Читать книгу Deadly Tide - Sandy Curtis - Страница 6

'Bill! You scared the daylights out of me!'

'Sorry, Sam. I heard voices and thought we'd been broken into.'

'And do you always investigate break-and-enters armed like that?' Chayse nodded to the knife in the man's hand, but kept his voice mild. A woman's name was tattooed on the man's inner forearm, and an eagle rippled on his upper arm as his hand tightened on the knife.

'Who's asking?' Bill's tone was equally mild, but less friendly.

Sam stepped between the two men. 'This is Chayse Jackson, Bill. He's our new deckie.'

'Our new deckie?'

'Hasn't Dad phoned you? You and I are taking the Sea Mistress out tomorrow.'

'What about your work?'

'I've taken a couple of months off.'

A heavy silence formed, and Chayse watched the unspoken interplay between the middle-aged man and the quietly determined young woman. The tension in Bill Marvin's big frame seemed to increase when he glanced across at Chayse. Suddenly he shrugged his shoulders, thrust the knife back into its scabbard, and muttered, 'I guess you're old enough to know what you're doing. We're fuelled up, but you'd better turn on the auxiliary if you're bringing in the stores.'

As Bill walked out of the wheelhouse, Sam switched on the auxiliary engine that powered the freezer room. The engine surged into life, then settled into a soft, steady thrum that vibrated through the boat. Sam found a biro, and indicated Chayse should sit down and fill out the paperwork she'd given him. Then she went looking for Bill.

The older man appeared relaxed as he put the filleting knife with some fishing tackle in the small storage hold behind the sorting tray. But Sam could read Bill as well as she could read her father, and she knew he wasn't happy with the situation.

She leaned against the huge fibreglass deck box that supported the sorting tray. 'Spit it out, Bill.'

Bill closed the hatch on the hold and stood up. 'Your father always swore he'd never let you back on board, Sam. How did you get him to change his mind?'

Sam shifted uncomfortably under his dark gaze. 'I said I'd go to the police and tell them why he went to see McKay.' A deep frown crinkled Bill's forehead, and she hastened to add, 'I wouldn't have done it, Bill, I owe you too much to do that. But I couldn't stand by and watch Dad go bankrupt.'

Bill pushed back hair that had fallen across his forehead. Grey strands vied with the sun-bleached gold streaking the brown. 'If I thought it would help your father, Sam, I'd tell the police myself. But they might think that gave Tug more of a reason to kill McKay, and get us in even deeper trouble.'

'Well, at least we can keep the Sea Mistress going until Dad's leg mends.'

'Where'd you find the deckie?'

As Sam explained, she saw suspicion deepening on Bill's face. 'Convenient, don't you think? Him turning up just when we need someone.'

'Good thing he has. Bill, we both know Dad's been framed, but you can't be suspicious of everyone and everything.'

Bill shrugged. 'I thought you would be the last one to think like that.'

'I've spent the last nine years overcoming suspicion and fear. I won't have it ruling my life again.' Sam straightened and turned towards the wheelhouse. 'Pick me up at eight in the morning?' she asked over her shoulder.

'What about the deckie?'

She smiled. 'He's got legs.'

Cigarette smoke curled lazily in the air. Music from the disco in the adjoining room added to the murmur of voices and the clack of balls skewing across the pool tables.

A wide archway separated the pool area from the smaller bar section where Chayse sat, his back to the wall, watching the diversity of patrons. Men of all ages propped on stools at the bar, but younger men and women predominated around the pool tables. Although it was seven o'clock at night, some were still in their work clothes, the rest were dressed casually, the occasional sweater a concession to the cooler May evening.

Although he knew the Kladium was out at sea, Chayse had chosen to drink in the hotel Folter frequented, hoping to overhear something that might give him a clue to the skipper's non-trawling activities. He sipped at his beer, knowing he should be making contact with crew members from other trawlers, but reluctant to do so. Maybe his supervisor was right, maybe he wasn't up to what this job needed. A memory of blood and mutilation fleetingly tormented him, and he gulped down the rest of his beer, trying to drown out the image. He concentrated on the other occupants of the bar, categorising them by a particular physical characteristic, such as Big-nose, Short-legs, Red-curls. It was a distraction, but it was also an effective method that made it easier to recall people, and the circumstances in which he'd seen them.

He placed the empty glass down on the bar, debating whether to buy a second drink, when Samantha Bretton walked in, slim-fitting jeans and green skivvy emphasising her height and curves. She glanced at the pool tables. A frown creased her forehead and she started to turn towards the bar when she stopped, then smiled. A wiry, fair-haired man in his late twenties, cue poised to shoot, returned her smile.

As soon as Sam had dropped him at the backpackers' hostel that afternoon, Chayse had phoned his supervisor for more details on her. Learning she was one of the captains on a local tourist vessel reassured him of her sailing skills, but there was nothing much else about her that gave him any clues to the type of person she was. Single, no boyfriend, a very private person ... even that seemed a little at odds with the attractive, obviously capable, young woman she appeared to be.

Now she walked over and spoke to the fair-haired pool player. He played two more shots, ending the game, then they sat down at a small table. From his vantage point, Chayse could see almost all of both rooms. His interest quickened as he noticed a thickset middle-aged man with thinning rust-coloured hair leave the bar and saunter over to the pool table near Samantha. With a neck wider than his head, and a forward slope to his beefy shoulders, the name Bull-neck seemed made for him. He slipped a coin onto the timber edge of the pool table to signal he was waiting a turn, dragged out a chair with his foot, then sat down with his back to Sam.

To a casual observer, Bull-neck appeared relaxed as he drank his beer, then lit a cigarette. But Chayse could see the tension in his neck as his head arched back and he blew smoke into the air. He knew Sam's conversation was more important to the man than the awaited game of pool.

Chayse watched as Sam talked. The fair-haired young man frowned, Sam spoke earnestly, he nodded, and she seemed relieved. This emotion obviously wasn't shared by Bull-neck; he frowned, then rose abruptly and strode out towards the restrooms. Sam and the young man chatted amiably for a few more minutes, then she walked out the entrance she'd come in. Her departure reminded Chayse of how early he would have to be at the wharf in the morning, so he stood up to leave. Before he could do so, Bull-neck reappeared and walked out after Sam.

Instinct prickling the hairs on his neck, Chayse followed, but paused on the bottom step of the pub.

Outside, the narrow pub windows cast oblongs of brightness onto the pavement. Lights on the corner illuminated the cross street, but this entrance was at the end of a row of old houses. At the edge of the bitumen, huge trees spread their branches out over the footpath and parked cars. Chayse glanced about, and saw Bull-neck walking around the corner of the pub, speaking into a mobile phone. In the opposite direction, Sam walked rapidly away beneath the trees.

Years of experience had taught Chayse to trust his instincts, and although the obvious course for him was to follow Bull-neck, he hesitated, his gaze lingering on Sam. She walked with a purposeful stride, head high, her right fist clenched, and Chayse would bet her car keys were protruding from between her fingers. She had the air of someone who'd practised their night safety techniques.

She'd walked past six cars when a dark shape sprang out from behind one of the trees and lunged at her.

Sam kicked out. Chayse caught a glint of steel as her assailant dodged. Her boot hit above his crotch, but the knife slashed down. Her cry of pain choked off as she lost her balance and fell heavily.

Chayse yelled and ran towards them.

The attacker froze for a half-second, then ran off into the darkness.

Chayse wanted to pursue him, but was worried that Sam might need medical attention. She was sitting up, pressing a handkerchief to her thigh as Chayse knelt beside her. She looked surprised as she recognised him.

'Where's your car?' he asked. 'I'll give you a hand.'

'Thanks, but I can look after myself,' she muttered, and got to her feet. He tried to offer assistance, but she brushed him aside. 'I'm all right.' She took her keys from her jeans pocket and limped towards a Magna parked a few metres away. The car lights flashed in response to her thumb on the remote button and she walked to the driver's side. Before she could open the door, Chayse swung her up in his arms.

'Put me down!' The irritation in her voice was obvious, but Chayse ignored her. He carried her around to the passenger side, half-crouched as he opened the door, then sat her down inside. The car's interior light showed blood still soaking through her jeans and running over her sandal. He wound down the car window, picked up her foot and rested it on the sill. Blood continued to flow as he ripped the knife-slashed jeans further open.

'You'll need stitches,' he told her as he took out his handkerchief and pressed it over the wound.

Sam tossed her own sodden hanky on the car floor. 'Damn! I don't need this!'

Shock had stripped the healthy glow from her face. 'Buckle up,' he told her, 'I'm taking you to the hospital.'

'No. I can patch it up myself.'

'You don't know what might have been on that knife. You'll need antibiotics. You don't want to have an infection when you're out at sea.'

She shook her head in frustration, then nodded her acquiescence and fastened the seatbelt. Chayse took her left hand and placed it over the handkerchief. 'Press down on this.'

As he walked around to the driver's side, he unclipped his mobile phone from his belt and dialled triple zero. Within seconds he was reporting the attack to the local police, who agreed to meet them at the emergency room.

Sam looked at Chayse's profile as he drove away from the hospital.

She didn't like being indebted to him any more than she liked feeling any attraction to him, but he'd probably saved her life, and she was grateful. The police had taken both their statements, but as it had been too dark for either of them to get a good look at the attacker, there didn't appear to be much hope of finding him. Nevertheless, a police car had been despatched to the scene to search for clues. Sam had given details of her attacker's height and build, and although something else had niggled at the back of her mind, she couldn't remember what it was.

When the doctor was stitching the wound in her leg, Sam had wondered why Chayse just 'happened' to be there when her assailant had struck. It worried her, and now she finally asked, 'How come you saw me come out of the pub?'

'I was drinking at the bar and saw you come in. When you left, I thought I'd better get an early night too.'

'Oh.' Sam realised she hadn't looked in the bar area, and felt ashamed of her suspicions.

'Thanks for what you did.'

Chayse shrugged. 'Couldn't have the skipper missing the boat.'

'No.' Sam tried to laugh, but it didn't come out right. 'There's too much at stake for that.' She took a deep breath. 'How much did you overhear while you were standing at my father's door?'

Chayse smiled. She didn't pull her punches. 'Not much.'

Was he lying? Sam wasn't sure. Thank heaven she hadn't said anything too incriminating. 'Over the last few years, most of the trawler owners have had trouble staying afloat financially,' she glanced at him and added 'no pun intended. Rising fuel costs and longer trawl closures have just about crippled the industry. Dad's already missed a couple of weeks of the season because of this murder case, and if he misses any more repayments on the boat, the bank will repossess it, and my parents' house.'

'So if you don't start making some money for him soon ...'

Sam sighed. 'It would kill Dad to lose the Sea Mistress.' She looked at the road. 'If you go to your backpackers, I can drive myself home from there.'

'To your parents' place?'

'No. I have my own home.' It had been a test of courage, moving in on her own, but over the years she had pushed the parameters of her fear, and knew living alone was the final one. Well, almost final, she grimaced. She'd failed the other important one. And she hadn't wanted to try again.

'You live by yourself?'

'Yes.'

'Then I'm taking you there.' There was a determination in his voice that made Sam look at him again. She stiffened when he continued, 'I don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone tonight.'

He must have sensed her reaction because he smiled grimly and added, 'You can trust me, Sam. You can lock yourself in the house and I'll sleep in the car if you like, but it's too dangerous for you to be there alone.'

She voiced the fear that she hadn't really wanted to give more thought to, but knew had to be faced. 'You're saying it wasn't a random robbery attempt, aren't you.'

'I think someone was either trying to rob you,' his voice was slow and measured, 'or rape you. Or kill you.'

Pain worse than the knife wound sliced through Sam's stomach. Her heartbeat accelerated and beads of sweat formed on her lip. With an immense effort, she forced herself to breathe deeply. Finally she had her body under control again, and she realised she had been staring through the windscreen, but seeing nothing. She shook her head.

'Turn to your left,' she indicated a side street, 'then take the first right, and it's the third house on the right.'

As Chayse pulled into the driveway of a lowset brick home, Sam activated the garage door with a remote control and they drove in. 'Which is the door key?' Chayse asked, taking the keys from the ignition, but a stubborn frown wrinkled Sam's forehead.

'Sam,' he said patiently, 'I'm just going to make sure that no-one is hiding inside waiting to finish what he started tonight.'

Sam had been about to protest that she was perfectly capable of looking after herself when she realised that her hands were trembling at the thought of her attacker lurking somewhere in her home. But she wasn't going to cower in the car either. Gripping the small bag of dressings a nurse had given her, she opened the car door, switched on the garage light, and held her hand out for the keys.

Chayse walked around and gave them to her. But as soon as she opened the door and they stepped up into the rumpus room, he put a restraining hand on her arm. 'Let me go first.'

'I know where the light switches are,' she protested. 'We'll go together.'

A few minutes later, Chayse acknowledged the house was clear. 'Nice house,' he commented as they moved back into the rumpus room with its ice-blue walls, blue-grey carpet and contrasting mellowness of pine furniture.

'Thanks.' She half-fell onto the pine and leather lounge. The local anaesthetic was beginning to wear off, and the pain was increasing as the bruised flesh continued to swell and stretch the stitches. 'Look, there's no need for you to stay here. I've decided to go and sleep on the Sea Mistress.'

His eyebrow rose, a silent query.

'If someone is out to get me, as you've supposed,' she explained, 'it might be to get back at my father. Damaging the Sea Mistress could be something else they'd try.'

'Don't they lock up the marina at night?'

'Yes, but anyone with a dinghy could get there from the river. The yacht owners usually live on board, but they're moored at the other side of the wharf and mightn't hear if someone broke into a trawler.'

'Why do you think someone wants to get back at your father?'

Sam shrugged. Reaction was setting in, and she was suddenly very, very tired. 'I'm only assuming that. I don't know. Just like I don't know why someone framed him for Ewan's murder.'

Ewan. First name. Chayse pounced. 'You knew the guy who was murdered?'

Sam nodded. 'He asked me out a couple of times.'

'Did you go?'

'Not that it's any of your business, but no. He wasn't my type.'

Chayse was tempted to ask what was her type, but quashed the thought. 'How do you know your father was framed?'

'He told me.'

She looked up then, and Chayse knew she had caught the sceptical look on his face.

'And, yes, I believe him.' She pulled herself from the lounge, wincing as her leg bumped against the timber armrest. 'As soon as I've packed my bag, I'll call a taxi and drop you off at the backpackers' on the way.'

'I'm coming with you to the boat.'

'What?'

'I've already paid my hostel account and packed. I can pick up my gear on the way. You can't stay on that boat alone.'

'What are you, Chayse? A reincarnation of Sir Galahad? I don't need protecting!' Even as Sam heard the harshness in her voice, she felt a lessening in the fear that had been pushing deep into her gut. She knew she shouldn't trust him, she knew nothing about him, but at the moment it seemed like a damn good idea.

'Okay,' she acquiesced, 'I'll phone Bill, let him know not to pick me up in the morning.'

Failure wasn't something Stefan Kosanovos tolerated well. He'd come a long way from the scared boy who'd hidden from the taunts of his classmates as they'd pulled at his old-fashioned clothing and teased him about his, to them, unpronounceable name, and called him 'wog' instead. In the back streets of Melbourne he'd discovered a gang of older youths who adopted him as a mascot, and he'd flourished under their protection.

By the time he was twenty he had abandoned all pretence of being a dutiful son and following his father into the family grocery business. Easy money, easy women, and the excitement and danger of beating the law had become his drug of choice. Now, as he approached his fiftieth birthday, he could live expansively on the money he received from his legitimate investments, but he still craved the risk, the gamble, involved in crime.

If it had been any other employee who had failed, punishment would have been swift and unpleasant, but Dominic was the only son of Stuart 'Brickie' Tully, Stefan's closest friend and the only one remaining from the old days. Stuart's first job as a brickie's labourer, let alone the red-brick colour of his hair, had cemented the nickname he'd already earned due to his solid build and loyal, steadfast nature.

Killing the Bretton bitch had seemed the best course of action, but, in retrospect, Stefan felt his angry reaction may have been a little hasty. Her death would have focused police attention back on the Kladium, rather than scare off Tug Bretton. Perhaps the attempt on her life had scared her off. Stefan wasn't overly worried. It was a big ocean. He smiled at the thought as he poured more port into his glass. Boats were known to disappear without a trace.

He turned back to the woman lying in his bed. It had taken years, but Thea had finally become his.

It was turning out to be a very good year.