The Forgotten Sea

by Beverley Harper

  It was almost a case of ‘take your pick’, except that the prudent owners seemed to keep their oars under lock and key. Eventually they found a small pirogue that had a single paddle.

  Dark cumulus clouds scudded across the night sky, breaking up the moonlight. There was a smell of rain in the air. The light breeze carried an uncomfortable chill. If it rained, they had no protection and would quickly become very cold. Having waded out to the boat, they were already wet to the waist.

  ‘Ready?’ Connor whispered.

  ‘Yep.’

  Connor held the boat while Holly climbed in then pushed it out a little further and jumped in himself. With only one paddle coordinating their movement, it was not easy. Connor sat at the back with the oar, paddling canoe style. The pirogue was bulky enough to make this method difficult but it was the best he could do. Holly, in an effort to help, leaned over the front and tried to paddle with her hands. She quickly found out that while the healing properties of sea water were not in question, the salt penetrating her blisters caused the wounds to sting painfully.

  Nothing stirred, save for the incessant snapping of halyards in the light wind. Yachts of all shapes and sizes – cabin cruisers, commercial charter and game fishing boats – had the bay to themselves at night, with nothing better to do than swing lazily on their moorings. More than once, Connor had to quickly change course as yet another shape loomed up out of the darkness. And when clouds covered the moon, visibility was reduced to next to nothing. ‘See the big spotlight over there?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I see it.’

  ‘Raoul’s boat is about halfway across. We have to keep a direct line between it and that red warning beacon behind us.’

  Progress was slow. For a while, Holly thought they were getting nowhere. It was a constant battle to stay on course. The incoming tide wanted to push them sideways. After half-an-hour, Connor said, ‘We must be nearly there by now.’

  Holly had been thinking the same thing.

  A break in the clouds allowed the half moon to shine freely for a moment. Connor stopped paddling and looked around. There were boats all round them but Raoul Dulac’s had gone.

  Holly heard Connor’s intake of breath. ‘Damn! It was here earlier, I saw it as we drove through Grand Baie.’

  The night sky closed in again and, at that moment, the threatening rain made good its promise. Helpless to protect themselves, Holly and Connor were engulfed in a sudden squall. The rain hissed down, brief in duration but long on ferocity, soaking them within seconds. To make their predicament worse, the wind picked up.

  Cyclone Yvette, far out in the Indian Ocean, had sent her first long-distance message. Short and sharp, it heralded the coming of rough seas. Their trip back did not take as long – the tide helped – but by the time they had secured the pirogue, both were shaking with cold.

  Removing shoes, socks and jeans, they made the return journey to Flic-en-Flac semi-clothed with the car heater on full bore. It was better than freezing to death, though Holly did wonder what the police would make of them in the event of an accident.

  Once her teeth had stopped chattering, Holly’s thoughts turned to the whereabouts of Raoul’s boat. ‘He’d know about Justin by now, Anne-Marie would have told him. Perhaps he’s been able to find out where it happened. If that’s the case, he could well be anchored in the deep water off Flic-en-Flac tomorrow morning.’

  It was the first thing they checked the next day. Sure enough, Raoul’s boat was just where they thought it might be. Both Holly and Connor made the mistake of assuming that Raoul himself had brought it there. The sleek, game fishing Chris Craft appeared to be deserted. ‘He’ll be at the falls by now,’ Connor guessed.

  ‘Perhaps he won’t be able to reach the bottom.’

  ‘Raoul will find a way. He’ll recognise the shape, just as you did. There’ll be no stopping him now. I’ve got to put a spanner in that particular works.’ Connor was dressing for his meeting with Liang Song. ‘Are you coming up to Port Louis with me?’

  ‘I’ve had about as much as I can stand of that woman. I’ll stay here.’

  He took her in his arms. ‘Right here please. No wandering off. You have a tendency to get into trouble. Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’ She had her fingers crossed. With Raoul Dulac looking for treasure a good ten kilometres away there seemed to be no harm in taking a little swim.

  ‘When I come back we’ll go and sign those statements in Curepipe,’ Connor said. ‘I shouldn’t be too long.’

  Sham floated in and out of a drug-induced sleep. Over the past two days people had come and gone. Sometimes he woke alone in his room. At other times, the detective knew that someone sat quietly by his bedside. With both eyes still bandaged, his hearing and sense of smell had quickly compensated for the absence of vision. At around eleven o’clock, he became aware that a colleague from the Curepipe district – Rafe Jolliffe – was there and reading a newspaper. Sham recognised his aftershave. He was willing to bet that Rafe was studying the racing form section. ‘What day is it?’ he croaked.

  ‘Thursday. You’ve been out of it since Tuesday.’

  ‘What happened?’ As yet, he had no memory of the accident.

  ‘Could have been a puncture but from the looks of things, I’d say you were run off the road.’

  The temptation to sink back into sleep was almost overwhelming but Sham realised he had to remember something important. Recollections came tantalisingly close, only to fade into the background. It was there, just out of reach. ‘Where?’

  ‘Near Flic-en-Flac. What were you doing down there?’

  He had no idea. His last clear recollection was of having breakfast with his wife. ‘I don’t know. Mon dieu! If only I could think straight.’

  ‘Take your time. You’re lucky to be alive. The car’s a write-off.’

  Sham groaned as pain pushed through the intravenously administered analgesic. They had not told him how badly he’d been injured but he was under no illusions that the word superficial applied to him. He didn’t wish to think about it. ‘What’s happening? Who’s handling my case load?’

  ‘It’s being shared by a couple of stations. I’ve got one or two.’

  ‘Who’s doing the Vitry case?’ At least his memory hadn’t completely packed up.

  ‘Me.’

  A scrap of something dallied fleetingly in Sham’s tired mind. It didn’t leave a calling card and he was unable to capture it.

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to open the file. A tourist fell down the Tamarin Falls yesterday. I’ve been flat out with the paperwork on that one. That’s why I’m here, actually. An Australian journalist who happened to be on the scene says you can vouch for her. Holly Jones. Mean anything to you? I’d like to eliminate the girl and her companion from the inquiry.’

  And the thing Sham had been trying to remember with such little success came hammering back. Holly Jones. The Merville. Guy Dulac. Blue Porsche. Flic-en-Flac. Cane fields. ‘Dulac,’ he gasped, aware that the memory might fade again. ‘Guy Dulac. He was following them. Deliberately ran me off the road.’

  ‘Okay, calm down. We’ll bring him in for questioning.’

  ‘He killed the Vitry girl, I’m sure of it. No proof,’ Sham was gabbling, desperate to make his point. ‘Holly Jones could be next. You must –’

  ‘Take it easy, old friend.’

  But Sham would not rest until he was sure his concerns were being taken seriously. ‘She’s in danger. Dulac knows where she is. You must warn her.’ He groaned. ‘I don’t know where she was going.’

  ‘I do. We got an address when I interviewed her. I’ll get straight over there. Miss Jones will be fine.’

  Sham had become quite agitated. He reached out a shaking, searching hand, seeking contact with Jolliffe’s arm, which he gripped tightly. ‘She must be warned. Guy Dulac is an animal. He’s extremely dangerous.’

  ‘I’m on my way. You rest easy. I’ll come back tomorrow.’

  Sham’s grip loose
ned and his hand dropped. The effort had cost what little energy he had. ‘Arrest Dulac,’ he mumbled. ‘Don’t let him get anywhere near the girl.’ His eyes closed. Sham was once again in the warm embrace of medication.

  Guy Dulac knew the waters round Mauritius like the back of his hand. Even at night and despite the unpredictable weather, negotiating the deep water channel from Grand Baie out through the reef to the open sea presented no problem. Knowing how far out he needed to be for a clear run down the west coast, avoiding the bulge below Port Louis, not to mention the watchful eyes of the coastguard, was child’s play. Picking up the Flic-en-Flac repeater beacon on his radio, Guy easily manoeuvred the boat to a safe deep water mooring and dropped anchor. He grabbed a couple of hours’ sleep and before first light, rowed ashore.

  The owner of the holiday apartments where Holly and Connor were staying was a friend of his father. Not bothered by the early hour, Guy roused the man and booked a bed-sitter. Behind net curtains, he watched and waited. At nine, he saw Connor Maguire leaving on his own. There was no sign of Holly. At five to eleven, he caught sight of her heading for the beach. She dropped her towel and waded straight into the water. It took several minutes for Guy Dulac to realise that she was swimming towards his father’s boat. He watched as she battled the rising swell, eventually reaching the vessel and clambering onto the aft duckboards. She immediately disappeared into the cabin.

  ‘What the hell is she up to?’ he muttered in absolute disbelief. He hadn’t expected Holly to make it easy for him. Leaving the room, he quickly crossed to the beach and rowed out towards the boat.

  Shivering slightly in the cool wind, Holly tried the cabin door and found it unlocked. She was not concerned about wet footprints. By the time Raoul returned, evidence of her presence should have dried. Holly allowed herself a few minutes to recover. Her swim had been more difficult than it looked. The sea ran a swell big enough to require all her energy and she was quite exhausted. Compared with yesterday’s serenity, she might well have been in a different country.

  Only one locker was padlocked. Holly located a skewer, knife and screwdriver. With a surprising lack of conscience, and in very little time, she had picked the lock. ‘So sue me!’ Connor’s words seemed appropriate. Inside the varnished teak cupboard lay a single white plastic envelope. Holly didn’t bother to open it. Embossed on it was the word waterproof. She checked it carefully. It looked airtight.

  Under normal weather conditions she’d have been able to paddle back to the beach keeping the envelope reasonably dry. No such luck today. Hoping the manufacturers knew what they were talking about, she pushed it down the front of her one-piece swimsuit, making sure it was secure and its hard edges caused the least discomfort. With a quick peek into several other lockers, and a last look around the cabin, she went on deck.

  Guy Dulac, stepping lightly over the transom, was the last person on earth she expected to see. She gave a little scream of fright.

  ‘Stealing the cookies?’ He smiled nastily. ‘I wouldn’t have expected that of you.’

  Holly stood frozen to the spot, her heart hammering wildly. Caught stealing was nothing compared to the person who had discovered her doing it.

  ‘Nothing to say in your defence?’ He moved towards her. ‘Now I wonder what you’ve got hidden down there. It might be fun to find out.’

  The boat’s deck was heaving in the rolling swell. Guy staggered back slightly to find his footing and Holly acted instinctively. She made a desperate dive over the side, catching her foot painfully on the railing. It was a clumsy action and she sank deeply before rising to break the surface. She struck out frantically, swimming for the beach. But Holly was out of condition and already weakened by the effort it took to reach the boat. Guy Dulac was as strong as an ox. He caught up with her easily, his strong hands on her shoulders forcing her under. Holly struggled wildly. Just as she thought her lungs would burst, the pressure eased. She broke the surface gasping for air, having just enough time to register Guy’s grinning face close to hers before being pushed under again. Losing strength, head buzzing from lack of oxygen, Holly knew there would only be one more chance. Struggling for air, she brought a knee up, aiming for his crotch.

  He sensed it coming, turning slightly, and Holly’s last attempt to escape made contact with his leg. It was not a painful blow, though it would have been enough to get away had it reached her intended target. With no hesitation, Guy Dulac punched Holly square on the chin, knocking her unconscious.

  At around eleven fifteen, just as Detective Sham finally remembered what it was that had been bothering him, Guy Dulac started the engines and headed out to sea.

  Just after midday, Connor returned to Flic-en-Flac, found Holly’s towel on the beach and registered the fact that Raoul’s boat had gone.

  At twelve twenty, Rafe Jolliffe, impressed by the urgency of Sham’s concern, arrived to warn Holly about Guy. He encountered Connor returning from a search of the beach. Connor’s concern over Raoul Dulac’s missing boat was justifiable, but for reasons much more sinister than he had at first thought.

  At twelve fifty, after a short telephone conversation with Raoul at his home, the detective instigated a land and sea search for Holly Jones. A police bulletin went out that Guy Dulac was wanted for the attempted murder of a police officer and the abduction of a tourist.

  Not prepared to sit around and wait, and very afraid for Holly’s safety, Connor Maguire took his own initiative and went into action a little after one in the afternoon. He made a mad dash across the island to Mahébourg, hoping to find Kathleen Maguire. Her ability to predict events was all he had – a desperate hope that Kathleen might, just might, be able to save the woman he loved.

  SEVENTEEN

  When Holly regained consciousness, her confused mind thought she must be having a nightmare. But that illusion was quickly shattered. The bunk on which she lay bucked and rolled crazily, throwing her from side to side. They were under power but the building seas seemed to be in charge, tossing them from one wave to the next. Each time the hull slapped hard into a trough, the boat would fight and shudder its way to the next crest before dropping, with a sickening lurch, down again. Waves crashed over the bow and the twin 200 hp Cummins diesel engines screamed in over-revved objection whenever the matched bronze propellers cleared water. The stern swung and sashayed over the sea like an ambling elephant’s rump.

  Holly raised trembling fingers to her face. They came away sticky with blood. The pain in her jaw was so intense she thought it might be broken. Her head throbbed, ribs ached and both blistered hands were bleeding again. She tried to sit up but the effort hurt too much. She was very frightened.

  Cyclone Yvette, having gathered itself for a furious five-day romp around the Indian Ocean, was in its third day. Larger than usual waves, which danced in support, would not unduly affect the sandy white beaches that were well protected by the coral reef. The shallower waters might churn and heave but that was to be expected. Cyclone-experienced Mauritians barely raised a ripple of interest over Yvette. Meteorologists had issued a Class 1 warning – one red flag raised on all government buildings. The cyclone’s position and strength were reported on radio and television, but otherwise, aside from special nautical bulletins for those still at sea, it was business as usual. With very few exceptions, pleasure craft and fishing trawlers battened down their hatches and sought safety close in to shore. As cyclones went, the effect of Yvette was disruptive but not worrying. Nevertheless, no-one was prepared to compromise when it came to the safety of anything afloat. Cyclones were known to be notoriously unpredictable.

  Guy Dulac was not thinking about the boat. In a kind of mad euphoric surge, he was pitting himself and the vessel against the seas. Having flung Holly onto a bunk, giving no thought to her condition, he popped a couple of amphetamines, pulled up anchor and headed due west away from land. By the time any sane person would have realised that the sea was getting dangerously rough, Guy had become drunk on its challenge. Fighting ea
ch wave, legs astride for balance, head flung back, he held an insane belief in his own invincibility. Nothing – not the sea, not the law – could touch him. Laughing, sexually aroused, strength flooding his limbs, Guy dared the elements to take him on.

  The Australian girl could wait. She would be his reward, to be savoured at leisure, when his blood cooled from the adrenaline rush which he knew so well, this man-thing, this need to prove himself to himself.

  Kathleen Maguire had woken that morning with a distinct feeling of disquiet, a sensation that she could best liken to a form of seasickness. She could see the red flags were up and had heard about Yvette on the radio. The air felt sluggish, almost heavy, the eastern sky dark, laden with moisture. Cyclonic, without doubt. Kathleen put the feeling of nausea down to inclement weather and went about her morning ablutions and prayers.

  The fee-paying primary school where she taught was part of the convent. Kathleen was on playground duty and then had three consecutive periods of teaching. Engrossed in her work, by nine thirty, whatever malady was afflicting her had subsided. At eleven she was in the staffroom enjoying tea and a brief break. As Kathleen bit into a delicious, home-baked shortbread biscuit, she experienced a sudden shocking pain in her jaw. One hand flew up and pressed hard against it.

  ‘Whatever is wrong, my dear?’ one of the other nuns asked, concerned by the look of anguish on Kathleen’s face.

  ‘Tooth,’ she mumbled into her hand. After the first raw agony passed it was replaced by a numbing ache.

  ‘You’d better see the dentist.’

  There was certainly no way to teach in this condition. She could barely open her mouth. Kathleen had never known such discomfort. The nun’s face lost all colour and beads of perspiration burst out on her forehead.

  ‘Sister Kathleen, you look dreadful. Go and lie down. I’ll see if Dr Kenny is available.’

  The semi-retired dentist who took care of the nuns’ dental requirements at a suitably reduced rate was not inclined to make house calls. ‘Give her some aspirin. If she’s no better in the morning, tell her to come and see me. Sounds like an abscess.’