The Forgotten Sea

by Beverley Harper

  Anne-Marie’s face was white, her eyes wide. ‘Holly Jones just called. Justin Parker is dead.’

  ‘What?’ Raoul was genuinely shocked, not so much over the death itself as the inconvenience it would cause. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He fell off a cliff. I don’t have any more details. She only rang so that I can tell his mother.’

  Raoul snatched up the telephone. ‘I’ll make a few inquiries. Where and how he died could be important.’

  Guy seized the opportunity and used his father’s distraction to his own advantage. ‘The boat?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, son, take the bloody thing. But make sure it’s back here by Friday.’

  Thus it was that Justin Parker’s death, indirectly, had one last terrifying consequence for Holly.

  Guy’s plans were hazy but one thing remained crystal clear in his mind. Holly Jones.

  The boat was ready to go. Normally, he simply took the forty-six foot Chris Craft whenever he wanted it and his father seldom raised an objection. But yesterday afternoon he’d heard Raoul on the telephone saying, ‘They’re in Flic-en-Flac. You’ll find them easily enough.’ Having been there himself that very morning, Guy had pricked up his ears.

  ‘Just find out where they go and let me know. If necessary, we can use the boat,’ Raoul added.

  Guy presumed that his father had been speaking to that ridiculous English friend of Anne-Marie’s. The subject was obviously Holly Jones and Connor Maguire. He knew from the conversation that if Raoul learned he wanted to use the boat his answer would be no. If there was one thing Guy could be sure of, it was that life revolved around Raoul’s needs and no-one else’s. So he decided to pretend he knew nothing of his father’s plans. The following morning, while Guy was out of the house, Raoul, quite by chance, had discovered the boat keys were missing from his desk drawer. He found them in Guy’s bedroom, along with an overnight bag containing a change of clothes. When Guy returned, his father told him he couldn’t use the boat. Hence the argument.

  The timely intervention of Anne-Marie meant Guy’s as yet unformed plans were back on track, after a fashion. That the Australian girl was in the company of Maguire was annoying. Alone, getting her on board would be easy. But Maguire looked like he intended to hang around, and for as long as he did, Guy’s hands were more or less tied. All he could do was wait for an opportunity.

  His intentions, once Holly was at his mercy, were rather more focused. Guy wasn’t used to, nor did he take kindly to, rejection. The remark about him being a boy had been humiliating. Her continued coldness towards him a challenge. And, as Corrine Vitry had found out, you either went along with Guy Dulac’s plans or you paid the price.

  Corrine’s only crime had been to say no to heroin. Guy wanted her to join him, assumed she would agree and became angry when she refused. So, while she was high on a joint, he’d given her a hit. The girl had surprised him by fighting wildly but the fix went in. Maybe it was bad shit, maybe he’d given her too much, but it became obvious very quickly that she was reacting badly. Guy panicked. He threw the rest of the drug overboard and, when Corrine stopped breathing, rolled her over the side too. It never crossed his mind to try and get help. He was too busy thinking of his own hide.

  The story Guy told his parents, when it became obvious the police suspected him, was that Corrine had injected herself, that he had no idea she was into hard drugs or was carrying any that night. He admitted to dumping her out at sea. That was all. Solange and Raoul, while furious that he could have been so stupid, believed his story. To do otherwise would have meant confronting the idea that their son was less than perfect.

  Guy had not used heroin since. He became convinced that Corrine’s reaction was a result of some kind of lethal concoction and that he too might have suffered a similar fate had he injected himself first. He told himself he’d been lucky and vowed to stay away from the drug in future. But secreted away on the boat, he had a supply of amphetamines and barbiturates. He was looking forward to seeing their effect on Holly Jones. Having killed Corrine, and believing that Sham too was dead, Guy Dulac was beginning to feel that the law couldn’t touch him. If the stuck-up Australian bitch didn’t cooperate he could do it again. It would be up to her. They could have some fun and he’d bring her back. If not, this time he’d take the boat well out to sea before getting rid of her. Surely the sharks wouldn’t miss two decent meals?

  Raoul Dulac was not a happy man. As Guy had goaded, he was flat broke. The banks were threatening to call in his loans. He was in danger of losing the estate. Raoul needed to find William’s treasure with some degree of urgency. It had never been his intention to share it with Justin. Now that was one problem less to deal with. Tamarin Falls. Raoul knew he would have to go there for himself but decided to give it a few days in case the police were still sniffing about in the area. He didn’t want them wondering what he was doing.

  Had Maguire and the journalist found anything? Perhaps he should wait until they left Mauritius. He wondered what kind of business deal Maguire was working on but quickly dismissed the thought. Even if he knew, he couldn’t afford to buy in.

  The boat, luxury cars, rebuilding of his home – which the fire insurance never came close to covering – depressed sugar prices and an extravagant lifestyle had all but cleaned him out. Raoul had plenty of money outside Mauritius – over the years Scylla, diamond dealing, drugs, and one or two other ventures had done exceptionally well, the profits supporting bank accounts in Switzerland and Hong Kong – but he needed money here.

  Raoul had done the unforgivable and fallen in love with his mistress. He knew she didn’t return his feelings. Their business relationship developed into something more intimate shortly after Song’s arranged marriage. She was a passionate woman whose body could wait no longer. Married to an inexperienced boy, Song considered Raoul the perfect candidate to initiate her in delights of the flesh. He had not intended to fall in love. When it became apparent she did not love him in return, Raoul told himself that the only way to keep his mistress was to cater to her expensive tastes. He had more than enough money outside Mauritius to keep Song happy.

  It was Solange whom Raoul needed to satisfy. He wanted to be rid of her but if he left she would consider it her moral right to break him. And in the course of doing that, it was more than likely his offshore accounts would come to light. If he was able to leave her well provided for she’d be happy to see the back of him, that’s if she brought her nose out of the cognac glass long enough to notice! So he fumed and fretted impatiently, hoping that Tamarin Falls held an answer to his problems and that he hadn’t been beaten to the treasure.

  Raoul had no doubt that William Maguire’s treasure existed. When his parents told him that Kathleen had tried to swap a map for a chance to speak with Anne-Marie, Raoul had immediately become interested. He’d paid the nun a visit but she refused to deal with him. It hadn’t been difficult for Raoul to gain access to Kathleen’s safe deposit box. Although he only removed the map, he’d read a note that was with it. ‘I have done as William Maguire seemed to desire and sent his journal back to Ireland. I have taken the precaution of removing the map.’ That was it as far as Raoul was concerned. Untold riches had once existed. Chances were, they still did.

  Then the burglary. The map had disappeared along with most of Solange’s jewellery. Some stupid thief who probably had no idea what it was and no doubt threw it away. However, Raoul, ever cautious, had photocopied William’s map.

  Raoul realised that if he found the treasure he had no legal claim to it, which was why he brought in Anne-Marie. As a Maguire, she was entitled to a share, although Raoul had no actual intention of allowing her to keep it. The ungrateful bitch! Instead of being as excited as he over it, Anne-Marie deliberately went behind his back in a spiteful attempt to thwart him. That’s when Justin appeared. And, if that wasn’t enough, Connor Maguire turned up shortly after that. Raoul felt his plans were unravelling but, always the opportunist, saw a way of searching
for the treasure without actually lifting a finger himself.

  Justin had said Anne-Marie had given him a copy of the map, and Connor Maguire obviously had some kind of evidence of the treasure because he didn’t do anything by half. Raoul began to worry. Too many people knew. If Justin’s map, or whatever it was in Maguire’s possession fell into the wrong hands, there’d be even more people after the treasure. Raoul didn’t like long odds.

  It was easy enough to arrange the burglaries. The African was a Scylla mercenary who asked no questions and carried out orders to the letter. He’d come back empty-handed from Maguire’s room but at least his attack on Parker had yielded the Englishman’s map. Parker would be less independent and easier to control if he had to rely on Raoul’s copy. Which fitted in perfectly with the rest of Raoul’s plan. If his association with Justin were kept quiet, the Englishman could be dealt with if anything was found. That only left Connor Maguire and whatever evidence he had of the treasure. Maguire wouldn’t waste too much time on trying to find it, he was a busy man with many commitments. With a bit of luck he’d leave Mauritius empty-handed.

  Then everything started to go wrong. If only that idiot Parker hadn’t kidnapped the Australian journalist on Rodrigues and revealed that he and Raoul were partners, all would have been well. Now he was dead so that little problem was solved. Which still left Maguire and the journalist.

  Raoul realised he was now back to square one. No treasure, no partner, no money. And unless he got lucky soon, no mistress. Of the four, it was Song he couldn’t live without.

  Around five thirty, Holly and Connor set off for Grand Baie. An ointment bought from the local chemist had relieved the pain in Holly’s hands but she knew it would be some days before they stopped being sore to touch. When Connor suggested that he have a look at Raoul’s boat on his own, she wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘Are you usually this stubborn?’

  ‘Only when the need arises.’

  ‘An early night would be better for you.’

  ‘No it wouldn’t. I’d be too worried about you to take advantage of it.’

  ‘What I’ve got to do is illegal.’

  ‘Nice try, Maguire.’

  He’d thrown up his hands, accepting defeat.

  Holly could see how keyed up he was. She hoped that, tonight, Connor would find a way to put the deaths of Emma and his stepbrother behind him. His need for retribution was not in question and she understood that if he failed in this attempt he would simply carry on until he found whatever it took to do it. His determination would bring success sooner or later.

  They found a quiet place to eat. A small taverna in a side street. Only two other tables were occupied. After giving their order, Connor, looking uncharacteristically nervous, broached the subject of their return to Australia.

  ‘Have you . . . um . . . any more overseas assignments lined up?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Why?’

  ‘Would you take one?’

  ‘It’s what I do.’

  ‘When we’re married, will you continue working?’

  Crunch time! ‘Yes.’

  He nodded. ‘Thought so.’

  ‘Will you?’ Holly countered, a hint of challenge in her voice.

  His dark eyes were amused. ‘Not much slips past you, does it?’

  She ducked her head. When she looked up again, both of them were smiling. ‘Force of habit.’

  ‘I like it. Kind of keeps me on my toes. You have rather a catchy combination of feminist independence and feminine dependence.’

  ‘Watch your mouth, Maguire.’

  His laugh was a deep chuckle of shared pleasure. Holly joined him. She had never felt so relaxed with, or attracted to, any man, not even Dennis. But the business of her job had to be thrashed out. Holly sensed that Connor, because of the experience with his first wife, might prove a shade over-possessive of her time. And while that was flattering, she knew herself well enough to realise that it could easily become a cause of friction. There was only one way around the problem. Strong, solid relationships were based on compromise from both sides.

  ‘Will my working bother you?’

  ‘How much time do you spend away from home?’

  ‘On average, about four months a year.’

  He was wrestling with that – she could almost hear the wheels turning.

  ‘Of course,’ Holly continued, ‘assignments closer to home would be worth considering.’ Compromise number one.

  He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t do that to you, Holly. You have to go where the job takes you. Anything else would be frustrating.’

  Jones one, Maguire one. ‘Are you sure you won’t mind?’

  Connor thought about it. ‘I’ll try not to. I’ll miss you, though. It’s the best I can do.’

  ‘There is one other possibility.’ Not really a compromise. A closely held dream more like.

  He was waiting for her to continue.

  ‘Well . . .’ She’d never voiced this ambition to another living soul, not even Quinn. ‘I’ve always wanted to try and write a book.’ Holly half-expected him to laugh.

  He didn’t. ‘What sort of book?’

  ‘Fiction. Historical. An Australian-American theme. Adventure-romance.’

  ‘That’s a fairly crowded area.’

  ‘I know. But I’ve got this idea.’

  Before she could stop herself, she was telling him. For years, Holly had kept the storyline in her head. The book would be set in the late-eighteen, early-nineteen hundreds and be loosely based on a little known fact that Herbert Hoover, President of the United States from 1929 to 1933, had spent considerable time in Australia between 1897 and 1907 working in various managerial positions in the goldfields in Western Australia. That fact alone was interesting enough but what was not generally known was that Hoover’s university qualifications as a mining engineer were questionable, that his job with the London-based firm of Bewick Moreing & Company as a mining surveyor had been secured with largely falsified credentials and that, once in Australia, Hoover proved to have a cavalier approach to shareholders’ money – to the tune of eight hundred thousand pounds.

  ‘He became a partner in Bewick Moreing,’ Holly told Connor, ‘by substituting his name on a deed of trust in a merger with a large Chinese mining company. If I use these facts and throw in a lot of fiction, the story should virtually write itself.’

  ‘Would you make Hoover your central character?’ Connor asked, showing a great deal of interest.

  ‘No, but he could flit through the pages as one of the bad guys. He had a raging affair with a Kalgoorlie barmaid,’ Holly added. ‘I thought of writing the story from her perspective.’

  ‘You’ll have to do a hell of a lot of research.’ Connor reached over the table and carefully picked up both her hands. ‘Will it be enough for you?’

  ‘More than enough. I’m not saying I’ll be any good at it, and I confess to never thinking I’d have the chance. It would mean at least a couple of years without an income and with no guarantee of success once the book is written.’

  ‘The money’s not a problem, you know that.’

  Holly looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m rich, Holly. Get used to it.’

  ‘It’s just that . . .’

  ‘You’re used to being self-reliant?’

  ‘Something like that,’ she admitted.

  ‘I’ll take it out of your hide if it makes you feel any better.’ He grinned. ‘Forget the money. Convince me it’s what you want to do.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve always been fascinated by our history, and especially by some of the more colourful characters who danced through those times. Herbert Hoover was a con man with no qualifications and yet he went on to become President of the United States. Tie those facts in with the rollicking days of the Australian goldfields, a saucy barmaid, and God knows what my imagination can come up with and I believe I’ve got a story. And I love to write. It would solve the separation problem and I’d find it challenging
.’ She flashed a wicked grin. ‘I might even consider a child or two between books.’

  Connor’s earlier tension seemed to have disappeared. His eyes lit up. ‘More than one? Book, I mean.’

  ‘Hell, no! I’m on a roll here. Both.’

  His thumbs rubbed the backs of her hands and he turned them over to examine the palms. Soft red skin covered the burst blisters. He raised one hand, then the other, and gently kissed each in turn. ‘If anyone can do it, you can.’

  God how she loved him! ‘Thank you. Um . . . Connor . . . this support of yours . . .’

  He was way ahead of her. ‘Guilty. I’d be behind you anyway but the thought of having you at home is rather appealing.’

  ‘I hate to tell you this but I’m not exactly little woman material. The stove, kitchen sink and I have never hit it off terribly well.’

  ‘How about computers?’

  ‘Computers are good. I can do computers.’

  ‘That’ll do me. We can always eat out.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Are you really sure of this, Holly? I don’t want any thoughts of giving up your career just to please me. Am I harassing you?’

  ‘Wrong word, Maguire.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Harassment is making someone do something they don’t wish to do.’

  He grinned. ‘I love you, Jones.’

  ‘Good,’ she said softly. ‘I’d hate to think I was all alone in my new-found euphoria.’

  It was nine thirty by the time they left the taverna. Grand Baie, at that hour on a Wednesday evening, was virtually deserted. Locals had, long ago, gone home to bed and most holiday-makers were ensconced in the luxury of their five-star hotels. The pounding beat of sega dance music carried clearly across the water. Tourist resorts were lit up like Christmas trees but few lights shone from residential areas on the far side. Out in the middle, where Raoul’s boat rode on its mooring, was a black hole.

  Leaving the commercial sector behind, Connor drove around the bay. Many Mauritians who owned private houses used them only as weekenders. Almost all had a boat of some kind. Connor was looking for a dinghy to borrow for an hour or so.