The Delta Chain (10 page)

And Walter couldn’t allow himself to sleep in
these swamps, where he’d quickly become food for the reptiles.

He pressed on. Darkness fell, and the long
stretch of time without sleep began playing with his senses. Many
times he thought he heard the whirring blades of the helicopter,
approaching. He would look into the night sky, scanning the stars,
slowly realising each time the sound was his own exhausted brain’s
imagination, teasing him with hope when all seemed hopeless.
Together with the chatter of the birds and the eerie night sounds
of the reptiles and bush animals, Walter, at times, believed he was
listening to the cacophony of hell itself.

For the editor of the Northern Rocks Express,
a phone call from the mayor was not an unusual thing. But the
subject matter and the mayor’s attitude came as a surprise to Eddie
Cochrane when he answered his phone at 12.45.

‘Some sparky reporter of yours called my
media guy this morning,’ Sandy Bingham said, ‘and tried to force a
connection between a drowning last night and some case up in
Morrissey three or four months ago.’

‘That’d be Melanie Cail,’ said Eddie with a
chuckle, but the mayor’s reply made clear he wasn’t treating this
in a light fashion.

‘She had damned bizarre angles slanting all
over the place, Eddie. What the hell is going on? If the police
find a connection, fine, but so far there’s no such evidence of the
kind. Even if they do, it’s just another case, not something for
scaring the whole town shitless by inventing sinister
theories…’

‘Well, Sandy, of course I agree-’

‘We’ve got the tourist season and the town’s
fiftieth just around the corner, so why does this stupid girl want
to cast dark shadows all over it-’

‘Whoa, Sandy. Calm down. Melanie’s very
ambitious, comes on a little strong sometimes. I haven’t seen any
copy from her yet, and when I do – well, you know me, I don’t run
irresponsible journalism in the Express.’

‘I just wanted to make my thoughts known to
you, Eddie. That girl’s whole approach was sensationalist. I’m sure
you’ll agree and keep the whole thing in its proper context.’

They said their good-byes but after he’d put
down his phone, Eddie reflected with concern over the mayor’s tone.
Normally Sandy Bingham was a smooth operator, getting his point
across with charm. Oodles of it. Then again, Eddie thought, Bingham
had been known to lose his cool in council meetings. Nature of the
beast, perhaps.

Eddie thought of “old” George Watson, the
ex-farm boy, ex-policeman who’d been the steadfast, down-to-earth
mayor for seventeen years before his retirement. Eddie missed “old”
George. Sandy Bingham reminded him of the big city politicians, too
much style and not enough substance. Bingham represented the new
order, hyped up and lightning paced, and Eddie increasingly felt it
was no improvement on the old days. No improvement at all.

It was a brief car trip from the police
centre to the council building. Arthur Kirby drove and his eyes
were fixed firmly on the road when he announced to Adam: ‘I don’t
want to see this case blown out of proportion by the media. Or to
put a strain on our relationship with the mayor. We need a fast,
tidy wrap up to the whole damned thing.’

‘You’ve already said that and I agree.’

‘That’s why I’ve decided to get the mayor’s
endorsement in asking Brisbane Central to send in a senior
homicide/missing persons specialist to work this one.’

‘Hold on, Arthur, there’s no need-’

Kirby raised his hand to halt the protest,
his eyes still fixed on the road. ‘There’s no need for injured
pride or anything like that. It’s just pure logistics, Adam. Let’s
face facts. You’ve very little experience with difficult
cases-’

‘We don’t know this case is going to be all
that difficult.’

‘Hear me out. An experienced, senior city
man, taking charge and assisted by you, is in my opinion the smart
way to tackle this investigation. In particular we want a man who
can quickly squash town gossip or media beat-ups.’

‘I don’t agree,’ Adam said between clenched
teeth. The real fact of the matter was that Adam had four years
experience as the town’s solo detective, and he’d had far more
difficult cases, including several homicides, over those years.
He’d had a particularly good relationship with the previous, now
retired station chief. Arthur Kirby had arrived to fill the post
eighteen months ago and had continually proved himself
antagonistic. Adam had never known why.

‘My mind’s made up on this, Adam. And whilst
I don’t run the detective side of things, as station chief I have
the right to make this request. I expect Bingham will be of the
same view.’

Adam kept his anger in check. After he and
Kirby arrived at the council building and had each said their piece
in the meeting, the mayor’s response came as a welcome surprise to
Adam. ‘Sorry, Arthur, but I have to agree with Detective Bennett on
this one. Surely bringing in a city boy is only going to give the
local media food-for-thought and make a connection to this other
case seem even more likely. And we don’t want that.’

‘We’d be sending a message that we’re dead
serious about closing the case quickly, well in advance of the
holiday season and the celebrations.’

Bingham considered this briefly. ‘No, I still
think it’s too early to take any drastic actions, but I do
appreciate where you’re coming from.’ Bingham shifted his focus to
Adam. ‘What’s the current status on this, Detective?’

Adam talked the two men through the results
of Markham’s autopsy. He didn’t deny the possibility the two cases
were linked. He clarified that the girl’s identikit had been
despatched to every police station nationally, and to Interpol. He
sketched in details of the standard procedures already undertaken:
dental matching, blood testing; and his own initiative in accessing
information on the tides and currents.

For a man usually given to constant movement,
Sandy Bingham sat still, absorbing Adam’s summary. ‘So there’s
nothing in the pathology to suggest death by anything other than
drowning?’

‘No.’

‘And there’s every likelihood someone could
still come forward to make an ID and that the girl could be a local
or a tourist?’

‘Of course,’ Adam said. ‘After all, Mr.
Bingham, the body was only discovered last night.’ Adam was
thankful for the chance to press that point to the mayor.

Bingham leaned back in his wide leather
chair, releasing a sigh of pent up frustration. ‘Okay, so I guess
we are all overreacting. I can’t believe we let some trumped up
little reporter do a beat up on this so quickly.’ He allowed a
smile to sweep across his face, like a breath of fresh air, but it
came and went just as fast, as though sucked back in by deeper
emotions. ‘I believe she’s under control anyway, gentlemen. I spoke
to her editor just before you arrived.

‘Bennett, one way or another I need you to
have this cleared up. Otherwise we won’t be able to stop the
Express, and others, making more of it. I’m giving you until the
end of the week. If the situation hasn’t been clarified, then I’m
going to back Arthur’s suggestion. Understand?’

‘I understand the urgency, sir.’

Adam and Kirby were on their way out when
Kirby expressed his surprise at the mayor’s response. ‘Normally
he’s always advocating bringing in city experts. Plus I know he
doesn’t have a high regard for our local services.’

‘Maybe he has more regard for our local
police operations than you think.’

Kirby gave an indignant snort. ‘No, he
doesn’t. Believe me. I shield you and the others at the station
from all the crap I hear from the local pollies. No, given his
earlier reaction to that reporter, I’m surprised he pooh-poohed my
suggestion. But he’ll soon change his mind …’

‘As far as I’m concerned, Arthur,’ Adam said,
‘you’re way off base on this. The detective operation is my
jurisdiction-’

‘Oh, hurt your feelings, did we?’ Kirby
said.

Adam had taken more than enough of Kirby’s
sarcasm. ‘I’ve some errands to run. I’ll make my own way back to
the station.’

Kirby gave an indifferent shrug. ‘Suit
yourself, detective.’

Walking back to the station, Adam felt his
resentment subside. Coroner Brian Markham had told Adam, on
previous occasions, that Kirby had a reputation for being arrogant
with staff and colleagues. But Adam knew the station chief was
particularly abrasive with him.

Nevertheless, Kirby may have had a point
regarding Bingham. Although originally a Northern Rocks boy, the
mayor had spent a long time in the city before returning. He was a
known advocate of bringing in specialists on a range of issues.

Why had he sided with Adam on this one after
his earlier overreaction?

From the moment Hank Mendelsohn stepped onto
the boat he’d hardly been able to keep his eyes off the woman at
the helm. That might not have been unusual if the woman was a young
twenty or thirty-something with a knockout figure or if Hank was
the type to have a wandering eye. He wasn’t. Jean Farrow, well into
her fifties, retained a grace and a serenity that drew his
attention. Hank was particularly drawn to her green-grey eyes and
he sensed in her both an air of fragility and an earthy, steely
resolve. Her boat, Tide Flyer, was a sleek cabin cruiser that could
adapt to the ocean waters off the coast, or to the shallow,
slow-moving rivers that drained into the ocean from the Everglades
National Park.

The Ten Thousand Islands strip along the Gulf
was a popular tourist run and the boat was now on the last leg of
the fourteen-mile tour. It had been raining earlier but now the
rain and the fine mist of spray had gone. The reflection of a
bright sun sparkled across blue swirls. A gentle sea breeze kept
the humidity from rising too high.

Hank didn’t know what the hell he was doing
here, wandering aimlessly like a happy-go-lucky vacationer, which
he wasn’t. Not really. He was almost as miserable today as he’d
been in the days and months immediately after he’d lost Beverly.
Nothing had prepared him for the great yawning chasm of sorrow he’d
suffered at the death of his wife of thirty years.

That had been two years ago.

He and Beverly had come to Florida – a very
different, far less developed Florida back then – for their
honeymoon. They’d planned to come back again, but during the early
years they’d always holidayed on the east coast with members of
Beverly’s family, in the New York and New Jersey areas. Then came
the children – two boys and one girl – and what with serious
financial restraints and the younger boy’s illness with cystic
fibrosis, they never seemed able to make the trip south from
Chicago.

Then came the years of long, irregular hours
as city editor, then managing editor on the Chicago
Herald-Tribune.

During the tour Jean Farrow made a point of
getting around for a brief chat with each of her twelve passengers.
Her assistant, an able young man named Carl, took over the wheel
and Jean moved alongside Hank, putting her hands on the rail and
lifting her face to the breeze. ‘Ah, feels fantastic,’ she said to
no one in particular. Then, the wind gently lifting and tossing her
auburn hair, she turned to Hank. ‘Heard you mention earlier to one
of the others you were in the news game.’

‘Yes. In Chicago. Retired eighteen months
ago.’

‘So what took you so long to get down here.
Best damn place in the States.’

‘I don’t doubt it. In fact, I honeymooned
here. Long, long time ago.’

‘And you and your wife always planned to come
back,’ Jean said. ‘If not before, then certainly after your
retirement.’

‘Actually, yes.’ Hank gave her a questioning
glance. ‘You must have your psychic cap on today.’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised. It’s not an unusual
story. And you haven’t stopped thinking about her since you got
here, have you?’ Jean Farrow smiled as the retired newsman fixed
her with another questioning stare. Her smile widened. ‘I know the
look, Hank. I was widowed eight years ago and the first couple of
years were sheer hell. After a while you start to get back into a
rhythm. A different life, but a life nevertheless.’

‘And how long did it take you to get to
Florida?’

‘Came here four years ago, but not because of
any retirement plans. Different reason, but that’s another
story.’

Hank didn’t pursue that point, sensing
reluctance on Jean’s part. ‘I lost my wife, Beverly, to a heart
attack two years ago. Retired from the paper six months later but
couldn’t bring myself to come here as we’d planned. Never thought I
would.’

‘Well, I’m glad you did and I’d love to hear
about your newspaper days. You holidaying here on your own?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why don’t you join me for dinner
tonight? I can promise good, old fashioned cooking at my place,
nice and quiet and relaxed, if that’s the way you like your
evenings.’

‘It’s the way I’ve liked them for a long
time,’ Hank said.

He couldn’t believe he was going on a date.
And isn’t that what this really was? Hell, he was sixty-one, and
since he’d become a retired widower he’d also become a lost soul,
restless and unsure of just what to do with himself. He hadn’t even
contemplated dinner with a woman.

Jean Farrow lived in a colonial style white
timber and sandstone house with a wide veranda, in the outer
suburbs of Everglades City. There was a rambling feel to the layout
of the house, though the rooms themselves had been kept
fastidiously neat and clean, suggesting an order that contrasted
with the meandering design.