Eden Legacy (35 page)

Option two, then.

He stood up, looked around. There was a trawler on the western horizon and a pirogue far to his south. But that was all. The
Yvette
was low on fuel, but there was a decent southerly. He took off his wetsuit, unfurled the mainsail, sailed out to deeper water. He retrieved the boathouse keys from Boris, bled the air from his buoyancycontrol device and scuba tank, packed a weight-belt with as much lead as it would take and strapped it around his waist. Then he grabbed him around his chest, hoisted him up and dumped him over the side, consigning him to the deeps.

He watched the bubble trail until it had died away, and then a little while longer. If this was revenge, it certainly tasted sour. He wanted no more of it. He sailed on a little way, then weighted down Boris’s bag and dumped it too. When he picked up the laptop case, it made him wonder what the Nergadzes would do about
this. Nothing, he suspected. But that was Sandro’s decision to make, not Knox’s. He held the case out over the water and let it drop. Then he took his seat at the stern, brought the
Yvette
around, and headed back to shore.

Rebecca was in no state to drive, so Andriama took the wheel of her Toyota, with one of his men following in a police car. Everything seemed out of sync to her, numb and surreal. She pressed her hands between her knees and remembered Pierre calling just a week ago, her certainty that she’d get both Adam and Emilia back alive, that force of will would be enough.

But the world didn’t work that way.

It was late afternoon when they reached Tsiandamba. Villagers lined the route, staring at Rebecca with mournful expressions that couldn’t quite disguise their underlying curiosity and excitement. They reached a whitewashed
chapel, the largest and coolest building in the village. Rebecca’s legs were so unsteady that Andriama had to help her out of the Toyota, and she kept her hand on his shoulder as they walked together into the tall, cool, dark interior. After the bright sunshine, she had to blink to adjust her eyes. To her right, a vast wooden crucifix was hanging on twin steel chains from the roof-beams above the altar. Two oblique arches of afternoon sunshine fell through narrow frosted-glass side-windows on to the red-tiled floor. To her left, along the rear wall, benches had been pushed together to form a low table, and lying upon it was the unmistakable form of a human body covered by a white altar cloth. A bowl of aromatic petals had been set beneath it, and at each corner, an incense stick burned in a glass jar.

Andriama walked across to lift the altar cloth and peer beneath. He turned to her and nodded sadly.

She took a deep breath. ‘Who?’ she asked.

‘Your father.’ He laid the cloth back down.

She walked forward, stumbling a little over the edge of some matting. Andriama caught her, tried half-heartedly to hold her back, but she pushed past him. Now that she knew the worst, her hands were strangely steady. She pulled the altar cloth down to his shoulders, and there he was, instantly recognisable despite the eleven years, despite his bloated appearance, the way his body arched slightly, as if he’d been electrocuted, but in reality merely
bowed by his constricting wetsuit. His face and throat had been torn open in places, but elsewhere his complexion was pale, with tints of blue, green and yellow that suggested he’d been dead for days.

A cloying smell rose to her nostrils, sea-water and the onset of decay, distinctive more than unpleasant or overpowering, mitigated by the perfume of the incense and flowers. A drop of water splashed down, creating a grey circle on the white altar cloth that quickly grew almost translucent. It was only then that she realised she was crying. Andriama laid his hand gently upon her back. She stepped away from his false comfort, around to her father’s other side, pulled the cloth down to his waist. His arms were down by his side, a GPS unit on his right wrist, a diver’s watch on his left, along with what looked like the strap for a camera, only there was no camera attached. But what took her breath away was the bloodencrusted puncture wounds in the fabric of his wetsuit. They were all over his torso, and there were two on his right forearm as well, as though he’d been trying to defend himself from a furious assault. And they weren’t shark bites, or coral tears, or any other such natural phenomenon. They were too clean and straight to have been made by anything other than a sharp knife.

Her left leg gave way beneath her. Andriama caught her and helped her to an empty pew. A stooped and greyhaired priest, Latin American from the look of him, pulled
the altar cloth back over her father then came and sat on her other side. He took her hand and pressed it. His fingers were dark, gnarled and hairy, she noticed, his nails torn and dirty with soil. A man, like her father, who’d practised his religion in hard work. ‘Who found him?’ she asked.

‘He was on the reef. Everyone saw him together.’

‘I promised a reward.’

He hushed her. ‘This is no time for that.’

‘We must take his body to Tulear,’ murmured Andriama from her other side. ‘Cause of death, you understand.’

‘We know the cause of death,’ said Rebecca. ‘Didn’t you see? Someone butchered him with a knife.’

‘With respect, Rebecca, the sea can often make an accident look like—’

‘He was stabbed to death,’ stated Rebecca. ‘You know it. I know it.’ Andriama’s eyes dropped; he looked away. She sensed immediately that he was holding something back. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

Andriama gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘There has been an incident,’ he acknowledged reluctantly. ‘In Morombe.’

A tiny shiver ran through Rebecca. Morombe was where Daniel had come down from. ‘What kind of incident?’

‘A serious one. We found two bodies.’

‘Bodies? You mean they were killed?’

Andriama nodded. ‘We thought at first that it was just
an argument that had got out of control. They were gun dealers; they’d shot each other. It made a certain sense. But one of them had been stabbed too; and there was no trace of a knife at the scene. And we’ve since learned that they were supposed to be meeting a foreigner.’

Rebecca nodded. ‘And you think their deaths are connected to my father’s?’

‘Murder is very rare in Madagascar,’ said Andriama. ‘Stabbing is very rare. To have two such incidents so close in time and place, both involving foreigners … But it is still only a possibility. Coincidences happen. We don’t even know for sure yet that your father was murdered.’

She gave an expressive snort, glared up at him; but this time he met her gaze, and it was Rebecca who looked down. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said.

He touched her arm. ‘If your father was murdered, we will get his killer. I swear this to you.’

‘Thank you.’ She glanced at where he lay. ‘May I have a minute alone?’

‘Of course.’

Both men left together. She listened to their fading footsteps. When they were gone, when the door had swung softly closed behind them, she stood and walked back over to her father. She pulled down the altar cloth once more, removed and then pocketed the GPS unit from around her father’s wrist. Then she kissed his forehead
and made her pledges to him, and laid the cloth reverently back down.

It was dusk by the time Knox moored the
Yvette
and waded ashore. He heard the engine then saw a white 4x4 approaching along the track, Rebecca at the wheel. He hurried up to Eden to greet her, but the moment he saw how pale she was, how raw her eyes, he knew she’d had bad news. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, taking her in his arms. She wept into his shoulder, as though she’d been holding her grief back during her drive, but now could let it out. ‘Both of them?’ he asked.

‘My father.’

‘What happened? Was it the kidnappers?’

‘No. That was just a scam. Nothing but a scam organised by that fuck Mustafa and his sons. They never even had him or Emilia. He’s been dead several days at least.’

‘I’m so sorry, Rebecca.’

‘He wasn’t just dead,’ she told him. ‘He was
murdered.
And I’m going to find out who did it.’ She pushed herself free of him, her expression stern and resolved. ‘So I want the truth. Who are you? What are you doing here? No more equivocation; no more half-truths. I want to know everything.’

He nodded, buying a moment to think this through. He’d have loved to show her the basement, give her Emilia’s report to read; but then he’d have to explain how the shelves had been pulled over, and that would inevitably lead to Boris, and this wasn’t the time for that. He therefore gave her the bowdlerised version instead, about how he worked for a company called MGS who’d been hired by Ricky Cheung for a salvage a little further north, and how Emilia had invited them on afterwards for another salvage, ostensibly the
Winterton
but in truth a Chinese treasure ship. He told her of the email from the Landseer Trust telling him that Adam and Emilia had disappeared, and how he’d been so worried for them that he’d come straight down here to check it out.

‘Why didn’t you just tell me all this that first night?’

‘Because your sister made us all swear not to. She was beyond adamant that if we told anyone at all, we’d be out.’

‘I’m not anyone.’

‘I’m sorry, Rebecca. But she made a special point of warning us not to tell you.’

‘Me?’ Her cheeks coloured. ‘Why me?’

‘I don’t know, not for sure. But you’re a celebrity, and people act like idiots when celebrities are involved. I think she was scared that one of us might approach you maybe, or shoot our mouths off; and that you’d hold it against her. She was terrified of doing anything to spook you, I
know that much. She told me she’d got in touch with you when she was thinking of coming over, hoping to see you; but you put her off.’

Rebecca buried her face in her hands. ‘What have I done?’ she wept.

He took half a step towards her. ‘I was going to tell you all this two nights ago, I swear I was; but you threw me out before I could, and then you headed off to Tulear. And I was trying to broach it last night when your partner showed up.’

Rebecca wiped her eyes dry with her thumb and forefinger, then assumed a stern expression as though there’d be time for mourning ahead, but right now she had work to do. ‘My father was in a wetsuit,’ she told him, fishing a GPS unit from her pocket. ‘He was also wearing this. It logged his movements the day he and Emilia disappeared. As far as I can tell, he headed out to sea around seven-thirty that morning. At eight-forty the connection was dropped. The GPS wasn’t turned off, mind; it just lost coverage.’

‘He went underwater,’ said Knox.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘And this tells us exactly where.’

Knox nodded. ‘We’ll go out first thing tomorrow.’

‘No,’ said Rebecca. ‘I want to go now.’

‘It’s too dark, Rebecca. The sea’s getting up. Seriously, if we wait until—’

She held up the GPS. ‘This is where my father was
murdered. This is where my sister went missing. Maybe this is where I’ll find information to help me get her back alive. Do you really think I’m going to sleep on it?’

He sighed, weary from his day; but he knew she was right. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I need to get some more fuel.’

‘And I need dive-gear.’

He looked at her in alarm. He hadn’t realised she meant to go that far. ‘Have you been night-diving before?’ he asked.

‘Sure. Several times.’

‘By yourself? On a reef? In a rough sea? With unfamiliar equipment?’

‘I’m doing this. Don’t try to stop me.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ he told her. ‘If anyone’s going diving, it’s me. It’s what I do for a living, remember. And all my gear’s already on board.’

‘I can’t ask you to do that.’

‘You’re not asking me. I’m volunteering. And that’s the end of it. Okay?’

Her eyes watered again. She reached out and touched his arm. ‘I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you,’ she said. ‘Not just for this. For everything.’

He was about to tell her there was no need for thanks when he heard noise along the track, looked up to see headlights approaching, a pickup weaving erratically towards them, pulling to a stop. Pierre threw open his door and almost tripped over his seat-belt in his haste
to get out. ‘Becca!’ he sobbed. ‘I hear terrible news. Is it true? Have they found your father?’

‘It’s true.’

He gave a low wail, enfolded her in a hug. ‘I can’t believe it. The best of men. The very best of men. And your poor sister!’

‘Emilia isn’t dead yet,’ said Rebecca tightly. ‘We’re going to look for her now.’

‘How do you mean? In the forest?’

She shook her head, showed him the GPS. He gave it the baffled look of someone who refused even to engage with modern technology, so Rebecca talked him through how it had logged her father’s movements on his final day.

‘I come with you,’ he said. ‘I help you look.’

‘Forget it,’ said Rebecca. ‘You’ve been drinking.’

‘One glass, that’s all. Thirty-four years I know your father. Thirty-four years! You expect me to stay here and do nothing? Besides, I know your father’s boat. I know our reefs. Even at night, I know them.’

She glanced at Knox. He shrugged to let her know it was her call either way. ‘Fine,’ she sighed. They fetched the fuel, waded out. Knox released them from their mooring and took the wheel to steer them through the pass, Rebecca beside him plotting the GPS co-ordinates on the Eden chart.

‘So this is where we’re headed, yes?’ asked Pierre.

‘Yes.’

He frowned and opened his mouth as if to say something; but he checked himself and gave his earlobe a little tug, went outside.

Knox glanced at Rebecca. ‘What was
that
about?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know.’ She was silent a few moments, then asked: ‘You said my father arranged the salvage licences, right? Do you know who with?’

‘The Culture Ministry, I think. Though don’t hold me to that.’

‘But someone in central government, right? Not some local guy.’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘My father and sister both hated Antananarivo. They never went there if they could avoid it.’