No Cherubs for Melanie (39 page)

“King's Cross railway station,” said Samantha, immediately realizing the impracticability of the location. “Wait a minute, where does Margaret live?” Nobody had thought to ask in all the fuss. “That's where he must have been seen last,” she continued positively.

The Indian paled noticeably under his thick brown skin. Samantha looked around at the blank faces. “Well, where does she live? Sorry, I meant where
did
she live?”

Stacy answered straightaway. “Little Bear Island.”

“That's the place then,” she announced, and was amazed by the speed Running Moose took flight.

“Maybe it is not so important,” he said, his voice shaking nervously. “Maybe we should hold the ceremony right here.”

“No way,” said Samantha. “We've come this far so we might as well go to her island. Where is it?”

Superintendent Edwards, in London, asked the same question of Laslow Mitwich, Gordonstone's solicitor. Furtively calling from a payphone in an alleyway behind Canon Street station, even hiding under a rarely worn trilby, he was put straight through to the solicitor's chamber.

“It's only a postal address I'm afraid, Michael,” said Mitwich, happily obliging with Margaret's location. But, to Edwards' disappointment, he had no phone number for her. “Never needed to phone her old chap,” said the solicitor. “And I don't think Martin kept in touch.”

“How d'ye fancy bashing a ball about on the greens sometime?” Mitwich asked, catching Edwards by surprise.

“Oh, I'll give you a buzz,” said Edwards, preoccupied. “I'm just a bit tied up at the moment.”

Edwards thanked him and was lost in thought as he went to replace the receiver. Edwards wandered back to his office for an afternoon of discussions and briefings
about the Gordonstone murder. Under pressure from the divisional commander a full team had been assigned to the task — the commander pulled no punches when he told them that the officer previously assigned to the case had “fucked up and fucked off.” Even the file was missing, the commander complained.

“Stolen with his car, so the burke claims,” Edwards added, without naming names. But everyone knew the story of Bliss's lost car and exploding cat.

Samantha was stomping around Stacy's store demanding action, exhorting the detective sergeant to call in the army, insisting that the search commence immediately. But the pilot ruled that out. There were no more than twenty minutes daylight left; he wouldn't go until the morning — and that was final.

Hysterical speculation about her father — injured, probably dying, alone in the forest — was beyond Peter Bryan's consolatory ability, particularly as he had been so reluctant to believe her in the first place. And Samantha's fractiousness was aggravated further by Phillips, who had taken a seat at the bar.

“We can't just sit here,” she screamed. “We've got to do something.”

“Look around you, Miss,” the detective sergeant said. “This isn't London. The plane crashed Sunday. The Indians who found it were ten miles from their reserve and didn't report it 'til Monday.”

It had taken more than two hours for the Indians to trek around the densely wooded bay to reach the upended plane. Margaret's body, still strapped in her harness, hung upside down with her long, dark hair dangling into the water. The blood-spattered interior and open door led the Indians to search for survivors but they had
given up as night fell. Instead they trudged back to their reservation to report their grisly find.

“The best thing — the only thing — we can do is join the search in the morning,” added the detective with his eye on a beer.

But Samantha had other ideas. “There's nowhere for us to stay here,” she pointed out. “At least we could stay in Margaret's house if we went to her island.”

“I thought your plane was broke,” said the Gump figure, too stupid to realize it was a ruse.

“We lied,” said Bryan with defiant pride, and he turned to the detective. “Samantha's right. Plus, I'd like to be there at sunrise just in case that Indian witch doctor shows up.”

Running Moose had already left the store, after agreeing reluctantly that the Shaman would hold the “shaking tent” ceremony on Margaret's island at dawn.

Samantha piled on the ammunition. “I definitely want to be there,” she said, although in truth she had little faith in the ancient ritual.

The flight to Little Bear Island took no more than ten minutes; the detective used the time to radio his office and inform them of his whereabouts and intentions. He also relayed information about his passengers, then turned in his seat as far as is bulk would permit.

“They want to contact your office in London,” he said to Bryan.

“Why?”

“Just to confirm what you're saying.”

“That could be a bit of a problem. They think I'm in Nepal.”

“Nepal,” breathed Samantha.

“Yes…” he continued. “Leading a rescue mission on Everest actually,” thinking as he spoke that, although sounding impressive, the story was totally unbelievable.

The detective certainly wasn't fooled. “You're kidding — right?”

“I'm afraid not. That's what I told my boss.”

“Good for you, Peter,” said Samantha.

Little Bear Island was silhouetted against the setting sun; they found it easily, but landing was a hair-raising experience in the twilight. Rocks the size of cars shot out of the shadows and God-knows-what lay just below the surface waiting to snag a float as they touched down. The pilot cursed Samantha freely under his breath. Every time he thought he had found a clear stretch of water he would spot a boulder or a floating log at the last minute, or imagine that he had done so. But he had to land. Returning to the settlement was not an option; it would be even darker by the time they got back there.

The dark stain of water rushed up at them for the fourth time. The pilot strained against his seat belt, the floats fizzed as they kissed the surface, and then, with a yelp, he yanked the stick back and rammed open the throttles. “Rocks,” he yelled, perspiration dripping down his face. “This was stupid,” he continued to no one in particular and they all felt the tension. “You'd better put on life jackets,” he added once they'd gained a few hundred feet, scaring them further. He tried landing again. This time the oily surface picked up a reflection off the floats and sent the pilot into a dizzying climb as his nerve cracked at the apparent sight of logs in the water. “Shit,” he spat through clenched teeth. “Hold tight folks,” he added swinging away from the island, “I've got an idea.”

He landed far offshore, away from the rocks, then idled the small plane toward the shore at a snail's pace, using a hand-held spotlight to guide the way.

“Here's Dad's suit,” shouted Samantha, stumbling into Margaret's bedroom in the light from an oil lamp and finding his discarded clothing.

“How can you be sure?” challenged the detective poking his head into the room.

She slipped her hand into an inside pocket of the rumpled clothes, pulled out the return ticket from Paris, and flapped it under his nose. “What the hell do you call this? Look,” she screamed, jabbing it with a finger. “D.A. Bliss. See.”

“Sorry, dear.”

“And don't call me dear.”

Bryan gave the detective a look of condolence as he slunk back into the living room.

Samantha slammed the door behind him and slumped on the bed in tears. “Poor sod,” she cried, stroking one of her father's ties with the sort of idolatry with which a fan might finger one of John Lennons', and brushing out his suit with the care of an acolyte preparing a Bishop's vestments — as if some Godliness had been absorbed into the fabric.

“Supper's ready,” called Peter Bryan with a muted knock a little later. The men had lit the fire in the stove and heated food from the plane's emergency rations. They sat on the couches in the flickering light, forcing the conversation as much as their appetites.

“When I said romantic candlelight dinner,” Bryan laughed, determined to keep Samantha cheerful, “this isn't exactly what I had in mind.”

She tried a smile but wasn't satisfied with its authenticity so let it drop.

“So why did Margaret lie to Stacy about your dad?” enquired the detective, still trying to fathom out how he had got caught up in such a convoluted scenario.

“I think they'd fallen in love,” she replied, still with a choke in her voice.

“But why the lies?”

Samantha was still trying to work that out herself and her face went blank with inner thought. Finally she said, “I'm sure he wasn't lying to me on Wednesday when he asked for the money to get home. But then,” she clapped, “Bam! Love struck, and they must have decided to disappear together to start a new life.” She paused, the memory of a pregnancy testing kit uppermost in her mind. “New love makes you do stupid things,” she added. “But it solved all Dad's problems: Mum, George, Edwards — even his stolen car. It even eliminated problems he didn't know he had.”

“Like what?” asked the pilot.

“Someone trashed his apartment and murdered his cat,” she replied, coldly staring at Peter Bryan.

Bryan rolled with the punch. “But how can you be sure they went off together?”

“Consider what he left behind,” she said, in a Sherlock Holmes manner, counting off the items on her fingers. “His working suit, five ties, best shirt, brogues, braces, and his return ticket to Paris. And he wasn't on any day trip — he took his suitcase.”

“I'm not sure that proves anything —” started the detective, but Samantha cut him off with an expansive wave.

“Well, look around here. What is there of hers? Nothing, only some jumble sale clothes. Check the bathroom cabinet. God knows, my bathroom isn't an Iraqi
chemical depot like Mum's, but the toiletries she's left behind wouldn't cover a pimple on her bum. There's virtually no food in the kitchen and they even took the sheets and blankets off the bed.”

“So where were they going?”

She shrugged and turned to Bryan. “What do you think, Dr. Watson?”

“I think we all need some sleep,” said Bryan, unwilling to commit himself in case he should be proved wrong again.

The early start and exhausting day had taken their toll and they turned in as soon as supper was finished. Samantha and Bryan took the bedroom without discussion, leaving the other two to fight over the couches. After turning the mattress to avoid the nasty brown stain, they lay together fully dressed with a couple of blankets from the plane's emergency kit spread over them. But Samantha couldn't sleep, her mind tossed and twitched with memories, thoughts, and ideas. “I'm sorry,” she whispered into the darkness, realizing she was disturbing him.

“It doesn't matter, I don't know if I can sleep, anyway.”

“I suppose the real tragedy is that he had just found love again.”

“With Margaret?” he said, noticing the surprise in his tone, not knowing why.

“Yeah… It was in his voice the last time he called. It was just the way he said, ‘We've got an eagle.' He denied it of course, but I knew.” She almost added, “Randy old bugger,” but changed her mind. “Poor old devil,” she said. “I see what you mean though — every time he wins he loses, and…” she broke into tears. “He's lost it all this time.”

Bryan cuddled her in the darkness, smoothing her hair the way a parent might soothe a testy child.

Samantha had sobbed them both slowly to sleep. It was sometime later when Bryan woke and sensed emptiness beside him. Creeping past the sleeping figures in the main room he stepped quietly onto the verandah and felt a chill through his socks. She was there, sitting as still as a statue on a rock, hugging her knees and peering through the skeletal trees to the darker splodge of lake in the distance. The moon was as bright and yellow as a forty-watt bulb, and the stars were so close through the window of unpolluted sky he felt as if he could touch them. Samantha hadn't moved; lost in her grief, she was unaware of his proximity. He spent a moment marvelling at the Milky Way as it cut a wide swath from horizon to horizon, then he called softly, “Samantha — are you all right?”

Awareness of his presence filtered through the fog of her anguish. “He's out there somewhere,” she mused, resigned to her father's fate.

“You're freezing,” he said, shocked by the paleness of her hands and face. “How long have you been out here?”

She shrugged, the relevance of time lost.

Dropping to her side he tried to mould her body into his but she resisted stiffly, preferring to freeze, to accept nature's punishment — wanting to feel the pain her father had endured as he struggled, injured and dying in the frigid water. “I knew he was dead on Sunday, I had a premonition at his flat. Do you remember?”

“We don't know he's dead.”

“I think he should have died when Mum left,” she went on, hating herself for saying so. “He's been like someone with a terminal illness ever since. It seems trite to suggest it, but I wonder if he attacked Edwards on
purpose. Maybe he was so frustrated that he didn't consider or care about the repercussions. He never used to be like that. Nothing would get to him, he'd shrug off anything. ‘Like water off a duck's ass,' my mother used to say.

“I think it's a duck's back,” corrected Bryan gently.

Giving it some thought she answered seriously, “No …I think she meant a duck's ass.”

Peter Bryan smiled and attempted optimism. “There's really no reason to believe he's dead. Like the detective said, he got away from the plane, so he can't be too badly injured.”

“Please Peter, don't humour me. I'm a big girl now. I can feel it, like I felt it Sunday, like a hollow space in my heart.” She peered questioningly into his eyes.”It sounds very melodramatic, doesn't it?”