Deadly Diplomacy

JEAN HARROD

© Jean Harrod, 2014

Published by York Authors Coffee Shop

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, adapted, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author.

The rights of Jean Harrod to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-9929971-3-7 (Paperback)
ISBN 978-0-9929971-1-3 (epub)
ISBN 978-0-9929971-2-0 (mobi)

Book layout and cover design by Clare Brayshaw
Cover images © Aandre68|Dreamstime.com
© Wranger|Dreamstime.com

Prepared by:
York Publishing Services Ltd
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York YO31 7ZQ
Tel: 01904 431213

Website:
www.yps-publishing.co.uk

For Jeff and May

There are many people to thank, especially my sisters Jane and Janet, and my friends for all their support and encouragement.

I am grateful too for the help of my wonderful writer friends, Christine, Fiona, Paul and Margaret, who have been with me every step of the way on this journey.

In Australia, thanks to Paul for his expert advice on all aspects of policing; and to Margaret for her knowledge of Canberra and the Federal Parliament.

And thanks to Lisanne for her insightful editorial knowledge and expertise.

Born and educated in the UK, Jean was employed as a British diplomat for many years, working in Embassies and High Commissions in Australia, Brussels, the Caribbean, China, East Berlin, Indonesia, Mauritius, and Switzerland. She has travelled extensively around the world and writes about all the countries she had lived in, or visited.

Set in Australia, ‘Deadly Diplomacy’ is her debut diplomatic crime novel, and the first of a trilogy featuring diplomat Jess Turner and Australian DI Tom Sangster. The second novel is set in the Caribbean; and the third in London.

Jean now lives in North Yorkshire. An active contributor to regional theatre, she has written and staged several plays.

www.jeanharrod.com

She sat alone on the jetty seat in the dark. The breeze blew across the lapping waves, and rustled through the bushes behind her. She shivered, feeling cold in the night air with his warm arms no longer around her. Had she done the right thing telling him everything? He was the last person she wanted to put in danger. But she had no one else to turn to. No one else she could trust enough to confide in. Of course he’d asked for the diary, as she knew he would, insisting it would be safer with him. And he was probably right. So why had she left it hidden in her hotel room?

Before leaving her there on the jetty, he’d pressed his small voice-recorder into her hand. “You
must
get the conversation on the record. You’ve got the evidence in the diary. Now get the bastard on tape.”

That was easy for him to say.
She
was the one with her head in the noose.

“Trust me.” He’d squeezed her hand. “Everything will be fine.”

Trust him?
That nagging worry started up again. It had been a relief to unburden herself; and he’d been so kind. But, thinking about it now, she realised he hadn’t seemed shocked, or even surprised.

Come on, be strong,
she told herself as she held her watch up to the jetty light. Almost 8pm. She mustn’t be late for her appointment; she had to go through with it. She took a deep breath and tightened her grip around the voice-recorder. Calm and in control, that’s how she had to appear. She wouldn’t be intimidated any more. But, as she went to get up to go back to the hotel, the moon slid behind a cloud, darkening the night. A muffled sound, like a twig snapping underfoot, came from the bushes behind her. Startled, she twisted round. “Hello?”

Silence.

The bushes rustled again in the breeze. “Who’s there?” Her voice caught in her throat.

Still no reply.

Suddenly, the jetty light flickered a couple of times, and went out, plunging her into darkness.

Heart thudding, she sprang up.

Too late.

A shadowy figure came rushing along the jetty in the darkness. A ferocious punch sent her sprawling. Crying out, she raised her hands in the air to fend off the blows. Pain seared through her, as her head was smashed against the ground again and again.

Who?
She just couldn’t see in the dark.

Kicking and struggling, she broke free and staggered up, only to reel backwards off the jetty into the sea. The cold water shocked her into action. Scrambling to get back to the safety of the beach, she heard a loud splash behind her. An arm grabbed her around the throat. “Let me go,” she screamed.

Strong hands grabbed her hair and shoved her face down. Water rushed into her nose and ears.

Fight!
Her arms flailed around in panic.

Fight!
Her heart was hammering so hard, her chest hurt. She had to breathe, had to…

Water poured into her mouth and lungs.

The hands jerked her head out of the water, and twisted her neck round as the moon burst out of the cloud. “
You?
” she spluttered.

“
Treacherous bitch!
”

Her head was pushed back under the water. She couldn’t hold her breath; couldn’t struggle; couldn’t move; couldn’t think.

She tried to scream, but only a gurgling sound came out of her mouth as icy cold water rushed in.

Her arms and legs seemed to be floating away from her.

She could hear rushing water in her ears.

Trust me…

G’bye mummy!

Screeching tyres. A cracking sound like thunder.

Jess shuddered as if she could still feel the shock of the explosion blasting through her. She stood with her hands over her eyes, trying to blot out the haunting memory of flames spiralling into the sky. The scorching heat, the smell of acrid smoke, squealing…

Squealing?

She turned and lifted the whistling kettle off the gas. Her hand shook as she poured the boiling water into the mug and watched the fragrant tea leaves fizz and uncurl. She looked up. It was only 5.35am on the kitchen clock; too early even for the central heating. Should she go back to bed? What was the point, she’d been awake for hours. Better to get an early start in the office. Shivering, she walked into the hall, lifted her woollen coat off the rack and slipped it over her dressing-gown. Then she went back for her tea and climbed the stairs.

She averted her eyes as she passed the empty bedrooms. She liked the house. It had come with the job, but it was too big for her to rattle around in on her own. It was meant for a family. She ached for her bubbly three year old, with those big eyes and blonde curls tumbling around her little face.

A floorboard creaked.

Amy?
Scarcely able to breathe, Jess stopped and listened. But there was only silence. She walked into her bedroom and closed the door behind her. Sometimes the shadows were too much to bear.

Throwing the curtains open wide to let in the day, she stepped out through the balcony door onto the deck. The first breath of freezing, August, winter air caught in her throat. She clasped the hot mug with both hands, took a sip of tea, and settled into a chair to watch the sun come up behind Canberra’s Federal Parliament.

The smell of menthol wafted over from two majestic eucalyptus trees that stood side by side in the centre of the lawn. She was forever raking up long strips of their dry bark and spear-like leaves. The trees were a haven for the sulphur-crested cockatoos, which roosted in town during the winter months. Every morning they would fly low over the neighbourhood, screeching out their early alarm call. Then they would gang up on the parched front lawn to squabble over grubs with colourful galahs and rainbow lorikeets.

She liked to sit on her balcony in the silence of dawn, before the town came alive. It was the time of day she felt closest to Jack and Amy. She could picture little Amy running wild in the bush garden, with its tough native plants that could withstand the scorching summers and sub-zero winters.

If only…

The phone’s shrill ring pierced the silence. She put her mug down on the deck and hurried inside to answer. “Hello?”

“Morning, Jess. Sorry to wake you.”

“Oh hi, Simon. I was outside watching the dawn.”

“
Watching the dawn?
” He laughed. “It’s brass monkey weather out there.” It didn’t matter to Simon how early it was, he was always cheerful. “Good evening at the Thai Embassy last night, wasn’t it?”

“Mm. Lovely food too.”

There was a pause.

“That new Chinese restaurant has finally opened in Manuka, Jess? Fancy trying it next weekend?”

“You haven’t rung me this early to ask
that,
have you?” Of course she knew he hadn’t. Simon was the Political and Press Officer in the British High Commission, a title given to embassies located in Commonwealth countries. This week he was also ‘out of hours’ duty officer; and this was definitely ‘out of hours’. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Another consular case, I’m afraid.”

Her heart sank; she’d been hoping for a clear week in the office to catch up on paperwork. “What’s happened now?”

“A British woman’s been found dead on the beach of a Queensland resort, called The Palms. It’s just north of Brisbane. The police say she’s been beaten so badly she’s scarcely recognisable.”

“
Murdered,
you mean?”

“Looks like it.”

Jess reached for her notepad and pencil. “How do we know she’s British?”

“She’s a regular at the hotel, apparently. They have her passport details on computer.”

Jess paused. “Are they sure it’s her, Simon? I mean, if the body’s in a state?”

“Oh, they were still able to identify her.” He hesitated. “Hang on, I’ve got her passport details somewhere.”

Down the phone, Jess could hear him shuffling papers. At dinner last night, she’d noticed his blue eyes looked dull grey with fatigue. Simon worked too hard; and now he’d had another broken night.
She should talk,
she thought, catching sight of her own bleary eyes in the dressing-table mirror. She looked over at the framed photo of Jack and Amy on the bedside cabinet…

“You still there, Jess?” Simon came back on the phone.

“Yes.”

“Our dead woman’s called Ellen Chambers. Her passport says she was born on 9 February 1975, in Hull. I’ve got the number here for you to trace her.”

“Go on,” she said, trying to grasp the pen with cold fingers.

“It’s 70469898.” He read out, slowly. “Issued in London on 20 December 2009.”

Jess knew it was important to determine where the victim lived. “Was she a resident of Australia or the UK?”

“There’s a London home address on her hotel registration form. But the next of kin in her passport is a Susan Chambers. She has a Brisbane address. The police are on their way round to see her now. I’ve given them your mobile number and email address to pass on to her, Jess. Hope that’s okay?”

“That’s fine.” Jess checked her watch. “Leave it with me, Simon. It’s still Sunday evening in London, but I’ll ring the Foreign Office 24-hour response unit and put them in the picture, in case the media start ringing. I’ll ask them to pass the victim’s passport details to Consular Division when they open up. I doubt we’ll need to do a trace with the UK Passport Agency if the next of kin is here in Australia.”

“Whatever you say.”

Jess paused to think. Could she leave this consular case to the British Consul-General in Brisbane? It
was
his patch. Then she remembered he was in the UK on leave. “I’d better fly up to Brisbane this morning, Simon, and liaise with the police and the next of kin.” Her thoughts flashed to the Deputy High Commissioner. “Have you told Nigel?”