  “Very efficient,” Lang agreed as he steered the car carefully along the narrow track.

  “Why does everyone go in for nicknames around here?” Donna asked. “Mrs. Jenson called one helper Rabbit.”

  “Came from ‘Run Rabbit, Run’.”

  Donna looked blank.

  “The Rabbit is a biker, and got his nickname from being able to out-run any cop,” Lang explained.

  “And what sort of nicknames do the other helpers have?”

  “Mongo Mark, and I thought you knew the other helper?” Lang said.

  Donna opened her mouth to deny it and shut it again. The coolness of the car helped her brain to work properly again after the heat. Lang would have seen the odd way she had behaved when Matt had stopped washing dishes and sprinted for the car with her in pursuit.

  “He did look awfully like someone I once knew, but I was mistaken. Is he a biker too?”

  “Your local informant has to plead ignorance,” Lang said. “Must be a friend of Rabbit’s to be employed today.”

  So she was not going to find Matt in boating or diving circles, or in any occupation with regular wages. Mal McMahon was drifting with the transients and the unskilled labor of Darwin. She scowled. Darwin had a large population of transients. How was she going to find one man hiding in their midst? She needed local informants, badly. They reached the main road
and Lang accelerated into the traffic. Donna gazed, unseeing, at the blaze of bougainvilleas lining the gardens.

  Suddenly the idea formed, breathtakingly simple and workable. She would suggest to her boss that she wanted to do an article on the pearl industry and demand extra time to do some research. That should allow her a reason to officially use any contacts.

  She studied Lang out of the side of her eyes as he slid the car to a stop in front of the hotel. This man was a local, and he was used to working as a photographer. He was going to be ideal for her purpose. He and his camera would make the perfect cover while she hunted down Matt.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “Can I take you up on your dinner invitation? I have a proposition to put to you.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I look forward to hearing it,” Lang said smoothly as he came around, opened the door and helped her out of the car. He walked her into the blessed coolness of the hotel lobby. “I’ve heard that you down-south ladies are noted for going after what you want.”

  “All human beings go after what they want.” Donna realized that it had been a mistake to use the word proposition, “I don’t think that down-south ladies are any different from the rest of the human race.”

  “Would your ankle stand up to some sedate dancing?”

  “No. I thought somewhere quiet and simple so we can talk,” Donna suggested. “We have to get an early start for the seminar tomorrow.”

  “Somewhere private and simple it will be. I’ll collect you at seven. Do you like Chinese?”

  “Love it.”

  It took all of Donna’s will power to waste five minutes of her time on a leisurely leave-taking. Didn’t the inhabitants of Darwin every do anything at an efficient speed? As soon as Lang had left, she limped fast for the lift, fuming as it made its slow way up to the sixth floor.

  She unlocked her hotel door and settled at the small desk with her mobile phone. Was Darwin half an hour ahead or behind Melbourne? It had already turned five. It was fortunate that her editor never left the office on time. She made her suggestion that she stay an extra few days to chase up a story on the pearl industry.

  “If I don’t get anywhere, you’ve only lost a few days of my time,” she concluded.

  “Not something we can use except for the tourist section,” her boss grumbled. “Make sure you don’t neglect the conference.”

  She hung up and rang another Melbourne number. She left her name and number on the answer phone and waited. It got switched off, and an amused young voice admitted he was home.

  “I’m in Darwin. Can you give me the owner and address of a Darwin-registered car?” She quoted the registration number and color and make of the car.

  “Awkward,” mused the voice on the other end of the phone. “I’ll ring you back.”

  She made a few more phone calls. There was only one big pearling company, and the receptionist proved not very informative. The drivers worked in teams and subcontracted. The few smaller pearling companies sounded vague. Anyone who might have been helpful was out working, maybe for days at a time. The few commercial diving companies were equally unhelpful.

  Donna turned on her laptop and tried to concentrate. She downloaded the afternoon’s photographs, admired how well they were posed with the sea making a most exotic-looking background. Lang was not only a competent photographer; he seemed a good judge of human nature as well, which made his shots inspired.

  She studied them again and got to work. ‘The guests came from varied backgrounds, united by the common interest of conservation…’ Or were they? Donna glared at her notes. She had to fit in an interview with the mayor. She did an almost skeleton report and decided to get showered and changed.

  Feeling cooler afterwards, she stared at her meager wardrobe. She was going to have to persuade Lang to take her driving around Darwin, which meant that she could end up anywhere. What should she wear for a quiet dinner and then a night drive?

  She had already put on her black crepe divided skirt and green silk tee shirt when her phone rang.

  “Spencer Sutley, ten Frangipani Drive, Bindoora Gardens,” the young voice said.

  “Spencer! The guy answers to Rabbit!”

  “I would too, if I had a name like that,” the voice said and hung up.

  Her phone rang again. Lang had arrived and was coming up. She decided that she was covered for both dinner at a cafe and a drive around Darwin. She slid her feet into her comfortable flatties, practical if she had to walk any distance, collected her small purse, put her tape recorder into it and grabbed the walking stick.

  There was a knock on her door. This evening, Lang wore slacks and a long-sleeved open-neck shirt.

  “I received your email. The photographs are very good and just what I wanted,” Donna praised. “And you even got one of the greenie snubbing your mayor.”

  “I am good,” Lang agreed.

  “Modest too,” Donna said sweetly. “So where are we going?”

  “Somewhere private and simple, as ordered,” Lang replied.

  “With a view of the bay,” Donna guessed as the car headed towards the bay and then curved around the winding road alongside it.

  The air-conditioning was off, and the windows were open to the warm scented air. Donna relaxed. Perhaps she would be able to cope with the Darwin heat if the evenings were all as pleasant as this.

  “Most certainly,” Lang agreed.

  A little while later, he slowed the car and turned into a driveway. Donna glimpsed high walls and then large double gates swung back as he drove through. There were no other cars parked in the front courtyard. A light glowed over the porch, but otherwise the two-storey building was in darkness.

  Donna sneaked a look at Lang as he strolled around to open her door. This looked more like a large private home than a cafe.

  “It certainly looks very private. Where does the simple part come in?”

  “This building is simple compared to the rest of the buildings along this street,” Lang assured her cheerfully.

  At his cheerful tone, Donna’s vague uneasiness vanished. This man was officially her substitute photographer. He was hardly likely to step out of line, after all. Also, she reminded herself, she could look after herself in the event of any problems.

  Chapter Nine

  Lang helped her up the steps and on to the porch. He opened a small cupboard by the front door and placed his hand on a plate inside. The front door slid open.

  “Very high security for a cafe,” Donna said, recognizing the palm-print security lock. “Does it only open for you?”

  “And the countess,” Lang explained. “She has taken over the upstairs area.”

  “Who’s the countess?” Donna asked.

  “My boarder,” Lang replied.

  “I gather this is not a restaurant?” Donna wondered at her slight feeling of disappointment. He was a good-looking man, so why shouldn’t he have a boarder or whatever he called her?

  “But private and simple,” Lang said. “As requested.”

  He left his hand under her elbow and ushered her inside. It was pleasantly cool, but not cold. The door slid shut behind them. They stood on a large, vividly blue-toned rug on a white tiled floor that made the big hall look even more spacious. There were three glass fish tanks with bright shells as well as colorful small fish in them. At the end of the hall was a blank wall. Against it was another larger fish tank lit up from behind to show the exotic slow-moving fish. Beside the fish tank was a staircase closed by a security grille.

  There were only two doors apart from the staircase, one on each opposite wall. Lange moved over to one of the doors. He pressed his palm into the inset recess at shoulder height. He then tapped his fingers against what looked like blank wall. The door slid back. Lang escorted Donna through.

  “A touch-sensitive keypad,” Donna recognized. “You don’t feel you might be slightly mistrustful with all this high security?”

  “Maybe,” Lang agreed cheerfully. “Dar
win is full of very opportunistic people waiting for householders to get careless.”

  “Careless about what?”

  “Their assets.”

  “And what assets…” Donna started to ask, and then her journalistic instincts were temporarily suppressed.

  In the soft glow of the lamps the big room with its white-tiled floor, blue-patterned scatter rugs, and blue leather lounges and recliners gave an impression of comfort. She ignored the wall of sound equipment and the flat-screen television and moved across to look at the darkness of water reflecting the glimmer of the sky filled with stars.

  “So this is why the house is built so high off the ground?”

  “Needed to be high to get a view over the wall,” Lang agreed from behind her. “We have nice sunsets as well.”

  “About this promised Chinese,” she prompted.

  “Select some dinner music for us,” he said. “I’ll open the wine and then organize dinner.”

  There was a wide selection of classics, operas, and musicals, as well as some more modern composers. She found a Beethoven CD and slid it into the player. Lang lit three candles placed in a silver candelabra, set it on the table, and returned to his preparations.

  The strains of the piano sonata filled the room. Donna relaxed with her glass of white wine in one of the big armchairs. She studied the dimly-lit room more closely. One corner was set up as a kitchenette with the dining table beside it. Behind the bench, Lang was whistling as he stirred something into a wok. The appetizing smell of stir-fried chicken drifted around the room.

  “Smells terrific,” Donna praised. “Takeaway?”

  “I can cook,” Lang returned. “I am a sensitive New Age guy as required, and I have lots of talents.”

  Donna laughed and sipped her wine. She continued her inspection of the room. There was only one other door. Everything in the big room was comfortable and expensive. The sound equipment was of high quality, as was the furniture.

  She thought of the late model BMW and scowled. A house this close to the bay with its high security didn’t come cheap. Was it family money allowing him to live so comfortably? He said photography was a hobby, so what did he do for a living?