by Will Adams
Andriama walked across to lift the altar cloth and peer beneath. He turned to her and nodded sadly.
She took a deep breath. ‘Who?’ she asked.
‘Your father.’ He laid the cloth back down.
She walked forward, stumbling a little over the edge of some matting. Andriama caught her, tried half-heartedly to hold her back, but she pushed past him. Now that she knew the worst, her hands were strangely steady. She pulled the altar cloth down to his shoulders, and there he was, instantly recognisable despite the eleven years, despite his bloated appearance, the way his body arched slightly, as if he’d been electrocuted, but in reality merely bowed by his constricting wetsuit. His face and throat had been torn open in places, but elsewhere his complexion was pale, with tints of blue, green and yellow that suggested he’d been dead for days.
A cloying smell rose to her nostrils, sea-water and the onset of decay, distinctive more than unpleasant or overpowering, mitigated by the perfume of the incense and flowers. A drop of water splashed down, creating a grey circle on the white altar cloth that quickly grew almost translucent. It was only then that she realised she was crying. Andriama laid his hand gently upon her back. She stepped away from his false comfort, around to her father’s other side, pulled the cloth down to his waist. His arms were down by his side, a GPS unit on his right wrist, a diver’s watch on his left, along with what looked like the strap for a camera, only there was no camera attached. But what took her breath away was the bloodencrusted puncture wounds in the fabric of his wetsuit. They were all over his torso, and there were two on his right forearm as well, as though he’d been trying to defend himself from a furious assault. And they weren’t shark bites, or coral tears, or any other such natural phenomenon. They were too clean and straight to have been made by anything other than a sharp knife.
Her left leg gave way beneath her. Andriama caught her and helped her to an empty pew. A stooped and greyhaired priest, Latin American from the look of him, pulled the altar cloth back over her father then came and sat on her other side. He took her hand and pressed it. His fingers were dark, gnarled and hairy, she noticed, his nails torn and dirty with soil. A man, like her father, who’d practised his religion in hard work. ‘Who found him?’ she asked.
‘He was on the reef. Everyone saw him together.’
‘I promised a reward.’
He hushed her. ‘This is no time for that.’
‘We must take his body to Tulear,’ murmured Andriama from her other side. ‘Cause of death, you understand.’
‘We know the cause of death,’ said Rebecca. ‘Didn’t you see? Someone butchered him with a knife.’
‘With respect, Rebecca, the sea can often make an accident look like-’
‘He was stabbed to death,’ stated Rebecca. ‘You know it. I know it.’ Andriama’s eyes dropped; he looked away. She sensed immediately that he was holding something back. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
Andriama gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘There has been an incident,’ he acknowledged reluctantly. ‘In Morombe.’
A tiny shiver ran through Rebecca. Morombe was where Daniel had come down from. ‘What kind of incident?’
‘A serious one. We found two bodies.’
‘Bodies? You mean they were killed?’
Andriama nodded. ‘We thought at first that it was just an argument that had got out of control. They were gun dealers; they’d shot each other. It made a certain sense. But one of them had been stabbed too; and there was no trace of a knife at the scene. And we’ve since learned that they were supposed to be meeting a foreigner.’
Rebecca nodded. ‘And you think their deaths are connected to my father’s?’
‘Murder is very rare in Madagascar,’ said Andriama. ‘Stabbing is very rare. To have two such incidents so close in time and place, both involving foreigners… But it is still only a possibility. Coincidences happen. We don’t even know for sure yet that your father was murdered.’
She gave an expressive snort, glared up at him; but this time he met her gaze, and it was Rebecca who looked down. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said.
He touched her arm. ‘If your father was murdered, we will get his killer. I swear this to you.’
‘Thank you.’ She glanced at where he lay. ‘May I have a minute alone?’
‘Of course.’
Both men left together. She listened to their fading footsteps. When they were gone, when the door had swung softly closed behind them, she stood and walked back over to her father. She pulled down the altar cloth once more, removed and then pocketed the GPS unit from around her father’s wrist. Then she kissed his forehead and made her pledges to him, and laid the cloth reverently back down.
II
It was dusk by the time Knox moored the Yvette and waded ashore. He heard the engine then saw a white 4x4 approaching along the track, Rebecca at the wheel. He hurried up to Eden to greet her, but the moment he saw how pale she was, how raw her eyes, he knew she’d had bad news. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, taking her in his arms. She wept into his shoulder, as though she’d been holding her grief back during her drive, but now could let it out. ‘Both of them?’ he asked.
‘My father.’
‘What happened? Was it the kidnappers?’
‘No. That was just a scam. Nothing but a scam organised by that fuck Mustafa and his sons. They never even had him or Emilia. He’s been dead several days at least.’
‘I’m so sorry, Rebecca.’
‘He wasn’t just dead,’ she told him. ‘He was murdered. And I’m going to find out who did it.’ She pushed herself free of him, her expression stern and resolved. ‘So I want the truth. Who are you? What are you doing here? No more equivocation; no more half-truths. I want to know everything.’
He nodded, buying a moment to think this through. He’d have loved to show her the basement, give her Emilia’s report to read; but then he’d have to explain how the shelves had been pulled over, and that would inevitably lead to Boris, and this wasn’t the time for that. He therefore gave her the bowdlerised version instead, about how he worked for a company called MGS who’d been hired by Ricky Cheung for a salvage a little further north, and how Emilia had invited them on afterwards for another salvage, ostensibly the Winterton but in truth a Chinese treasure ship. He told her of the email from the Landseer Trust telling him that Adam and Emilia had disappeared, and how he’d been so worried for them that he’d come straight down here to check it out.
‘Why didn’t you just tell me all this that first night?’
‘Because your sister made us all swear not to. She was beyond adamant that if we told anyone at all, we’d be out.’
‘I’m not anyone.’
‘I’m sorry, Rebecca. But she made a special point of warning us not to tell you.’
‘Me?’ Her cheeks coloured. ‘Why me?’
‘I don’t know, not for sure. But you’re a celebrity, and people act like idiots when celebrities are involved. I think she was scared that one of us might approach you maybe, or shoot our mouths off; and that you’d hold it against her. She was terrified of doing anything to spook you, I know that much. She told me she’d got in touch with you when she was thinking of coming over, hoping to see you; but you put her off.’
Rebecca buried her face in her hands. ‘What have I done?’ she wept.
He took half a step towards her. ‘I was going to tell you all this two nights ago, I swear I was; but you threw me out before I could, and then you headed off to Tulear. And I was trying to broach it last night when your partner showed up.’
Rebecca wiped her eyes dry with her thumb and forefinger, then assumed a stern expression as though there’d be time for mourning ahead, but right now she had work to do. ‘My father was in a wetsuit,’ she told him, fishing a GPS unit from her pocket. ‘He was also wearing this. It logged his movements the day he and Emilia disappeared. As far as I can tell, he headed out to sea around seven-thirty that morning. At eight
-forty the connection was dropped. The GPS wasn’t turned off, mind; it just lost coverage.’
‘He went underwater,’ said Knox.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘And this tells us exactly where.’
Knox nodded. ‘We’ll go out first thing tomorrow.’
‘No,’ said Rebecca. ‘I want to go now.’
‘It’s too dark, Rebecca. The sea’s getting up. Seriously, if we wait until-’
She held up the GPS. ‘This is where my father was murdered. This is where my sister went missing. Maybe this is where I’ll find information to help me get her back alive. Do you really think I’m going to sleep on it?’
He sighed, weary from his day; but he knew she was right. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I need to get some more fuel.’
‘And I need dive-gear.’
He looked at her in alarm. He hadn’t realised she meant to go that far. ‘Have you been night-diving before?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Several times.’
‘By yourself? On a reef? In a rough sea? With unfamiliar equipment?’
‘I’m doing this. Don’t try to stop me.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ he told her. ‘If anyone’s going diving, it’s me. It’s what I do for a living, remember. And all my gear’s already on board.’
‘I can’t ask you to do that.’
‘You’re not asking me. I’m volunteering. And that’s the end of it. Okay?’
Her eyes watered again. She reached out and touched his arm. ‘I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you,’ she said. ‘Not just for this. For everything.’
He was about to tell her there was no need for thanks when he heard noise along the track, looked up to see headlights approaching, a pickup weaving erratically towards them, pulling to a stop. Pierre threw open his door and almost tripped over his seat-belt in his haste to get out. ‘Becca!’ he sobbed. ‘I hear terrible news. Is it true? Have they found your father?’
‘It’s true.’
He gave a low wail, enfolded her in a hug. ‘I can’t believe it. The best of men. The very best of men. And your poor sister!’
‘Emilia isn’t dead yet,’ said Rebecca tightly. ‘We’re going to look for her now.’
‘How do you mean? In the forest?’
She shook her head, showed him the GPS. He gave it the baffled look of someone who refused even to engage with modern technology, so Rebecca talked him through how it had logged her father’s movements on his final day.
‘I come with you,’ he said. ‘I help you look.’
‘Forget it,’ said Rebecca. ‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘One glass, that’s all. Thirty-four years I know your father. Thirty-four years! You expect me to stay here and do nothing? Besides, I know your father’s boat. I know our reefs. Even at night, I know them.’
She glanced at Knox. He shrugged to let her know it was her call either way. ‘Fine,’ she sighed. They fetched the fuel, waded out. Knox released them from their mooring and took the wheel to steer them through the pass, Rebecca beside him plotting the GPS co-ordinates on the Eden chart.
‘So this is where we’re headed, yes?’ asked Pierre.
‘Yes.’
He frowned and opened his mouth as if to say something; but he checked himself and gave his earlobe a little tug, went outside.
Knox glanced at Rebecca. ‘What was that about?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’ She was silent a few moments, then asked: ‘You said my father arranged the salvage licences, right? Do you know who with?’
‘The Culture Ministry, I think. Though don’t hold me to that.’
‘But someone in central government, right? Not some local guy.’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘My father and sister both hated Antananarivo. They never went there if they could avoid it.’
‘They couldn’t have avoided it. Not for this.’
‘They could have if they’d sent Pierre instead.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘He was always doing stuff up there on my father’s behalf. Giving lectures, attending meetings, making sure the right people got their “commissions”.’ She rubbed her fingers and thumb together in the universal symbol of corruption. ‘My father loathed that side of Madagascar. Emilia, too.’
‘Would your father have trusted Pierre?’
‘Not enough to have told him where the wreck was. But that he’d found something, and needed licences… Yes, I can certainly believe that. And I know he’s been struggling to pay his bills recently. Imagine if you’d never done a day’s work in your life, and then you found yourself running out of money.’
‘And your best friend found a fortune on the sea-bed, but wouldn’t tell you where. Worse, he was intending to turn it all over to the government.’
‘Pierre was at a conference in Antananarivo all last week,’ said Rebecca. ‘If there were any details to finalise about the salvage, that would have been the perfect opportunity. He sent my father an email asking for new photographs of the white sifaka. But you don’t find sifakas here. You only get them south and east of Tulear.’
‘You think it was a code?’ frowned Knox. ‘You think he sent your father out to photograph the wreck?’
‘It’s possible, isn’t it? And my father certainly saw the email. It was one of the last he read.’
‘Why would Pierre ask for more photos?’
‘To trick my father into giving away the wreck’s location, of course. So that he could plant a GPS on board, plunder it himself before the salvage started.’
Knox shook his head. ‘You saw how baffled he was when you showed him your father’s GPS. That wasn’t faked. Besides, you said yourself that your father was murdered. He couldn’t have done that from Antananarivo.’
‘Then maybe he came back. Listen, his lecture would have taken him one morning or afternoon, but he stayed there the whole week, then met me at the airport. But what if all that was just to establish his alibi?’
‘You think he came back here midweek? It’s a hell of a drive.’
‘Yes, but he could have flown. I mean, let’s go back a few days. He’s desperate to find out where the wreck is, but Adam won’t tell him. He’s got this conference in Antananarivo, and he makes up some story about going to see the Culture Ministry about the licences. Or maybe he really does have a meeting. Whatever, he tells my father to check his email on a certain day, in case he needs anything, then he sets off in his pickup. But instead of driving up to Antananarivo, he goes to a local airport instead. Not Tulear: he’s too well known there. But Manjo or Morombe, somewhere like that. He flies up to Antananarivo, checks into his hotel, gives his talk, shows his face around. He emails my father for new photos of the wreck, then he flies back down, gets his pickup and…’ She broke off, shook her head in frustration. ‘No. He’d still need a way to get out to the Yvette.’
‘He could have stowed away in the hold.’
‘That wouldn’t explain how he got back to shore afterwards. The Yvette was found way out at sea, remember?’
‘What about his zodiac?’ suggested Knox. ‘He could have taken it with him in the back of his pickup.’
‘Yes,’ said Rebecca. ‘Of course. He flies back down, drives as close to here as he dares, then gets in his zodiac and motors down here and waits outside the reef for the Yvette. Maybe he approaches them; maybe they spot him. There’s a confrontation; it gets out of hand. He kills them, dumps them overboard. He lets the Yvette drift off, then gets back in his zodiac, races back to his pickup, drives up to Antananarivo before anyone even realises he’s been away.’
‘It’s a hell of an ask,’ said Knox.
‘But it works, right?’ asked Rebecca. ‘I mean, in theory.’
‘Yes. It works in theory.’
Their eyes turned to Pierre, sitting at the stern. Maybe he sensed something, because he glanced up at that moment. He gave one of his ghastly smiles, pushed himself to his feet, came to the bridge, his nervousness only
made the more obvious by his efforts to conceal it. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘What is it?’
‘It was you,’ blurted out Rebecca, unable to stop herself. ‘You murdered my father and my sister.’
FORTY-FIVE
I
Pierre looked aghast at Rebecca’s accusation, but Knox couldn’t tell whether it was guilt or shock. ‘Me?’ he protested. ‘How could you say such a thing?’
‘You set them up,’ insisted Rebecca. ‘You sent them out here.’
‘No! This is crazy!’
‘Then you murdered them.’
‘No!’ Pierre pointed a trembling finger at Knox. ‘It’s him. He’s been poisoning your mind.’
‘White sifaka,’ said Rebecca.
A look of unmistakeable guilt appeared on Pierre’s face. He must have realised it too. His eyes watered, he tried to say something, but it stuck in his throat. The boat plunged into the trough of a wave at that moment, his left leg gave a little. He lurched out of the doorway, stumbled away along the deck. They ran out after him. Pierre picked up the boat-hook, turned and waved it at them. ‘Stay back,’ he warned. ‘Stay away.’
‘Or what?’ asked Knox.
‘I did nothing,’ insisted Pierre. ‘I swear. I’d never lie to you, Becca. Not to you. You’re a daughter to me.’
‘Like Emilia was?’ asked Rebecca. ‘Get her pregnant and then murder her so that your son could inherit Eden?’
Pierre’s face crumpled. ‘How could you even think that of me?’
Knox motioned to Rebecca to edge to her left, to make it harder for Pierre to watch them both. She nodded and did so. ‘Then tell me what happened,’ she said to Pierre.
‘Nothing happened,’ insisted Pierre.
‘You sent my father an email. You wanted him to lead you to the wreck.’
‘No!’
‘Then you came out here and murdered him and Emilia and dumped their bodies overboard.’
‘Stay back! Stay back!’
‘But my father’s body drifted back to shore.’
