The Delta Chain (20 page)

‘However these people got into the ocean, the
chances of their bodies turning up were small. You would expect the
tides or rips to sweep them out, or the sharks to take them. If, by
mere chance, six of these floaters turned up, then think about it –
mere specks in the great, vast ocean – it stands to reason there
could be more like these that will never be found.’

‘Where do you think this is headed, Ron?’

O’Malley shrugged. ‘That’s just it. I’ve no
idea. There’s simply no obvious reason, no links, and absolutely no
other cases that give us an indication. These kids seem to have
never existed. And to have died in the same way, in two specific
regions and in two specific time frames-’

‘Strongly suggests foul play,’ Stanton
confirmed the thought.

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re advocating a special task
force.’

O’Malley nodded. He gleaned from the
expression on Stanton’s face that the Police Chief agreed. ‘You’ll
need at least a couple of good homicide men,’ Stanton stated, ‘one
with a strong grounding in forensics, one with major missing
persons experience, a command room, a specially designated P.A. to
man a direct line and compile computer data on the
investigation…’

‘I’d also want at least one of the locally
involved detectives, as a pair of legs, preferably close to the
most recent case. The detective in Northern Rocks, who initially
brought this to our attention, shows a great deal of potential. I’d
like to see how he works out.’

‘Good idea. I’ll arrange for him to be
seconded to the unit.’

‘We’ll need to visit the Florida FBI and
bring in the Feds here…’

‘In other words you need a big budget.’
Stanton allowed a half grin to crack his otherwise granite-like
countenance. ‘Fair enough, but let me be straight about one thing
up front, Ron. I won’t allow ongoing use of taxpayers’ money on an
investigation that hits a brick wall. So there’ll be a time
restraint and I want you keeping a tight lid and low profile on the
whole thing.’

‘No problem.’ After O’Malley left, Stanton
called in his secretary to brief her on instigating the necessary
paperwork for the task force, which he’d code named ORIGIN.
Samantha Harris was an efficient young woman with maturity beyond
her years. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything like this one,’
Stanton confided. ‘Six people who don’t appear to have ever
existed. Who in the name of God were they?

Arriving back at the Northern Rocks police
centre, Adam went straight to his office and called in John
Harrison for an update. Adam knew the best way to take his mind off
Kate and her grief was to plunge headlong into work. That suited
him fine. He wanted to make up for lost time.

‘How did we go checking on water craft?’

‘Firstly,’ said Harrison, ‘the region
specified is not on any fishing or shipping routes, nor does it
attract much passer-by craft. At the time in question there were
two craft on the fringes of the area, both leisure boaters and they
both proved clean. However, there was a plane that passed over that
area at the estimated time. A private commercial flyer, hired would
you believe by the local arm of the Department of Meteorology…’

As he listened, Adam glanced over the phone
messages left on his desk by the station receptionist. Two of them
were from Dr. Terry Donaldson at the Brisbane Meteorology
Department.

‘…
and we might have something to work
with. A photograph.’

‘Taken from the plane?’ Adam asked.

‘Yes. It seems those Meteorology boys are
working on some kind of new visual training material. They’re
shooting shoreline and ocean and then applying visuals, CGI-like,
to their simulations.’

‘Good timing for us,’ Adam said.

‘On the day in question there’s a boat in
their pictures, and it’s not one of the craft listed on the Ports
Authority records.’

‘It’s within the designated
co-ordinates?’

‘Spot on.’

‘I can hardly believe our luck.’

‘That’s what Brian Markham said, joked that
good luck is the cornerstone of good police work.’ Harrison
chuckled. ‘The Sarge did not appreciate it.’ Adam could imagine
Arthur Kirby’s irritation.

‘That sounds just like Brian,’ Adam said.
‘Where are the pictures now?’

‘On their way by special messenger. Due here
about five.’

Adam phoned Terry Donaldson to thank him for
his assistance. The news about the aerial shots was the reason
Donaldson had left messages.

Brian Markham walked in as Adam finished the
call.

There were three large photographic prints
delivered shortly after. ‘A twelve foot cabin cruiser, 180
horsepower by the look of it,’ Markham commented. While the long
shot gave a clear impression of the boat’s shape and size, it was
the two close-ups that were of the main interest. One of these
showed a corner of the stern only, with two men in the shot. One
had his face turned down and mostly obscured. The other man’s face
was clear enough and unremarkable. He was young, clean- shaven,
almost bland looking. The two men were at the entrance to the deck
cabin and were pulling something from the cabin – a distorted
shape, only partly visible. The picture here was grainy, unclear,
but the shape could have been the upper part of a body.

The second close-up, picking up just a middle
portion of the boat’s flanks, showed the lettering of the boat’s
name. ‘Can’t make out all these letters…’ Harrison said, leaning in
closer and squinting.

‘But I think we will if we blow it up,’ said
Adam.

‘The imaging lab over in Farnsworth’s your
best bet for that,’ Markham said.

‘We don’t know this boat is involved, but
it’s our best lead so far. In fact, it’s the only bloody lead.
Brian, do you want to get your imaging buddies on the line, set up
an appointment for first thing.’

‘I’m on it.’

‘And John, get that face into the network,
all agencies, let’s see if there’s a matching mug shot
anywhere.’

Bruce Macoboy was a lanky, longish haired
thirtysomething with a laconic grin and a beard that would have
done a bikie proud. He owned and ran the Hi-Tech Graphic Imaging
Centre in Farnsworth, south of Northern Rocks. As an enthusiast, he
loved it when any of the police services called on him for
photographic assistance.

When he received the call from Markham,
Macoboy asked him to bring the photo straight round. He was
prepared to put his other work aside and stay back that evening to
work on it.

At 6.30 PM Adam and Brian pulled up chairs
alongside Macoboy. He scanned the photo into the system. Adam and
Brian watched as he slid the mouse across its pad. On screen a
small white arrow moved simultaneously across the image until
Macoboy brought it to rest on the area containing the letters.
‘Okay, let’s blow these babies up.’ Macoboy was enjoying himself.
Another time that might have annoyed Adam but on this occasion he
found himself responding favourably to the photo man’s
enthusiasm.

A click of the mouse and a grid appeared on
the screen over the designated area. Macoboy’s eyes never left the
screen as he worked. ‘Images are made up of thousands of tiny
pixels, and what this software does is to focus on every single
pixel in the area specified. It enlarges each pixel by the chosen
percentage.’ His fingers flew across the keyboard and a small box,
indicating 25%, appeared momentarily on the upper right of the
screen. The area in the grid magnified right before their eyes, the
letters instantly more recognisable. ‘Of course, the more each
pixel enlarges the less sharp its edges, there are more breaks, and
the picture our eye sees becomes grainier.’

‘We knew we had a H and an A,’ Markham said,
‘and now it’s obvious there’s an I on the second word and an M in
the third.’ He looked to the others. ‘Agree?’

‘Yes.’ Adam addressed Macoboy. ‘Just a little
larger ought to do it.’

‘Another 15,’ Macoboy suggested. This time
the letters, though extremely blurry, were legible throughout.

‘Hoang Thi Mai.’ Adam was puzzled. ‘Sounds
Vietnamese.’

It wasn’t remotely what he expected.

Meredith Seals walked into her Sydney
apartment, kicked off her high heels and fell back onto the plush
three-seater lounge. It always felt good to be back home after a
business trip. But this time she felt uneasy. Restless. This had
been a particularly interesting investment to study. And her fling
with the charismatic William Westmeyer had been a sexual adventure
unlike anything she’d experienced before. Despite her growing
unhappiness she’d never had an affair until now.

It wasn’t that she wanted to see Westmeyer
again. She didn’t. But her appetite for adventure had been whetted.
She lay her head back against the headrest and listened to the
voicemail messages from the past few days. ‘Meredith…’ it was the
sombre voice of her husband, Morris, ‘…sorry, but a last minute
development has come up. Been called away to an inter-company
heads’ conference in Hobart of all places. Back Saturday. See you
then.’

Meredith closed her eyes. Morris, a design
engineer for a manufacturing consortium, was rarely home these
days. It had been clear to her for some time he was pursuing
interests that were personal as well as business. The message was
no surprise.

Despite being no longer close to her husband,
she’d wanted to ask his opinion of the conversation she’d
overheard. She’d been thinking all afternoon about reporting it to
the police, anonymously. She wondered whether Morris would’ve
agreed.

It was late so she decided she’d make the
call in the morning.

In the meantime she tried to put the incident
out of her mind. But, with her eyes closed, she found herself back
at the top of those stairs in her imagination, feeling sexy, and
the sudden sense of unease that overtook her as she listened to
those words: ‘…This blasted floater…that’s three now…’

And William’s voice, cold, confident:
‘There’s no trail to follow.’

Barbara Cail picked up the newspaper from the
front lawn. She walked back in to the house, opening the paper as
she went, eyes drawn to the item on page three. She bit her lip as
she realised her sister had used a family photo of Costas, which
now accompanied Melanie’s report. It detailed how the local deli
owner was suffering shock after his discovery of the drowning
victim. The article quoted Detective Bennett as saying ‘No comment’
when questioned over the similarity of the drowning to another case
in Morrissey.

What Barbara didn’t know was how much Eddie
Cochrane had already toned down the content.

Costas came in and placed his hand on her
shoulder from behind. ‘She wrote what she could, which wasn’t much
anyhow, and now that should be an end to it – for us, anyway.’

‘She had no right to use that picture,
without permission…’

‘It’s one of the pictures she took of me last
Christmas.’

‘That doesn’t matter! We should sue her…’

‘No. We forget about it, and we move on.
Okay?’

Begrudgingly, Barbara sighed and said,
‘Okay.’ Their fingers entwined and Barbara experienced the warm
sensation of his strength. ‘She’s so manipulative. Sometimes I
can’t believe she’s my sister.’

‘She hasn’t made as much of this as you
feared she might.’

‘Not yet, her editor’s probably keeping a
reign on that. I mean it’s irresponsible to go stirring up
paranoia, surely. But she will if she gets half the chance.’

Costas picked up a glossy brochure that had
fallen out of the paper. It was a preview of the events planned for
the town’s 50
^th
birthday celebrations. ‘Let’s hope she
doesn’t get the chance.’

From his office in the Australian capital
city of Canberra, the Managing Director of Rensens, Christopher
Ryan, listened with interest to the telephone spiel from James
Reardon. Ryan had a great deal of time and respect for Reardon.

Portly and bespectacled, Ryan toyed with the
bridge of his glasses as he repeated Reardon’s words back to him,
‘You want the Landscan III prototype for a field exercise.
Something that will show its value in wilderness operations?’

‘You got it, Chris.’

‘And this search project, as you call it, is
by A.B.C.S. in conjunction with the N.T. police?’

‘That’s right. If nothing comes of it, Chris,
then no one outside of the N.T. police will know. If it works as I
hope, it’s a superb testimonial for future contracts for you
guys.’

‘It’s an unusual offer, James. I don’t see
how A.B.C.S. profits from this.’

‘We don’t.’ Reardon explained how his
employee, Kate Kovacs, wanted to help the authorities track her
brother’s killers. The use of the Landscan would be a personal
favour from Rensens to A.B.C.S.

‘And you’ve already spoken to the N.T.
Commissioner about this?’

‘I’ve spoken with Harold Letterfield, the
chief of the Wildlife Preservation Commission, and he’s certainly
agreeable. He believes the Police Chief would be pleased to have
our assistance and will brief him fully if you agree, Chris.’

‘Very well, you have my vote. Now just how do
you want to go about this?’

Reardon arranged for the prototype to be
shipped overnight to the Alice Springs Airport. Once there it was
to be released only to Kate Kovacs, acting in her capacity as an
A.B.C.S. officer.

It was only when he’d put the phone down that
Reardon experienced a moment of doubt.

from Daniel’s journal

One of my earliest memories is of the
well.

It was an imposing sight, jutting out of the
ground, made of large, red sandstone bricks. There was a quaint
wooden roof that stretched over the hanging bucket with its frayed
and twisted lowering rope. I can recall, at a very young age,
hearing one of the Keepers refer to it as a relic from another
age.