Araluen (29 page)

A week after the incident, the body of Phillip Godden, security guard in the employ of Ross Industries, was found in an alley behind a gambling den in Chinatown. His throat had been cut. The case was never solved.

For quite a time after the killings, Michael had recurring nightmares but over the years and with the help of intensive therapy, they receded to an
ugly blur and Franklin was informed that the boy had made a good recovery and would not be emotionally scarred for life.

A lesson had been learned, though, and for the next four years Franklin assigned a personal bodyguard for the protection of his grandson. He held himself responsible for the near success of the attempted kidnap. Of course his grandson was worth a king’s ransom, of course he should have personally screened each of his security team. If Karol hadn’t been there … If … Franklin cursed himself and swore that it would never happen again. After a painstaking search, he engaged a thirty-five-year-old ex-policeman as Michael’s personal minder.

Daniel Pendennis was an ex-detective and a former member of the elite VIP Protection Unit. Franklin was pleased; he’d been fully aware that Michael had been inhibited by the dour Karol Mankowski who was hardly ideal company for a teenager. Daniel Pendennis not only had an impressive list of credentials, he had a sense of fun.

Dan was originally from Cornwall, a fishing village called Mousehole. ‘But you don’t say the “hole”,’ he insisted in his rough Cornish brogue. ‘It’s pronounced “Mouzle”.’

The entire village had been taken aback when young Dan had applied for entry to the London Metropolitan Police. But then he’d always been an unpredictable boy, and they were all proud of him when he was accepted for training. Especially his father who had three other sons who were only
too happy to follow in their dad’s footsteps and become fishermen. A copper in the family would certainly be something to boast about.

So Dan went to London and became a policeman. And then he became a detective with the VIP Protection Unit. But he never forgot Mousehole and, whenever he could, he returned to the tiny fishing village with its quaint houses and its narrow streets.

‘Some of them are so narrow that if you meet another car one of you has to back up the hill and out of town,’ he told Michael. ‘I haven’t been there for four years now, not since I came out to Australia – longest time ever without a visit to the home town. It’s my sanity, you know. I reckon one day I’ll retire there.’

Daniel was an uncomplicated man. Life for him was simple. Which was why he’d left the police force after ten years. He’d shot a man in the line of duty and, when they took his gun from him, treated him like a criminal and demanded a full investigation, Dan was left in a state of utter confusion. He’d done what they’d trained him to do. The man had been armed with a knife, he’d refused to surrender and Dan had shot him neatly in the thigh. All very simple.

The investigation cleared him, of course, but by then Dan was so disillusioned that he decided to opt for a less complicated existence.

Personal protection was easier than being a policeman, he found. And, if the people he was personally protecting were wealthy like Franklin Ross, the pay was a damn sight better into the bargain.

Dan fitted in well with the Ross household. Michael took an instant liking to him and he, in turn, recognised the boy’s good nature – surprising for an only child from such a wealthy home, he thought. The mischievous games the boy played were without malice; they merely stemmed from an adventurous spirit. Dan could identify with that. So rather than laying down the law and exercising discipline, he decided to join in the games whenever possible and he and Michael became firm friends.

Which was just as well for Michael – it made things a great deal easier for him when he lost his virginity.

Natalie Sinclair was nearly twenty-seven and it was quite obvious to Dan that she strongly fancied young Michael, despite the fact that the lad was barely sixteen.

It was also obvious to Dan that Michael lusted after the bosomy brunette with all the passion he himself had felt at sixteen for Dezmeldar Lee, daughter of the Mousehole postmistress.

Something had to be done, Dan thought. The lad was torturing himself and there was no one in whom he could confide. Michael got on well with his grandfather and, old as Franklin Ross was, he was still a virile man, Dan recognised that. Franklin could have helped, except that Franklin was in New York, as usual. That left Penelope. And nobody, Dan thought, could possibly share sexual confidences with the untouchable Penelope. The Ice Queen herself.

Penelope Ross was an extremely beautiful woman but Dan had great difficulty imagining her with her legs apart. It seemed sacrilegious to even think it. He didn’t much like her, if the truth be known; she had a habit of making him feel out of his depth. Not that he took it too personally – it was fairly evident that Penelope made a habit of doing that to most people.

So it was up to Dan.

Although he was childless, unmarried and with two broken engagements behind him – to women he hadn’t really loved anyway – Daniel Pendennis felt a strong paternal responsibility for the first time in his life.

‘Want to go to Hardy’s Bay next week for a few days’ fishing?’ he asked Michael.

‘Yeah, fantastic!’

‘Reckon she’ll agree?’ Dan had long since stopped referring to Penelope as Michael’s grandmother. He’d suffered the withering looks when he’d inadvertently used the term in her presence.

‘I don’t see why not. She was pleased with the exam results.’

Michael had indeed breezed through his penultimate year at school. He’d decided it wasn’t worth the hassle of endless lectures so he’d stopped playing games, put his fantasy world on hold for a while and paid attention. It had all been incredibly easy. Nevertheless, he couldn’t wait to be out in the real world. One more year to go and he could take the first step towards converting his magic world into a reality. One more year to go and he would be working at the studios. Penelope had promised him.

‘Can I go to Hardy’s Bay next week with Daniel?’ Michael asked, convinced she’d say yes. He’d been on holidays for three weeks and, fond as she was of him, he knew she preferred it when he was out of the house a little more.

‘May
I,
darling – not
can,’
Penelope said automatically.
‘I
don’t see why not. So long as it’s convenient for Daniel, of course.’ She smiled graciously at Dan, relieved by the thought that the two of them would be out of her hair for a while. Daniel Pendennis was a nice man but he was rather simple. And of course Michael was so young – neither of them understood the pressure she was under with Franklin gone so much of the time. Neither of them understood the demands placed upon her by her social responsibilities and her duties at the studios.

‘Fine by me, Mrs Ross.’

The following week, they left for ‘the shack’ at Hardy’s Bay.

It wasn’t a shack at all, but a comfortable three-bedroom weatherboard house right on the water with a huge open verandah and views across the sleepy little inlet. But by Penelope’s standards it was a shack. God forbid that people should presume this was their ‘holiday home’ – their holidays were spent in their London townhouse or their seaside flat at Menton on the French Riviera.

Franklin had bought the shack the year before to assuage his guilt at the fact that he didn’t spend more time with his grandson.

‘Take him fishing, Dan,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve got a
boat there, penned at the local marina. And teach him to shoot and defend himself too. He’s got a lot of growing up to do.’

Hardy’s Bay was only a couple of hours from the city but it was a world apart, a sleepy little post-war holiday town lost in the forties and fifties. Materials for the early cottages had been ferried across the massive waterways by barge until The Rip Bridge was built in the seventies. As a result, Hardy’s Bay had escaped the hideous building boom of the sixties, investors choosing towns more accessible by road in which to construct their ugly, square red-brick monsters.

Now the few modern buildings erected in Hardy’s Bay were of pleasing design, private owners choosing to maintain the aspect of the place. The shack itself was a renovated two-bedroom weatherboard built in 1948. A third bedroom, huge living area and verandah had been added in the style of the original.

Michael loved Hardy’s Bay. He loved its ‘lost in time’ aura. The perfect place for a movie location, he thought, and straight away he could see the whole movie in his mind.

Sydney, 1945. VE Day. People crowded around their wirelesses listening to Menzies’ announcement – victory in Europe. Celebrations in the streets, the whole of Sydney alive with joy. The return of the soldiers.

That was where Hardy’s Bay came in. Couples fleeing to the little holiday towns up the Central Coast. In wooden shacks by sleepy inlets making love desperately, frantically. Forget the war, it couldn’t touch them here. Then the recognition
that it wasn’t over yet. There was still the Pacific. Finally, the Japanese surrender, total victory. Once more, couples fleeing to the coastal havens to lose themselves in each other’s bodies, grateful to be alive. (There was a lot of lovemaking in Michael’s fantasies lately.)

‘Why don’t you invite Natalie to Hardy’s Bay?’ Dan asked casually. They were driving home from the studio Christmas party the night after they’d decided to go up the coast. It was early December, the start of the non-ratings period, and studio production went into recess while networks aired movies and re-runs of old shows. Ross Productions always held their Christmas party on the last taping day of the year.

‘Natalie?’ Michael gave a guilty start. ‘Natalie Sinclair?’

‘Sure.’ Dan concentrated on the street ahead. ‘She’s on holiday as of tonight. Her show doesn’t go back into production until the middle of January.’

Michael’s pulse raced at the mere thought of Natalie Sinclair at the shack and the balmy summer nights overlooking Hardy’s Bay. It was everything his fantasy movie was, and more. But his mind was in a state of shock. Had Dan seen him kiss Natalie in the studio car park tonight? He’d put his hand on her breast too. It was the first time he’d done either. Natalie had been a bit drunk and she’d used that as an excuse, but then he’d been a bit drunk himself and that had given him the courage.

She’d laughed when they stopped to draw
breath. ‘Talk about a cradle-snatcher,’ she’d said breathlessly. ‘Thanks for walking me to my car, Michael.’ And she climbed in the car and drove off. Had Dan been watching?

Dan hadn’t been watching as such. He’d certainly observed them leave via the staff entrance and he’d observed them walking through the car park. That was his job. But, when they came to a halt at her car, he’d observed the surrounding area instead while he waited for Michael to return to the party.

‘Hell, Dan, Natalie Sinclair’s famous. She’s a national television identity. Why would she want to come up the coast with us?’ Michael was serious. To score a kiss in the car park from Natalie Sinclair was quite a major achievement -to contemplate a weekend away with the woman was sheer fantasy. And fantasy of such magnitude that not even he could envisage it as reality.

Dan pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. Now for the moment of truth. ‘She fancies you, Michael. Just as much as you fancy her. She’ll come along if you ask her.’ He allowed a couple of seconds for it to sink in. ‘And I think it’s time you found out what it’s all about, don’t you?’

Michael nodded, hardly daring to speak. When he did open his mouth to say something, Dan stopped him.

‘It’s all right. Penelope doesn’t need to know.’ Again Michael tried to say something and again Dan interrupted. ‘Do it, Michael. Just do it.’

‘I don’t have her phone number,’ Michael finally managed to blurt out.

‘I do.’ Dan handed him a slip of paper. ‘It was in the studio files.’

Natalie lived only twenty minutes’ drive from The Colony House. Michael opened the front car door for her so that she could sit next to Dan. Then he piled into the back.

‘I’ve been looking forward to this, Dan. I hear the fishing’s great and I believe you’re quite an expert.’

Natalie was beautiful, charming, animated and normally self-assured. If she chattered a little more than was necessary during the two-hour drive it was because, for once, she was feeling rather self-conscious. What on earth had made her accept the offer from young Michael Ross? ‘Dan’ll take us out in the boat,’ he’d promised over the phone. ‘He’s an expert fisherman and there are mudcrabs in the bay … ’ Before she could answer, he’d continued ‘ … and blue swimmer crabs too, and prawns and oysters and … ’

‘Yes, all right, Michael,’ she’d found herself saying. ‘It sounds like fun. I adore fishing.’

But they both knew what was really being said. And now Natalie was wondering why she’d agreed. If anyone at the studio was to find out she’d been to bed with a sixteen-year-old she’d be a laughing stock. More importantly, though, the sixteen-year-old was none other than Michael Ross. If the Ice Queen were to find out that Natalie Sinclair, anchorwoman of the highly rating ‘Weekend World Roundup’, had screwed her precious grandson then Natalie would most
certainly be out of a job and possibly out of the industry. Penelope’s power was such that, if she chose, she could easily have Natalie blacklisted.

What the hell am I doing here? Natalie asked herself again and decided that she’d invent an urgent forgotten appointment and return by train the following day.

But it didn’t work out that way.

Natalie adored Hardy’s Bay. She’d never been there before and it was every bit as picturesque as Michael had described it.

That afternoon Dan took them out in the boat for a sightseeing tour. ‘We’ll leave the fishing for tomorrow. Then we’ll go out at dawn and fish on the flood tide.’

So they spent a pleasant several hours motoring across the bay to Ettalong, Umina and Pearl Beach, where they dropped anchor and dived overboard for a swim.

Natalie was aware that both Michael and Dan were trying as tactfully as they could to ignore her body in its lime-green one-piece. They weren’t altogether successful, and she was thankful that she’d packed her tasteful bathing costume rather than her skimpy pink bikini. She, in turn, was a little ashamed of herself for her lecherous feelings towards Michael. In his bathing costume he looked like the gawky schoolboy he was. How could you? she scolded herself: he’s a baby. If she wanted a torrid affair, she thought, she should be checking out the minder.