Switchback Stories (16 page)

The final, powerful gesture of an ego-driven man.

A sudden cold snap gripped the city on the morning Hooper arrived at the solicitor’s Macquarie Street office. In the plush waiting room, he looked about at the other beneficiaries, seven of Crayton’s relatives. He was aware that Crayton had two ex-wives, and children from both marriages. Apparently, there was bad blood between the two women, and between them and Crayton.

Crayton never spoke much of his family. On one occasion only, he’d mentioned that he expected the various parties would contest the details of his will. He had said that the carve-up of his investments and properties into cash, together with protracted legal claims by his family, could draw out the settlement of his estate for years.

Crayton had, however, assured Hooper that his bequest would be substantial. It would be separated from the legalities surrounding the rest of Crayton’s wealth.

Gerring appeared at the doorway to his office and addressed the gathering.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is the request of my departed client and friend, as stated in his final will and testament that his employee, Mr Hooper, is attended to first in a brief, private meeting. With that dispensed with, Mr Hooper can take his leave and the rest of us can begin to go through the bequests made to each of you in respect of the main bulk of the estate.’

There was an indignant silence as Hooper went into Gerring’s office and a secretary closed the door behind them. Gerring, a slight, balding man, sat behind his wide oak desk, adjusting his glasses.

‘The codicil in Mr Crayton’s will contains a letter which I am instructed to read to you,’ Gerring said. Hooper cleared his throat and nodded. This is the final insult, he thought. Being read to by this intellectual wimp.

Gerring began to read from Crayton’s letter; ‘As you are aware, Hooper, the bulk of my wealth is tied up in investments, real estate and company holdings. The sale of these assets into liquid cash, for division by my family, will take some time. I believe you are also aware there is a great deal of bitterness between members of my family. Although the bequests made to them are fair and fitting, I know they will be challenged. After all, Hooper, in the end, greed is the one thing that can be counted on. I expect, therefore, it could take years to finalize the will.

‘You need not be affected by any of that. The family members will have little interest if I leave an expensive gift to an old and trusted employee. For some years now I have had in my possession an item which many have admired and on which I have had collectors do a valuation.

‘In fact, I purchased this collectable for $200,000, more than 10 years ago, from an antique dealer in London. It is one of three of its type remaining in the world and its value has escalated in recent years. There are at least three international antique dealers who are willing to pay $400,000 for it at the time of writing.

‘The names of these dealers are attached. You will have no problem selling it, thus receiving a cash amount that will be more than sufficient, and of which the rest of my family will remain totally unaware.’

Hooper felt like throwing back his head and laughing. The old scoundrel had thought of everything.

Gerring concluded the letter: ‘The item, you will be surprised to learn, is a relic of late 19th century China, where it belonged to the last ruling family of the Ch’ing dynasty. It is the vase which stands in the front of the living room ornaments cabinet.’

Hooper’s jaw dropped. ‘The oriental vase …’ he began, his voice a croak.

Raymond Gerring folded the letter and placed it on the desk. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Hooper, there is a problem. I have conducted a thorough search of Mr Crayton’s residence and the item in question is nowhere to be found.’

Hooper found his voice. ‘But … was there nothing else?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Gerring replied. ‘Obviously, the bequest of the vase would have been more than adequate, considering its true worth. A very well-kept secret. However, don’t despair. I’ve spoken with the detectives at North Sydney, and every effort will be made to locate the missing vase. As we speak, the detectives are interviewing Mr Crayton’s murderer, Cynthia Barratt, who is believed to have been responsible for several thefts at The Ferns during the time of her employment.’

Hooper didn’t hear those words. He felt nauseous, and he rose and left the office quickly.

His mind was awash with images of his inheritance.

He saw it, crushed and splintered, buried beneath tonnes of refuse in a rubbish dump somewhere in Sydney.

S
torm Bay is on a point which juts out into the ocean, smack in the path of strong winds that constantly blow from the south. There is no rocky incline here to act as a shield against those winds. Just a gentle, sandy slope from the higher ground to the ocean’s edge. So the waters of the bay, north of the old lighthouse, are churned up like a hyperactive offspring of the deep seas.

As for storms, the waters of the bay become a writhing, seething body, leaping and hissing at the sky. Storm Bay is famous for its anger. Over the years several people, all of them good swimmers, have drowned there.

The bay was just what Rod Amis had been looking for. And it had been right here in front of him the whole time. He gazed thoughtfully at Angela, the woman who’d become the bane of his life.

‘I’m off to the shops now, Rod,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget I’m working at the club tonight.’

‘Again? You’ve worked the past five nights in a row.’

‘I
told
you they’d asked me to do extra hours this week. And we need the money. God knows a lighthouse keeper’s pay doesn’t support us.’

‘It doesn’t support your spending sprees.’

‘Well, let me remind you, Mr. High-and-Bloody-Mighty that I have far less than most women my age. While you’re moping around here of a night, shining a silly, blasted light that has no actual purpose anymore, the last of the great lighthouse keepers, I’m across the bay working my backside off.’

He wanted to shout out, ‘Lies!’ but he held his tongue and Angela stormed off. She didn’t know that Rod had been checking on her with a nightly phone call to the rowing club’s reception desk.

She’d been working less, not more, confirming his suspicion she was spending more of her time with that sleazeball bartender, Steve Corrigan.

Rod became aware of Angela’s affairs soon after the car accident that left him with a bad back that restricted his movement. Her interest in Rod waned.

He sold the car in which he’d had the accident. The local shops were within walking distance and he didn’t mind struggling there and back with his walking cane. Pain medication was a fact of his daily life now, but he was determined it wouldn’t stop him going about his life and his business as best he could.

Angela made her trips to the club, on the other side of the bay, in their motorized dinghy.

Angela complained about the lack of money, but Rod suspected she stayed with him because she was a lazy, social climbing bitch. She enjoyed the attention and the other perks of being the wife of ‘the last of the lighthouse keepers’.

There had been lighthouses here, along the North East Coast of England, for hundreds of years, all long since closed or automated with the advent of modern maritime technologies. This one had been kept ‘alive’ purely for tourism purposes.

To Rod, it was a thing of beauty. He conducted tours and lectures here during the holiday season, and kept up the maintenance on the building and the grounds.

There was nothing quite as spectacular as the broad beam of light, flashing every 20 seconds out across the dark ocean, projected through a complex range of prisms and lenses, just as it had in a previous era.

Rod was gardening when his son Andrew came up. He was home earlier than usual from his job at the local garage. Andrew was a typical grease monkey, never happier than when he had a wrench in hand and was tinkering with an engine.

‘Hey Dad, let me take over. I’ve told you before to let me look after the grounds.’

‘And I’ve told you I enjoy my time in the garden,’ Rod shrugged. ‘It’s not exactly hard labour, y’now.’

But Rod let his son take over.

He couldn’t last long at the gardening these days.

Unlike his stepmother Angela, Andrew had, since the accident, been more and more attentive to his father.

Rod ambled inside. The local radio weather reports predicted a windy night. But the latest satellite charts, which Rod logged on to, showed a turbulent front moving in rapidly from the south. Rod knew that meant a sudden and powerful storm with major wind force, due to hit Storm Bay in three hours, around 7.30 pm – the time Angela always set off on her trip across the bay.

This was the moment he’d been waiting for.

He went down to the shore where the dinghy was beached and drilled a series of small holes, directly beneath one of the crossbeams where they wouldn’t be seen from above. The flow of water into the craft wouldn’t be noticeable until about ten minutes after its launch. By then it would be halfway across the bay and it would start sinking quickly. Even a reasonable swimmer like Angela would be helpless against the strong undercurrent and the wild, choppy swirls whipped up by the storm.

Angela was coming down the road, laden with shopping bags.

Rod hurried back inside, waving to Andrew who was finishing off the lawn. He left a note to say he wasn’t feeling well and that he’d gone upstairs to rest.

On the observation deck he could see the grim, grey clouds heading in.

The minutes ticked by slowly and Rod thought back over these past few months. Angela always had a sneer when she referred to him as ‘the last of a miserable, dying trade’ but it was something of which he was proud. The local council had resisted the move to close the lighthouse and pension him off, as had happened in other parts of the country.

The council kept it going as a nod to tradition, to the history of the region. It was a talking point, a heritage that attracted media attention, and it drew holidaymakers in the warmer season.

He just wanted to be free of the woman who’d made his life a misery, unlike his first wife who’d been loving, compassionate, who’d shared his passion for the coast – and who’d tragically been taken from him, too soon, so young.

• • •

At 7.25, the rain had swept in and the winds were building. The sudden, full force of the storm was only ten to fifteen minutes away. Rod went to the window and looked out. He could just make out the shape of the boat out on the water.

He hadn’t thought he would feel guilt. In reality, he hadn’t actually thought this part through, and he wasn’t prepared when it hit him. It was sudden, unexpected guilt in the extreme, and a self-loathing, sharp and bitter, that rose up alongside the bile that burned his throat.

How had he been reduced to such a dark, selfish act? This darkness wasn’t the real him, was it?

Panic engulfed him. He had to stop this madness. He’d spun out of control and now he was spinning through a complete 180 degree backflip. What could he do? Emergency services wouldn’t arrive in time. He couldn’t contact Angela in that cell phone black spot out on the bay.

His sudden, desperate dose of reality was defeated by the deviousness of his own plan.

He wandered limply downstairs to the living room, his mind racing, when he caught sight of Angela’s reflection in the mirror. He whirled around. ‘I thought you left for the club.’

‘Steve Corrigan offered me a lift tonight. I just heard his car pull up outside. See you later.’

‘But I saw the dinghy out on the bay,’ Rod stated anxiously.

‘Oh, yes. When he heard I was getting a lift with Steve, Andrew decided to use the boat himself. Something about meeting a friend who lives across the bay. That stupid little girl he fancies, I suppose.’

Rod pushed past her and raced to the shoreline as fast as his painful back would allow. Tears stung his eyes but they were no match for the downpour that lashed him from every side.

The storm had hit.

He looked out across the bay screaming Andrew’s name, but he couldn’t see the dinghy. Just the fury of those turbulent waters.

And he didn’t see Angela’s face as she hurried to the car. He didn’t know that she’d returned early from the shops that afternoon, and she’d had a clear view to where Rod was working on the boat. She’d checked the dinghy, found the holes, and repaired them with fibreglass bonded to the hull.

It was only because of Rod’s son that Angela knew how to do such a thing. When he wasn’t tinkering with engines, Andrew’s other passion was designing and building surfboards. Angela found the technique fascinating. She’d often watched him work, and fibreglass bonding was one of the things he’d shown her.

She couldn’t help but laugh out loud now at the exquisite irony of it.

She’d phoned Steve Corrigan to arrange a lift, then suggested to love-struck Andrew that he use the dinghy to visit his girlfriend across the bay.

Angela smiled wickedly. It wouldn’t be until Andrew’s return, after the storm, that Rod would discover his son was alive and well. That would teach him a lesson he’d never forget. And one thing was certain.

She knew the last of the lighthouse keepers would never have the courage to try his hand at murder ever again.

I
t was the opening night of the new musical by Britain’s most celebrated theatrical composer, Jackson Le Roy. The glare of a hundred flashbulbs exploded like a continuous display of fireworks as the wealthy and the well-known were photographed arriving at the Monarch Theatre on London’s West End. The passing parade of faces was a Who’s Who of show business, the Arts and politics.

Across the theatre’s marquee, in bold, neon letters, was the name of the fast rising, most popular singer/actress in theatre: slender, vivacious, ethereal child woman Stephanie Sanders. She’d been cast in the leading role of the orphan girl who grew up to become a major film star while searching for her long lost parents.

Only tonight Stephanie Sanders won’t be opening the show, thought Catherine O’Leary.