by J C Ryan
The last thought gave him an idea. As soon as he’d discovered the source of the noise outside, he’d see about offering Digger’s services for the tracking. If Digger could track her from her hut to the ocean, maybe he could accept that she’d committed suicide. Because she damn well wouldn’t have gone swimming for any other reason. Unless, of course, her fear of the water was a ruse, the same as the name Jacqui Madrolle.
Nonetheless, there are at least ten easier ways to kill oneself than dishing yourself up to the sharks. Jacqui or Margot or whatever was worried and stressed, not suicidal.
He dressed quickly and snatched his door open. And then dropped his jaw. Camped out in view of his veranda were a gaggle of news cameras with their operators, crews, people dressed in business suits, and vans with satellite dishes on top of them. When he appeared, the suits surged at him.
Digger started barking furiously, causing the men in suits to hesitate. But eventually the bravest of them extended his arms in front of him, hands patting the air as he approached.
“Quiet, boy. Sit,” Rex told Digger.
Rex crossed his arms and took a step back into the darkness of his hut. He wasn’t inclined to talk to reporters, and he certainly didn’t want his face on the air. He turned slightly to present a profile to the camera and waited for the reporter to get within talking distance. He’d send the guy packing and then get busy on his quest.
“Mr. Donnelly, may we have a moment of your time?”
“What do you want?”
“I’m sure you are aware that the disappearance of Margot Lemaire is of national concern in France. We’d like to talk to you about your last meal with her.”
“Why would it be of national concern?” Rex asked, still with his arms crossed. He was not going to give them any information to leech onto. “If you turn those cameras on or are broadcasting without my permission, I’ll let my dog loose on you, and then I’ll sue your stations into oblivion.”
“No, no. They aren’t broadcasting. Not yet.”
“And that’s the way it’s going to stay until I tell you different,” Rex said in a measured tone.
The reporter caught the look in Rex’s eyes, spun around to the cameraman and told him to keep the camera off and to back off as well. Then he turned back to Rex and said, “You must be joking about why Margot’s disappearance is newsworthy.”
“Not at all. Until day before yesterday, I’d never heard that name. What’s this about?”
The reporter looked behind him, saw, as Rex could see, that the others had tacitly elected him their spokesperson, and came even nearer. He looked apprehensively at Digger and then dropped his bombshell.
“She didn’t tell you that she was President Aguillard’s campaign director, and that she had a very bright future in the French government?”
Rex’s jaw worked. The ever-so-charming Jacqui had snookered him, but good. That much he’d figured out already.
He brought himself up short as he remembered his thoughts of the day before. He had no room to be angry at deception or a false name. He was traveling with false papers himself, and he never shared his true past with anyone. Not even his most trusted employee and friend, Rehka Gyan. Speaking of whom, this would mean contacting her, because the stakes just got a lot higher for Mademoiselle Margot Lemaire. Suddenly, he was aware of quite a few other possible explanations for her disappearance—none of them involving suicide.
“No, she didn’t share that with me. Along with her true name. So, as you can see, I didn’t know her at all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. And I have no comment about Mademoiselle Lemaire. None.”
It was the reporter’s turn to be nonplussed. “But, but, but…” he sputtered.
“Digger, if this man isn’t out of my sight in thirty seconds, you may have him for a snack,” Rex said, looking at the reporter rather than the dog.
The reporter noted Digger’s sudden alertness and beat a hasty retreat, yelling at the others to hurry and leave immediately. He must have been well respected among them, Rex reflected, because in less than five minutes they’d packed up their gear and cleared the beach.
Irritating as the unwelcome media visit was, it served a purpose in that it got Rex to sit down and think carefully through the events from the last time he saw Jacqui up till now. Stepping through it all, it brought him to the point where he recalled when she said goodbye to Ida using the word adieu like in a final goodbye and that he thought it strange. Then later, she thanked him for the friendship, and the impression he got was that it was as if she was saying it because she was leaving. He recalled the sergeant mentioning all her stuff was still in her hut including her cellphone, and that was the main reason they thought she went for a swim and died either by accident or suicide.
But what if she had another cellphone? The one she used here, the number she gave me could’ve been a burner phone, bought solely for use while on holiday while she kept her official phone off. After all, it’s clear she was trying to escape attention while on holiday. The most important question is still, why did she disappear? Was it planned or was she somehow forced?
Next task: get some clothes from Margot’s hut and see if Digger can still detect where she went. After that, depending on what Digger finds, I’ll have a word with the resort owner about letting reporters hassle his guests.
Rex didn’t give Digger his beach run that morning. He figured the jog to town would suffice, and with the gaggle of reporters around somewhere, he didn’t want to be photographed, even at a distance, at play with his dog in circumstances like these. As soon as he’d explained as best he could to the disappointed dog and got ready, he leashed Digger and they made their way to the police station to ask for the sergeant he’d spoken to the previous day.
The sergeant came out of his office with a tall, sinewy man in street clothes whose bearing labeled him a cop to anyone with half a brain.
“Oh, good to see you, Monsieur Donnelly. You saved me a trip to the resort. This is Detective Caron, from Paris. He is taking over the investigation and would like to speak with you.”
“Happy to. But I came here to offer my dog’s ability to track, if you haven’t already tried that. I need a piece of Mademoiselle Lemaire’s clothing. Perhaps you’d care to speak with me while we go to her hut and get it.”
The French detective’s eyebrows went up in a gesture of astonishment. Rex couldn’t be bothered with protocol, though. It had already been hours, and the scents were fading. He wasn’t entirely sure how long afterward Digger would still be able to pick it up and follow it.
The sergeant, who’d been looking at Rex as he spoke, swung his eyes back to the French detective and gave a nervous chuckle. “I have already cleared Monsieur Donnelly, Detective Caron. He was free to go, but he has stayed and is offering help. I think we should accept his offer. We have no such ability present, to track Mademoiselle Lemaire.”
The detective allowed his face to fall into a neutral aspect and nodded slowly. “Of course, that is what we should do. Come, Monsieur Donnelly, let us get that piece of clothing for you and let your dog try to sort out the many times Mademoiselle Lemaire must have left her hut since she arrived.”
The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Rex. However, he didn’t feel the need to try to explain that the strongest of the scents would be the latest journey and that Digger would know what is expected of him. He didn’t know whether Digger could pick up a scent from two days ago at all. He just thought it was worth a try.
The trip back to the resort, in the little car, wasn’t much faster than Rex and Digger had made it to town when they were jogging. It seemed the island’s native population, as well as every tourist there, were milling around trying to get the reporters to interview them. Rex shook his head.
Well, at least they’re keeping them out of my face.
When they reached Margot’s hut, Rex noted the crime scene tape around it. The sergeant explained they’d put it there to discourage souvenir hunters. He was still c
onvinced Margot had gone for a midnight swim, despite Rex’s claims she wouldn’t have, and wanted to preserve the woman’s effects for next of kin when the investigation was closed and Mademoiselle Lemaire presumed dead.
Rex tried once more. “I’m telling you, sergeant. She told me she wasn’t a good swimmer, and besides, she was afraid of the creatures in the sea. In fact, this is what she said, verbatim, ‘Rowan, I have made a pact with them. I will stay out of their habitat if they will stay off mine’. She made a joke of it, you see.”
But the sergeant didn’t appreciate the humor. “Monsieur Donnelly, she didn’t tell you who she was or even her real first name. Why wouldn’t she lie about her aversion to the water? You, of course, wouldn’t first think of deception when you meet a pretty woman. As a trained policeman, that is my first thought.”
Rex suppressed his smile. In fact, there was a time when he thought of deception when he first met anyone—it was second nature, and it had kept him alive. Since teaming up with Digger, he had extra help on that front. Digger was more adept at detecting deceptive people than any human could ever dream to be. Digger had exhibited affection and concern for Margot, not distrust. There was no point, and considerable danger in getting into a pissing contest with the sergeant over who was the better trained investigator, though.
In short order, they entered the hut. Rex pointed to a nightgown tossed casually on the bed. “That was probably the last thing she wore before disappearing,” he said.
The detective nodded gravely. “You are most assuredly correct. Your dog may sniff it.”
Rex picked it up gingerly and held it out to Digger, who sniffed it curiously and then whined.
“Seek. Find Jacqui, boy.”
The detective frowned. “Her name is Margot.”
“Yes, sir. I know that. But Digger knew her as Jacqui, the name she gave me. And I’m not so sure he even cares about the name. He knows her scent, and that’s what’s important, otherwise I could’ve told him to find Jacqui and not bothered to come here.”
Digger was ignoring the exchange. He was already following his nose out to the veranda and down the trail. To everyone’s surprise, he turned toward town rather than the beach.
“It is of no use,” the sergeant complained. “This is a waste of time. He is going toward the town, not the beach.”
When the French detective concurred, Rex understood that he, too, had concluded Margot had drowned. Their minds were made up, and nothing he could do or say would change them.
Rex made up his own mind, adopted an attitude of defeat, and said, “I’m sorry, gentlemen. I thought he could do it. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
The sergeant generously stated it wasn’t his fault, he was only trying to help, and other conciliatory statements.
The French detective was fidgeting, obviously anxious to get back to the station and do the paperwork that would get him off this island and back to Paris.
Rex was itching to follow Digger, who was now nearly out of sight on a side trail, but still heading in the general direction of the town.
Chapter 20
Port Vila, Vanuatu
AS SOON AS the policemen left, Rex hurried after Digger. The dog still had his nose alternately to the ground and in the air. It gave Rex reassurance that Digger was still working, still following Margot’s scent. The only puzzle was that it led toward town, which refuted the theory the police were working on. Rex knew the fallacy of determining a theory and then working to prove it, rather than investigating thoroughly before forming an opinion. He struggled to keep his mind open and not try to figure out where the scent would lead before they got there.
When had Margot last taken this road to town? He’d seen her home along the same route after dinner three nights before. He’d taken it to the market yesterday. If she’d still been here then, and just hiding rather than having gone somewhere, he might have seen her at the market or along the way. Logic told him she’d gone before the day he was supposed to go to her place for breakfast, so the scent couldn’t have been strong. Nonetheless, Digger was moving quickly and confidently. Rex started wondering if Digger had lost her trail and was now following theirs of earlier in the day.
But then, just before they came to the neatly laid-out blocks of the town, Digger veered sharply left along Wharf Road. Rex hadn’t explored that shoreline, a north-facing aspect of Mele Bay, protected by Ifira Island from the rest of the bay. It was where the cruise ships docked, he knew. He doubted she could have boarded a cruise ship. What else might be down there? He could only follow Digger’s lead and see for himself.
The road meandered along the shoreline, and Rex could see a cruise ship in port, dwarfing everything around it. He passed what looked like several warehouses in an area that had been built out into the bay, with unnatural straight lines and angles.
Must be a commercial dock for cargo ships.
Digger ignored that area and continued toward the cruise ship, causing Rex to doubt the plan again. But they were soon past the enormous ship, and now he could see smaller docks in the distance, some empty, some occupied by everything from luxury yachts to disreputable-looking fishing boats. Beyond them, in the bay itself, were skiers and jet-skiers, roughing up the water.
Rex lengthened his stride when he saw Digger, about fifty yards ahead, step onto a floating dock.
“Digger, stop!” he called. But his words were swept away by the wind. Digger kept on going as Rex began to jog. At the end of the dock, he stopped and looked out to the bay, taking in the picture of forlornness. When Rex caught up to him, Digger looked at him and lifted his chin in an eerie howl.
“What is it, boy? What’s wrong?”
Digger leaned against him, shaking. Rex didn’t know how to interpret that. Was Digger telling him Margot had gone into the water here? It made no sense. Not only did Rex believe she’d been telling the truth about her terror of the sea and all its inhabitants, but the water here was oily, definitely unappealing to a swimmer.
Maybe Digger is just upset that his quest has come to a dead end without finding his target. Or maybe he’s sensed something about where she went from here. Onto a boat? Perhaps unwillingly?
Rex looked around and noticed the activity around the dock for the first time. There were plenty of potential witnesses, if he could only find those who’d been present when Margot passed this way.
Rex stopped the first stevedore he saw and questioned him. Had he seen a pretty lady here any time in the past three days? He described Margot, but the man he was questioning showed him a blank face and just shook his head. Rex let him go and looked around. This was going to take a major effort. He pulled out his cell phone and called the police station. The sergeant was with an important official from France, he was told, and could not be interrupted.
He left a message that he’d traced Margot to this dock, describing how far past the cruise ship they’d gone, and how many docks were in between. “Please have him send help to question the possible witnesses to a kidnapping.” He hung up while the person who’d taken his call was still sputtering.
Witnesses were notoriously unreliable. Ten people could witness the same incident, and each swear on a stack of bibles that the victim was tall, short, black, white, a man, or a woman, and any combination of those attributes. Even so, he had to try. At the end of two hours, he was convinced that Margot had either come here to board a yacht voluntarily or had been taken aboard by force. He had witnesses who swore to both. He got the impression that there was illicit activity going on around the dock, and those who knew anything had been overcome by a sudden bout of amnesia.
Those who said she boarded a yacht couldn’t remember the name, nor its destination. And like with all unenthusiastic eyewitnesses, their description of the yacht varied from that of an express cruiser or sports cruiser to a triple-decker mega-yacht and everything in between.
One thing was agreed by everyone, though. It had been after midnight on the night of their last dinner.
To trace the yacht, Rex would have to involve his IT specialist, Rehka Gyan. If she could determine what had departed that night and where it was going, he could intercept it at its destination and be sure Margot was all right.
Does that mean I am a stalker? Maybe she’ll think so, but what if she’s in trouble?
The choice was clear.
Without bothering to call the sergeant back, Rex found a trail that cut across the peninsula and urged Digger homeward. There was no time to waste.
Chapter 21
Port Vila, Vanuatu
BY THE TIME Rex returned to his hut, he had a string of requests in mind for Rehka to investigate. The first would be to have her check the records for what vessels had left Vanuatu during the time from when he’d dropped Margot at her hut after their last dinner together until this morning. With luck, they’d have filed itineraries. With even more luck, Rehka could tap into their communications and they could narrow down which one Margot might have left on.
Next, he’d ask her to try to trace Margot’s cell phone number to a carrier, and then hack into the carrier’s records for a list of phone numbers she’d called since arriving in Vanuatu. Maybe she’d called someone else to tell them where she was going. And if she hadn’t gone voluntarily, maybe someone on that list had received a ransom demand. He’d call every number until he found something to go on.
When he found where she’d gone or found who had her, he hoped to have enough information to decide whether she had gone voluntarily or been forced, and from there to decide whether his help was needed or not. He wouldn’t track her down just to ask for an explanation, but he couldn’t abandon her to whatever fate awaited her if she was under duress or worse. If she thought him a stalker, so be it. He could explain.
