The Delta Chain (2 page)

PART ONE

ORIGIN UNKNOWN

It was a sight that would haunt the fisherman's nightmares for the rest of his life.

Earlier in the afternoon he'd caught a seven pound flathead. He'd yelled triumphantly as he reeled it in, the nylon line with its hooked prey dancing in the air above the white-capped breakers. Spattered rays of sunlight dotted the bay, finding holes in the heavy cloud.

Now it was twilight and the sun was sinking over the sprawling coastal town of Northern Rocks. An icy wind had sprung up from the south and it snapped at him. Hot days and sudden temperature changes in the early evening were typical at this time of the year, along the lower half of Australia’s Queensland coast.

Time to pack it in. It had been a good afternoon but as he always did, Costas Yannous had stayed too long. His arms ached and he shivered now at the unexpected force of the southerly. The seascape had taken on a grim countenance, the waters choppy and dark.

The powerful pull on the line caught him by surprise. It was huge - much larger than the seven pounder, and he wanted it. But he cursed out loud the fact he'd hooked this one so late. He was tired and a fish this size would fight like hell.

He braced himself, feet planted firmly in wet sand. Before long Costas was puzzling over the fact this creature seemed to be still – it was pushed and pulled by the current, it was heavy, but it wasn’t fighting with fear and the instinct for survival.

What was it? A dead fish? Maybe. Or was this the oldest trick in the book - a log or a piece of junk that could fool even the most experienced fisher? He applied all his muscle, reeled and reeled - felt some give, some movement - and he began to move forward into the water, closing the distance. Triumph turned to disappointment as he realised it was merely flotsam, a dark patch floating in the inky darkness. But so damn heavy. If there'd been any resistance it might well have snapped his line. What was it?

He would get his hook free and then head home quickly, dry off, warm up. He'd barely left himself enough time to get to Barbara's for dinner. He'd had some good, small catches today. And that beautiful seven pounder. He couldn't complain.

Water swirled around his kneecaps, clumps of seaweed brushing against his boots, and then there was a sudden, large swell, breaking with a roar as rain began spitting. The wave crashed into him and with it the floating dark patch was thrust forward violently, causing the length of the fishing line to go slack. Costas realised, in that instant and with the cold mental slap of shock, that it was the dead weight of a human body. Cold human flesh collided with him.

He lost his balance and was flung back, the rod slipping from his grip. He landed on his back in the water, the weight of the body on top of him, and he fought to push himself back to his feet. Although his eyes hadn't fully focused he knew instinctively it was the naked corpse of a woman. Her limbs became entangled with his.

The rain began beating harder, coming down in diagonal sheets. Costas tried to push the corpse away.

Another wave crashed over them. The corpse's face was before him now, bloated and grotesque, the skin ashen white. Sightless eyes stared right through him, the facial features and parts of the skull ravaged by scavengers of the deep.

Costas Yannous cried out in pure terror. Fear pierced his spine like an ice pick. For just that moment in time he had never felt so afraid, never felt so utterly alone as he stared into those lifeless eyes.

The boys were an unruly bunch, undisciplined and hyperactive. There was a lot of raw, natural talent there that needed to be developed. It was going to be a hell of a challenge to coach them, to mould them into a team but that was the very thing that whetted Adam Bennett's appetite.

The seven boys were aged fourteen or thereabouts, talking all at once, a few of them jostling each other. ‘I said I wanted your undivided attention!’ Adam's voice cut through the babble. They fell silent, all eyes focusing on him.

They liked Adam, responded to his open yet authoritative manner. What communicated itself most to them was his passion for the game.

‘Anyone here got something else they'd rather be doing?’

Some shrugging and a few mumbles. ‘What about you, Cain?’

He was a solidly built, freckle-faced kid. ‘No. `Course not.’

‘Can we get on with training?’ whined a restless bundle of energy named David.

We'll get on with it when I know you guys are as committed to this game, to this team, as though you were playing for the N.B.A. So tell me: are you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sure.’

‘Not loud enough,’ Adam said, ‘and I don't hear all of you. Together, as a team. Who are we?’

‘The Northern Rocks Warriors,’ they shouted back, more enthusiastic now.

‘Still not loud enough. Are you committed to this team?’

‘Yeahhhh!’ they shouted back in unison.

Adam began to move about in front of them, dribbling his ball back and forth. ‘Anyone not paying attention or mucking about will be out of the team. Got that? Out. I’m not here to waste my time. You guys have some talent but you have a long, long way to go. And you're up against some harsh competition in this division. Some of the teams have been together two or three years and they're good.’

‘We can beat ‘em,’ said Joey Cail. He was the curly-haired boy whom Adam had noted earlier was particularly clumsy with the ball.

‘No you can’t. Not yet. But if you listen hard, train hard, work hard then there's no reason you can't go all the way to the grand final. Got that?’

Nods and grunts in reply.

‘First up we’re going to practice our ball handling skills. To the far side of the court and back again, dribbling all the way. Let’s go.’

They were halfway across, following Adam’s lead, when the stadium supervisor came running over. ‘Adam. Phone call,’ said Artie Gold. Artie was like an uncle to anyone who'd ever played the game in his district.

‘Can you take a message, Artie?’ Adam called back.

‘It's the station dispatcher. Said it’s urgent.’

Damn, thought Adam. He told the boys to continue the practice run four more times, then to take a short break. He headed over to the stadium office.

By the time Artie Gold returned to his office, Adam was slamming the receiver back onto its hook. ‘Sorry, mate,’ Adam said, ‘I've got no right slamming down your phone.’

‘What is it, Adam?’

‘A drowning.’

Artie's hand came to rest on his young friend’s shoulder. ‘Stay calm, I know it’s frustrating. I'll take over this session for you. The lads will be fine.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Go do your job. The boys won’t mind. They like the fact their coach is a police detective. They think it's cool.’ Artie had once quipped that with his lanky frame and well-set features, Adam could have passed as a poster boy for the professional leagues.

‘They think it's all so easy when they're fourteen,’ Adam said, heading for the door.

Artie smiled after him. ‘So did you, Adam. I remember it well - so did you.’

The high beam from the patrol car spread its light across the strip of beach where Costas had discovered the corpse. The coroner was already there with the two police constables who'd been first officers on the scene.

Adam parked his Magna on the bluff beside the patrol car and the coroner’s van. He walked briskly down to the others on the beach. The wind was strong and the rain, heavy just minutes before, had slowed to a steady drizzle.

‘Not the best night to be called out to the beach,’ said Constable John Harrison, glancing up at Adam as he packed up the photographic gear. ‘That's the trouble with corpses, they’ve got lousy timing.’

Adam wasn’t in the mood for their usual banter. ‘What have we got?’

‘Female. Late teens,’ said Harrison, who’d shown a keen interest in advancing to detective work. ‘I get the impression Markham thinks there may be more to this than just a drowning.’

Adam had known the coroner, Brian Markham, for many years. Fiftyish, with silver-streaked hair and broad shoulders, he was a policeman who’d always struck Adam as having a military air about him. Adam approached him. ‘Suspicious?’

Markham had been squatting beside the body, water lapping at his feet, the constant roar of the waves filling his ears. ‘Can’t be certain ‘til I'm back at the lab, but this young woman has multiple bruising on the knuckles of her hands and puncture marks to the veins on both arms. It’s possible there's more to this than an innocent drowning accident.’

‘If that’s the case then it’s not much of a crime scene.’ It was a deliberate understatement from Adam.

‘No.’ Markham straightened up, removing rubber gloves, and he cocked his head toward Harrison. ‘Nothing more I can ascertain here, constable. Let’s get this one to the morgue.’

The scene of a crime - or a suspected crime - was the lynchpin of most successful investigations. It was where bloodstains, hair and clothing fibres and other trace elements were collected for analysis. It was always a disadvantage if a body was discovered after it had lain outdoors for more than a few hours, particularly in adverse weather conditions. Adam knew the chance of finding those trace elements was reduced. In this case - a body washed from the ocean in a storm - there was no chance.

‘Don't like the look of this,’ Markham said to Adam as the corpse was zipped into a body bag. ‘Naked body. No rings or earrings. It's as though the girl, or someone connected with her, didn’t want us to have any means of I.D. I'd say she’s been in the water around twenty four hours, but of course I'll know more after the autopsy. Any reports of a missing girl yesterday or today?’ The question was directed to both Adam and Harrison.

‘No,’ Adam said.

‘Don't like the look of it,’ Markham repeated.

After the coroner had driven off, Adam and the two constables walked back to their cars. Harrison filled Adam in on their arrival at the crime scene. They’d taken details from the fisherman, who’d been extremely cold and in a distressed state, then sent him home. Costas Yannous had agreed to come by the station the following morning to give a formal statement.

‘Nothing more we can do tonight,’ Adam said. ‘We'll see what the autopsy reveals in the morning. When you get in, John, run a check through all the previous missing persons lists for anyone who fits this girl’s description. If there’s anything relevant, put it on my desk. And get hold of a national, updated list of anyone reported missing in the last few hours.

‘Consider it done. The girl’s most likely an out-of- towner anyway. If she was local surely someone would've raised the alarm by now.’

‘Maybe. I'll see you in the morning, John.’ Adam thought that Harrison, a meticulous procedure man, was sometimes naive when it came to matters concerning people’s habits. The simple fact was that this girl, aged late teens, could have lived alone and no-one might yet be aware she was missing. Or perhaps she lived with parents who were used to her taking off for days at a time, crashing at friends places, going from work to social outing to work again, forgetting to make contact. It wasn’t unusual.

No point returning to the stadium. The boys would’ve finished their training and left by now. Adam drove home. The rainstorm had passed and the wind had died, leaving an unnatural stillness to the night air. A neon glare touched the wet streets and the car radio played a haunting Evanescence track about loss.

He visualised the face of a drowning girl, but it wasn’t the face of the girl who’d been discovered tonight. It was another face from another time - a face he remembered well. The pang of an old despair returned, like a ghost swept in by the earlier storm. He made an effort to break his thoughts free, and return them to the current case.

In doing so Adam felt an odd shiver pass through him as he remembered Brian Markham's words: It’s as though the girl, or someone connected with her, didn't want us to have any means of identification.

Barbara Cail smiled at her son as he came bounding in the front door. ‘Hi, Joey.’

‘Anything to eat yet, Mum?’ he called out, throwing his bag down and dribbling his ball across the living room. He was always hyped up when he arrived home from one of his basketball practices. One of his mates’ mothers had dropped him off tonight.

‘Not in the house, Joey. If you want to play with that thing take it outside.’ She was certain she said the same thing every time he came home lately.

He dribbled the ball through to his room before stopping. ‘So when’s dinner?’

‘Five minutes,’ she called back. She’d been checking the roast and now she replaced the lid of the pot and checked her watch. Costas was half an hour late. Where was he?

It was six years since Barbara's husband had walked out on her and Joey, for a younger woman. Barbara had been thirty-eight at the time and, at first, hadn’t expected to have another relationship. She didn’t consider herself attractive, and she’d been filled with apprehension at the mere thought of dating. And, of course, she had her hands full as a single parent.

Costas Yannous ran the local delicatessen, and Barbara had known him for a few years. She shopped there once a week and she always enjoyed her chats with him, chats which often lasted twenty minutes or more. She was both surprised and pleased when Costas asked her out. Costas, a widower with one grown up son who'd moved away, was late forties, good looking in a big, cuddly bear kind of way. He had an easy, down to earth manner, which always put Barbara at ease.

They'd been dating three months. They usually went to the local club or movie theatre on a Saturday night, and Costas would come over to Barbara’s for dinner once or twice during the week. He would always arrange a time to arrive and he was always punctual. That was the kind of man he was.

‘We're not waiting for Costas until we eat, are we, Mum?’ Joey shouted from his room.