The Forgotten Sea

by Beverley Harper

  ‘And then, a hundred and twenty years later, William’s journal turns up.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hold on a minute. This makes no sense. Three hundred years ago, give or take a couple of decades, one cousin rats on another. This sets off a family row even though none of them seem to know exactly why. When some form of evidence does eventually come to light, one side of the family learns the truth and they keep it to themselves. What the hell are the current generation fighting about? Seems to me neither side has a bloody clue.’

  ‘Whose version would you prefer?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Okay. The Kavanagh lot claim that when their boy returned with untold riches, William’s family accused him of treachery. That in itself was enough to cause a rift. On top of that, Kavanagh fell for one of William’s sisters. The two eloped. She was shunned by both sides and eventually committed suicide.’

  Holly nodded. ‘That would do it.’

  ‘William’s family relate a story that is similar except they claim that Kavanagh abducted the sister and held her his prisoner until, in desperation, the poor girl took her own life, leaving a letter to her parents telling that Kavanagh had boasted about tricking William.’

  ‘But Kavanagh’s family would finally have learned the truth when the journal arrived.’

  ‘Some of them, certainly. But remember that the feud had been going on for such a long time by then that I suppose they simply couldn’t admit to being wrong. Do try to remember that they’re Irish.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, there was still the matter of William’s sister. Kavanagh’s family accused her of lying.’

  Holly wiped her mouth with her napkin and checked that the tape was still running. ‘Why put yourself to all the bother of finding William’s treasure, if it exists? You don’t need the money either. Wouldn’t it be simpler to write a cheque for AIDS research and be done with it?’

  Connor raised one eyebrow. ‘How romantic,’ he said at last. ‘Here I am living a boyhood dream and you suggest I simply write a cheque.’

  ‘Is that what this is? Nothing but an adventure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well,’ Holly said tightly, ‘it must be nice for some.’

  ‘I get the impression you don’t approve. What’s your problem?’

  A glint had appeared in his eyes. Holly didn’t know if it was anger or amusement. Nor did she care. Irritation boiled over. She had said to Quinn that Maguire was frivolous, now she knew he wasn’t. He was downright childish. Shaking her head in disbelief, the words came slowly. ‘Something as important as AIDS research is not a game. You could . . . could . . . afford to help –’

  ‘There’s no harm in having a little fun while I’m helping.’ His tone was mild, he even smiled, but the look in his eyes intensified.

  Holly stared back, undaunted by what she was fairly certain was rising anger. ‘Just think about this,’ she gritted. ‘While you’re out there having fun, people are dying of AIDS. Your cheque could make a difference. You’re playing with people’s lives.’

  His voice went hard. ‘Choose your words carefully. You’re not in a position to judge and I’m not accustomed to criticism from someone who hasn’t a clue what she’s talking about.’

  ‘You’re not accustomed to criticism. Full stop.’

  He shrugged, signifying that her opinion of him didn’t matter.

  Holly threw down her napkin and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Maguire. I’ve just decided your cheap thrills are not worth the paper a story would use.’ She stalked from the restaurant forgetting, in her anger, to pick up the tape recorder.

  THREE

  She literally bumped into Justin Parker. He turned from the reception desk and Holly, who was kicking herself for her unprofessional behaviour with Connor Maguire, ran straight into him. She nearly snapped ‘Watch where you’re going,’ before she saw who it was. Instead, she said, ‘Sorry. My fault.’

  ‘I was just trying to phone your room. Thought you might like a swim.’

  He’d already had too much sun. His nose and cheeks were bright red and cream was smeared over his lips. Wearing sandals, brown shorts and a red and white striped shirt, Justin looked absurdly out of place, sort of defiantly English. Irrational as her annoyance might have been, Holly gave in to it. ‘I really don’t think you should get any more sun.’

  He looked ruefully at his arms. ‘Mad dogs and Englishman . . .’ He laughed self-consciously.

  Her anger dissipated and she smiled. It wasn’t Justin’s fault that Connor Maguire was a shallow thrill-seeker who, far from being the compassionate benefactor he wanted the public to see him as, was an arrogant, self-centred plutocrat, seeking amusement for his own satisfaction. ‘I wouldn’t mind a swim but I have to make a phone call first. Meet you at the pool in about fifteen minutes.’

  From her room she called Quinn at home. When he came on the line she got straight to the point. ‘This is not going well. How you can take him seriously is beyond me.’

  ‘Simmer down. What happened?’

  Holly told him. ‘The story’s interesting enough,’ she concluded. ‘I can probably get him to change his mind and let me cover the search. I was pretty rude to him but someone with a hide that thick may not even notice. My problem is, I’m not sure I want to give him the publicity. He doesn’t bloody deserve it. He’s an asshole, Quinn. He’s playing God with people’s lives and doesn’t care who knows it. I can’t stand the man.’

  Silence was loud on the line while Quinn chewed on his daughter’s outburst. Finally, ‘He does, you know. Deserve the publicity, that is.’

  ‘Then you must know something you’re not telling me.’

  More silence. Quinn was not normally indecisive. Holly braced herself.

  ‘Look, I must insist this time. Get back to him. Grovel. I don’t care how you do it, just get the story.’

  ‘Why? Why is it so important?’

  The line remained ominously quiet for a good ten seconds. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  Holly brushed a hand through her hair. ‘You’re not listening to me, Quinn.’

  ‘I hear you loud and clear.’

  She doubted it and said so.

  ‘I mean it, Holly. Cover the man any which way you can. Get close to him and stick with it. I’m afraid I insist, sweetheart.’

  Jeez! Holly pulled the telephone away from her ear and stared at it. Quinn certainly had the wind up over this one. Her professional mind knew he was right. What was wrong with her? She’d covered other stories where she had not been particularly fond of the people involved. She was allowing Maguire to get to her and it both surprised and irked her.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘Okay. I’ll put my personal objections aside and go after the story. I get the distinct impression that he’s lying about not wanting publicity. He was keen enough to tell me how he came to learn about the treasure. I’ve got a funny feeling about this one, Quinn. Maguire uses journalists all the time. I think he’s playing with us.’

  Quinn made no comment. Her father knew something she didn’t, Holly was sure of it. But she’d never get it out of him. Quinn’s ability to keep a secret was awesome. Better to put it out of her mind, at least for now, and concentrate on finding a way round Maguire’s pretence that he didn’t want publicity. She had a thought. ‘There’s one tack I could take.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Promise him that the story won’t break until he’s ready.’

  ‘It’s worth a try.’ Quinn sounded regretful.

  ‘You’d honour that?’ She’d seen her father conveniently forget promises in the interests of a scoop.

  ‘Of course.’ Now he was indignant. ‘What do you take me for?’

  ‘Don’t ask, I might just tell you.’

  Quinn laughed and changed the subject. ‘What’s the weather like?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Lucky you. It’s still pissing with rain in Sydney.’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘
Got to go. I’m meeting the dodo man in five.’

  ‘Don’t waste too much time on that,’ Quinn advised. ‘Get after Maguire.’

  ‘I will, I will. I just need to calm down first.’

  They said goodbye. Hanging up, Holly wondered what it was that Quinn wasn’t telling her. And why.

  Justin Parker sat in deep shade slightly back from the water. He was also in deep conversation with the striking Chinese girl who had been with Connor Maguire yesterday. Holly draped her towel over a chair and dived into the pool, swimming up and down ten times before climbing out. Justin was watching. The Chinese woman had gone.

  ‘Very professional,’ he called out.

  ‘I’ve done a bit of training,’ she admitted, walking towards him towelling her hair. ‘Lacked the commitment to take it further.’ She sat down opposite him. Will he explain the Chinese woman?

  ‘I ordered you a drink. Fresh lime juice and soda. Okay?’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’ Will he hell!

  ‘How’d you go today?’

  Holly pulled a face. ‘Don’t ask.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Problems? Surely not. Publicity can only be good for tourism.’

  Holly remembered that she’d told Justin she was doing a tourist piece. ‘A freelance journo doesn’t stick with one story. I’d like to cover your dodo search too, if you’ve no objection that is. The holiday destination article is easy but I’m also supposed to be covering some high-flying wacko’s search for buried treasure. The gentleman I need to interview doesn’t want the publicity. The publisher who sent me won’t take no for an answer. I’ve been told to grovel.’

  There was a sudden uneasy look on Justin’s face which, despite his best attempts, he was unable to conceal. ‘Buried treasure?’ he finally drawled mockingly. ‘How very droll.’

  Holly mentally cursed herself. She was supposed to be offering Maguire privacy until he was ready. ‘A place with a history like Mauritius always has rumours,’ she said lamely.

  ‘I’m sure.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Can’t see you grovelling, though.’

  ‘Oh I’ve done it before. And it won’t be the last time. Goes with the job.’ She changed the subject. ‘What about you? Any luck?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘I meant what I said. A story about your search and what happens if you find anything could be fascinating. Do you mind?’

  Justin was a fraction slow in replying. ‘No. Of course not.’

  His hesitation alerted Holly’s journalistic instincts. ‘Is it supposed to be classified information?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ He looked away. ‘No more than any other scientific endeavour. It’s . . .’ he searched for the right words, ‘it’s just that so much of what we do results in nothing more than a waste of time. The press love to pick up on how much government money is spent on what they think is a wild goose chase.’

  Holly grinned at his unintentional pun.

  He looked back at her, shrugged and spread his hands. ‘You lot don’t seem to appreciate that for every success, every major breakthrough, there are hundreds, even thousands of failures. That’s the way it works.’

  ‘Not to mention the competitiveness of your business,’ Holly guessed out loud. ‘You do rather like to make a grand announcement once everything is neatly sewn up.’

  Justin nodded. ‘I suppose we do.’

  ‘So why be coy about your project? Science cracked the transference of genetic characteristics decades ago. I assume you’re working on a DNA experiment of some kind. Please correct me if I’m wrong.’

  He didn’t answer, just looked at her.

  ‘Jesus!’ The penny dropped. ‘You’re going to try and twin with the helical chain of a pigeon, aren’t you? This goes much further than Dolly the sheep. You want to bring back the dodo.’

  He frowned. ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘I’ll just bet it isn’t but that’s the guts of it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘Put frankly, that’s exactly what we’re attempting to do.’ He seemed to relax suddenly. ‘Okay, I’ll talk to you provided you give me a fair hearing and a sympathetic verdict. Too much is written about the cost of research.’

  Holly shook her head. ‘The direction of an article is dictated by the person writing it, Justin. Convince me your work is worthwhile and that’s what I’ll say.’

  He didn’t like that and let it show.

  Holly went on. ‘It’s a chance you’ll have to take.’

  ‘Then perhaps we’d better forget it,’ he said tightly. ‘There’s too much riding on the outcome for misinformed publicity to diminish the importance of this search.’

  She hadn’t expected that.

  ‘Besides,’ he went on. ‘I’d have to clear it with my colleagues first.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Holly responded airily. The cat was out of the bag anyway. She had her story. Time spent in Japan on the snow monkey assignment had resulted in pages of unpublished but thoroughly researched information about DNA and its potential ramifications. A couple of days’ further investigation, a chat with a biologist acquaintance back home and some background on the dodo was all she needed. The piece would virtually write itself. All Justin had to provide was the name of the institution, or university, funding his project. That could wait. He probably wouldn’t tell her if she asked now.

  The silence between them was not a comfortable one. Holly sought to break it. ‘I left you with the bill last night. Sorry. Let me buy you dinner.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m free.’

  Holly wondered if his churlishness was due to the realisation that she already knew enough to write her story about him. ‘I may see you later then. Must go now. One more swim then it’s back to work.’ When she climbed from the pool, Justin was gone.

  The priority now was to locate Maguire. He’d said he was staying just down the road. Where to start, though? Couldn’t exactly knock on doors until she found him. She was on the point of leaving her room when the telephone rang.

  ‘Holly Jones.’

  ‘Don’t get mad and hang up. This is Connor Maguire.’

  Holly wasted no time. ‘If we guarantee not to publish until you are ready, will you allow me to do the story?’

  Maguire was not inclined to waste it either. ‘You left your tape recorder on the table.’

  She ignored that. ‘Straightforward story. The research program, high-profile adventurer and hidden treasure. Nothing private. No mention of the journal or how you came by it.’

  ‘You’ll probably want it back. I’ll bring it over if you like.’

  ‘Are you listening, Maguire? Look, give me a break. I’m sorry. I run off at the mouth sometimes. I was out of line at lunch.’

  ‘That’s one each then.’

  She knew what he meant. ‘How about it?’

  ‘You give your word? Nothing published until I say so?’

  ‘Mine and my father’s.’

  ‘That’s a worry.’

  Holly grinned. Sometimes he could be downright likeable. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Okay.’ She’d give him this. When he had to make up his mind quickly, there was no hesitation. ‘And yes, I’d like it back.’

  ‘Have dinner with me. I’ll bring the journal, you might like to read it. I don’t mind if you mention it in your article.’

  ‘Yes to both. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. I’ll come to the hotel. Meet you in the bar at seven thirty.’

  Connor was perched at the bar talking to a man Holly didn’t recognise. Tall and attractive in a flamboyant kind of way, he was the sort of person people notice. Hair was partly grey, partly silver, as though some remnant of earlier colour still clung stubbornly on. He wore it long, caught back into a ponytail by a thin strip of leather. The tan was natural, built on time, his skin stretched tight over well-defined cheekbones and a high-bridged nose. A snowy white shirt with fuller than usual long sleeves was tucked into faded blue chinos and set off by a red and white kerch
ief tied at a jaunty angle around his neck. Connor saw her approaching and waved. ‘Holly Jones, this is Raoul Dulac. Raoul, Holly Jones. Raoul’s a local farmer,’ he added.

  Holly found her hand held between two giant paws as the French-Mauritian bent low and kissed her palm. Connor looked on, seemingly amused. ‘Charmed,’ murmured Raoul. ‘Where are you from, ma cherie?’

  She retrieved her hand and looked into pale blue eyes which regarded her with more than passing interest. ‘Australia.’

  ‘You are a friend of this reprobate?’ he asked teasingly.

  ‘Not really.’ His gaze made her uncomfortable.

  ‘Holly’s covering my wanderings for a magazine piece,’ Connor cut in. His stare told her that he’d prefer it if the exact reason for his presence on Mauritius was not mentioned.

  ‘So, a journalist.’

  ‘Freelance.’

  ‘Which publication are you working for?’

  ‘This time? Out of Focus.’

  ‘Mmm. A pity. An article about our beautiful island would not be of interest to them.’

  Despite its healthy overseas circulation, Holly was surprised that he’d actually heard of the magazine. She’d have thought Mauritius too far off the beaten track. ‘I’m doing a tropical holiday paradise piece as well. There is a big demand for leisure time material. I can always sell it to the Sunday papers.’

  ‘Then you must meet some real Franco-Mauritians. I will organise a lunch or dinner. You must come as well, Connor, I insist.’

  Connor looked less than pleased. ‘Thanks. I’d be delighted.’

  After a few more minutes of small talk, Raoul left them saying, ‘I’ll be in contact in a day or so.’ With a wave, he was gone.

  ‘Quite a dynamo,’ Holly commented. ‘I get the impression he doesn’t take no for an answer.’

  Connor laughed. ‘Like somebody else I could mention. But you’re right, it’s not part of his vocabulary. Probably never even heard the word. He’s very used to getting his own way – most French Mauritians are. They’ve run things here for a long time.’

  ‘And always at the expense of less fortunate individuals.’

  ‘It was the way of things back then.’