Deep Water

by Whitcroft, Isla;

  Cate nodded mutely, tears pricking the back of her eyes. She was really going to miss Mitsu.

  ‘Hey, Cate,’ said Mitsu, trying to smile. ‘Think about it. You’ve got a whole tepee to yourself now. No more snoring!’

  ‘Time to go!’ A middle-aged doctor in green fatigues strode over to them.

  ‘How bad is it?’ Miles asked. His hands were shaking.

  ‘She’s had a head injury but the rest of her body seems relatively uninjured, apart from a few bad bumps and bruises. Nothing broken that we can see,’ said the doctor, ‘but she’s in a coma and we won’t know until we’ve done a CT scan on her brain what sort of damage has been done. Even then it will be another forty-eight hours before we have any idea of whether or not she will recover quickly or take longer – or maybe not at all. Head injuries are a nightmare to call.’

  He put up his hand in a farewell gesture and shepherded the waiting Mitsu into the helicopter. The propeller turned slowly, then faster and faster, until the chopper was above their heads and gone.

  Cate couldn’t help but wonder if that reduced her list of informant suspects down by two, or if the insider had just got away.

  In the silence that followed, Cate turned to Michel. ‘I need to get out of here, just for a few hours,’ she said quietly.

  Michel smiled weakly and squeezed her hand. ‘Great idea, Cate.’ He turned to Jacob. ‘That OK, buddy?’

  ‘No problem.’ He looked so down-hearted, so miserable that Cate felt like giving him a hug.

  ‘It’s OK, Jacob,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. Accidents happen. I’m sure Josie will be OK.’

  ‘I guess,’ said Jacob, trying to look cheerful.

  It took them less than half an hour to get to Parsons Rock, a small town just up the coast from Snapper Bay. It was market day and, despite the heat, the long high street was buzzing with noise and energy.

  Cate and Michel parked the bike in the centre and walked slowly along, browsing the stalls which sold everything from fishing gear to waxed jackets and steel-capped boots.

  It was clear that it was a day out for many people. Greetings and jokes were shouted across stalls and a steady stream of red-faced farmers and their jean-clad wives weaved in and out of the several pubs that dotted the long street.

  Cate soaked up the atmosphere. It reminded her of the little Yorkshire market town she had visited every year as a child.

  ‘Where’s all the food?’ grumbled Michel good-naturedly. ‘I was hoping for some nice cheeses, maybe a stall selling good bread and olives.’

  Cate laughed then. It felt like the first time she had done so for a very long time. ‘Michel, we’re not in France now.’ She pointed to a stall selling books and CDs. ‘Come on, let me buy you a present.’

  It took them nearly an hour to work their way along all the stalls. The far end of the high street forked into two narrow roads, one edged with houses, the other with shops and a few cafés.

  ‘Fancy an ice cream?’ said Michel, pointing at a booth.

  ‘You bet,’ said Cate. ‘With everything on top.’

  As Michel waited in the queue of cheerful teenagers and children, she wandered along the street, peering into the shop windows. Suddenly Cate spotted a small metal sign for something called Washers Quay. The name seemed familiar although she couldn’t think why. Then she remembered. She put her hand into her purse and pulled out the card the seaplane pilot had given her last night. ‘Just in case you need a lift anywhere,’ he had said. ‘Don’t hesitate to call me.’ Cate stared down at the card. Scott Foster. Pilot. Washers Quay. It was where he moored his plane.

  An idea was forming in her mind. He had picked up at least some of the Cotians who attended the meeting. He might just know where they were hiding out. She shook her head. Why on earth hadn’t she thought of that before?

  She pulled out her phone and rang his number. It flipped to voicemail, the pilot’s cheerful voice instructing her to leave a message. He might be working on his plane, she thought. It would be no trouble to quickly ask him what he knew and pass it on to Marcus.

  She ran back to Michel who was still in the queue. ‘Michel, can you give me a few minutes? That seaplane pilot moors here. I think I might have left something in his plane last night.’

  Just then, her phone vibrated with a text from Arthur. Taken me all day but think I know who bid for S Bay lease. Does the name Carlos Ibanez mean anything to U? PS. Take care.

  Cate walked down the hot street, her mind in a whirl. The pieces were finally coming together. Now she knew how badly the Cotians had wanted to get their hands on Snapper Bay. And she knew why. But what she didn’t know was what they were going to do next – and how to stop them. She really was going to have to hand this one over to IMIA.

  As if on cue her phone rang. ‘You took your time, Marcus,’ she said, looking at her watch. It was nearly three o’clock.

  ‘Sorry, Cate,’ he said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I’ve been out in the field, or should I say, the ocean. The Aussie navy have been tracking a large Cotian yacht in the Pacific, just east of here. We boarded and searched it but there’s nothing untoward going on that we can see. We’re probably going to have to let them enter Australian water.’ He sighed. ‘Another frustrating lead gone nowhere. Oh and your pictures of the divers. Cotians for sure. We ran them through some recognition software and two of them are on the CIA’s most wanted list. How about your end?’

  Cate took a deep breath. ‘Marcus, I think I’ve found out just why the Cotians are so interested in Snapper Bay. Can we talk?’

  ‘Not like this. We’ll meet today if you want. Me, you and Henri. Where are you now?’

  ‘Parsons Rock – just north of Snapper Bay. I’m at the quay to be precise and I’m just about to go and see if the seaplane pilot is home.’

  ‘Why?’ said Marcus puzzled.

  ‘He ferried in a couple of the Cotians for their meeting. He might just know where they are based. It’s a long shot, but I might as well try.’

  ‘Brilliant, Sherlock,’ said Marcus gleefully. ‘Once you’ve spoken to him, call me back and we’ll arrange a meeting. Henri’s down in Sydney at the moment pleading for more troops but he should be back by this evening.’

  Cate put her phone back into her pocket and followed the signs down to Washers Quay. It was quieter there, less commercial, with just one small shop selling sailing equipment and a scruffy-looking pub.

  To her delight, Cate spotted the seaplane moored up at the far end of the quay, its paintwork as shiny as ever. Behind it stood a large wooden shack with a small boardwalk leading up to it. Cate knocked a couple of times and then, getting no reply, turned the handle and opened the door. She was in some sort of workshop. The air was cool and dank, the concrete floor covered in oil patches and littered with tools. To her right, a door smeared with greasy stains stood slightly ajar. She knocked again and pushed it open.

  The pilot was sitting on the lino floor, his back pushed hard and straight against the corner of a filing cabinet, his face chalk white, his eyes closed. A small hole in the side of his head was almost obscured by a rim of concealed blood which had run in a neat stream down onto his white T-shirt. An overturned chair lay in pieces beside him, a metal waste paper basket had strewed its contents over the floor.

  Almost as if she was in a dream, Cate went slowly over to the pilot and touched him arm. It was stiff and cold and it was all she could do not to scream.

  Scott Foster was dead and had been for a while.

  CHAPTER 16

  ‘Get the hell out of there, now!’Marcus was shouting down the phone in a tone she had never heard him use before. ‘You’re not safe. Don’t call the cops, don’t do anything. Go back to Michel and pretend that this never happened. I’ll send someone in now to clean it up, do you hear?’

  Cate was standing outside the shack, her back to the sunshine, trying desperately to get some warmth into her body, to stop herself from shaking. ‘Marcus, he was a nice guy. He flew me and Mar
issa out of danger when he could have just stayed at the concert.’ She felt waves of guilt washing over her. ‘If I hadn’t asked him to do that perhaps he wouldn’t be dead now.’

  ‘Cate, listen to me.’ Marcus was speaking urgently now. ‘We don’t know why he was killed so don’t go jumping to conclusions. If anyone is to blame it’s us – the IMIA. After he got you off the island we should have offered him protection but we were too busy concentrating on working out what the Cotians were doing to consider him. We took our eye off the ball. I’m sorry, Cate, really sorry. It must have been a terrible sight.’ Marcus sighed. ‘I know. It’s a really hard thing to deal with. The only way to cope is to keep going, to keep the bad guys in your sights. At least that way Scott’s death won’t have been in vain.’

  ‘OK,’ said Cate, trying hard to keep her voice steady. ‘Where can we meet? I can’t leave the camp tonight, not again. Even Michel will begin to smell a rat if I do that. And you can’t come to me. No way.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Marcus said. He paused. ‘If we bring a boat over to Snapper Bay late tonight can you get out to meet us? In a kayak, perhaps?’

  Cate thought for a while. ‘Don’t come into the bay,’ she said finally. ‘It’s too risky. Stay just outside it and look for me. I’ll sneak out after dark and aim to be at the mouth of the bay for one a.m.’

  ‘It’s a deal, Cate. We’ll go through everything then. In the meantime, stay on your guard.’

  ‘Yup,’ said Cate, hanging up. She was calming down now, pushing away the image of the seaplane pilot’s bloodied face. She stood in the shade of an alleyway and took some deep breaths and spoke sternly to herself. ‘Come on, pull yourself together, Cate. You did it last summer and you can do it again.’ She squared her shoulders and turned onto the street and saw Michel, coming towards her, waving an ice cream.

  ‘Hurry up, Cate,’ he called to her happily. ‘It’s about to melt.’

  ‘It’s very quiet here,’ said Michel as they dismounted back at camp. ‘Where is everyone?’

  Cate pulled her helmet off and listened. Usually there was the sound of music coming from someone’s tepee, or a clattering from the kitchen. But now only the birds singing their evening chorus and the cicadas revving up for a night of calling to their mates filled the almost eerie silence.

  ‘The others must be on the beach,’ said Michel. ‘I’ll go find them. Thanks for a lovely afternoon. It was a great idea.’

  Cate headed back to her tepee but, as she passed Josie’s yellow tent, she heard a movement from inside. She lifted up the mosquito net and peered in. There was Miles, sitting on Josie’s bed, bits of paper strewn around him like confetti. He looked up at Cate, his face a picture of pure misery.

  ‘I thought I’d better see if there was any address for her family,’ he said. ‘It was the least I could do.’ He picked up the papers and shoved them into a small chest at the bottom of Josie’s camp bed and slammed the lid shut.

  Cate nodded. ‘Good idea. Miles, I’m going to dump my bag and then start on supper. It looks like no one else is doing it.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Miles, looking around the tent. ‘There’s nothing useful here.’

  Surprisingly, supper was a lively affair, with the remaining eco-warriors seemingly determined to enjoy themselves. Cate and Michel had searched through the cupboards in the kitchen and managed to rustle up a huge bowl of pasta with anchovies and olives.

  ‘Homemade bread,’ said Michel proudly, dumping a large bowl of warm rolls onto the kitchen table which he’d carried outside and set for seven.

  ‘How long have I been your cousin?’ asked Noah, slapping Michel on the back. ‘And I never knew you could make bread.’

  ‘Good news, guys.’ Maria appeared through the trees, holding her phone. ‘Mitsu just called – I had a signal. They’ve scanned Josie’s brain and there’s no damage that they can see. They think its just a question of time before she wakes up and, fingers crossed, there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ said Jacob, who had just arrived from surveying the beach.

  ‘Ta-daahh.’ Tuyen arrived, carrying a large black bucket which was full to the brim. Cate peered into the water and yelped as a large pincer waved back at her. ‘Crabs,’ said Tuyen proudly, his black eyes sparkling. ‘Great big juicy ones. The nets were full. We’re going to have a feast.’

  ‘This is where I resign as chef,’ said Cate firmly, taking off the tea towel that had been serving as an apron and passing it to Tuyen. ‘I can’t put those poor creatures into boiling water. It’s the sound they make. Horrible.’ She shuddered.

  ‘Honestly, Cate, you’re too soft-hearted,’ Dan mocked her gently. ‘If you think that’s bad, don’t even think about going backpacking in south-east Asia. It’d give you nightmares the way they treat their animals.’

  That started everyone off with tales of their travels, and soon people were laughing and joking around the table. Only Miles stayed silent, his face morose and anxious. Cate watched him out of the corner of his eye. He had really taken Josie’s accident badly, she thought.

  When it was almost dark, Michel stood up to light some candles. Cate, used as she was to long lingering twilights, still found it a shock when the day and night met so abruptly.

  ‘Jacob, we’re struggling with our internet connection,’ said Dan. ‘It’s a bit of a pain to be honest. It’s been fading in and out all day. Even worse than usual.’

  ‘Strange,’ said Jacob. He pulled out his phone and checked his signal. ‘Must be going through a bad patch. Maybe the storm moved a satellite a bit.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Tuyen shrugged, unconcerned. ‘Anyway, we know you’re a bit short-handed but Dan and I wanted to head into Parsons Rock tomorrow. We need to file some reports back to uni and to pick up some data for our PhD. We don’t want to take any chances with dodgy reception. Is it OK if we take the jeep? We only plan on being gone a couple of days.’ He laughed at Jacob’s stricken face. ‘Don’t worry, we’re not doing a runner and we’re not worried about sharks. We are, however, utterly terrified of what our college professor will do to us if we don’t get our PhD papers finished on time.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Jacob smiled. ‘We should be OK here. There’s enough of us to carry out the basic tasks for the next few days. Just don’t stay away too long, that’s all.’

  Cate looked at her watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. Just under four hours before her meeting with the IMIA. ‘Do you know, guys,’ she said. ‘All the excitement of the day has worn me out. I think I’ll turn in. Do you mind?’

  ‘No problem, Cate.’ Michel stood up with her. ‘We’ll all soon be in bed.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Will you be OK without Mitsu’s snoring?’

  Cate laughed. ‘Michel, I’m looking forward to my first good night’s sleep since I left London.’ She looked around the table. ‘In fact, if anyone disturbs me between now and ten o’clock tomorrow morning I swear I won’t be responsible for what I do to them.’

  Curled up in her bed, she set her phone alarm to vibrate and tried to get some sleep. But there were too many thoughts turning over in her head, too many images she just couldn’t erase. The seaplane pilot’s bloody head, Josie’s body lying crumpled on the beach at the bottom of the cliffs, Miles’s stricken face as the helicopter took Josie away.

  With a sigh, she switched on her torch. She tried to read but her brain was too full to take in the words, so she got out of bed and began to potter around the tent. Nothing like a bit of housework to take your mind off your troubles, as her grandmother used to say. Save for Mitsu’s wetsuit, the hanging wardrobe was empty. She may as well make use of it. She took a few items of clothing from the chest, shook them out and began to hang them up, the torchlight shining through the thin plastic, making it virtually transparent in the darkness.

  Except, Cate realised, it wasn’t see-through. Not all over anyway. On the bottom of the wardrobe she could see a large shadowy rectangle, the size of
an A4 envelope. Perhaps Mitsu has left some documents behind, thought Cate. She slid her hand underneath the wardrobe and into a small slit that had been cut into the plastic. A few seconds later, she had the envelope out. She sat back down on the bed and pulled out some faded newspaper cuttings. Old pictures stared out at her. A little girl holding the bridle of a huge racehorse, a silver cup almost as big as she was clutched in her chubby hand. A big sandy-haired man standing behind her with a huge smile on his face, holding what looked like a pint of Guinness. Little Josie O’Leary receives the Melbourne Cup whilst her father looks proudly on, said the caption.

  Of course, Jacob had told her about the newspaper cuttings and Mitsu said Josie had given her the wardrobe. Josie must have forgotten she’d left them there.

  Cate flipped carefully through the yellowing paper. There were pictures of huge houses, a yacht, then, more ominously, two men in handcuffs. One picture had been taken in front of a large, official-looking building and showed Josie and another child, an older boy, standing on either side of woman, each clutching at her hands as if they were clinging on for dear life.

  The woman was beautiful, with an oval face and huge mesmerizing eyes, and auburn hair which tumbled around her slim shoulders. But the look on her face was one of desperation. Cate found the image almost unbearably sad, even before she read the text. Bella O’Leary, wife of the convicted fraudster David O’Leary with their two children, Josie and Michael leaving court after he had been sentenced to eighteen years in prison.

  Cate peered more closely at the boy. His oval face, long nose, tight red curls . . . They all looked terribly familiar. She looked again, realisation slowly dawning. She had been looking into those eyes earlier that evening. Unless she was very much mistaken, Michael O’Leary was now going by the name of Miles Finlay.