The Delta Chain (2 page)

The Everglades incident was the last
straw.

‘
I’m on it.’ The term “relocation” was,
in his view, an understatement, but that was typical of Asquith and
his Nexus heavies.

Asquith wouldn’t allow anything to compromise
the operation and this had the potential to escalate into a
crisis.

And one thing Renshaw knew for certain. The
Nexus group wouldn’t allow a single thing to even look like
exposing the operation.

Calmly and quietly they’d move in at
lightning speed, with devastating results for anyone who threatened
their agenda.

PART ONE

ORIGIN UNKNOWN

It was a sight that would haunt the
fisherman's nightmares for the rest of his life.

Earlier in the afternoon he'd caught a seven
pound flathead. He'd yelled triumphantly as he reeled it in, the
nylon line with its hooked prey dancing in the air above the
white-capped breakers. Spattered rays of sunlight dotted the bay,
finding holes in the heavy cloud.

Now it was twilight and the sun was sinking
over the sprawling coastal town of Northern Rocks. An icy wind had
sprung up from the south and it snapped at him. Hot days and sudden
temperature changes in the early evening were typical at this time
of the year, along the lower half of Australia’s Queensland
coast.

Time to pack it in. It had been a good
afternoon but as he always did, Costas Yannous had stayed too long.
His arms ached and he shivered now at the unexpected force of the
southerly. The seascape had taken on a grim countenance, the waters
choppy and dark.

The powerful pull on the line caught him by
surprise. It was huge - much larger than the seven pounder, and he
wanted it. But he cursed out loud the fact he'd hooked this one so
late. He was tired and a fish this size would fight like hell.

He braced himself, feet planted firmly in wet
sand. Before long Costas was puzzling over the fact this creature
seemed to be still – it was pushed and pulled by the current, it
was heavy, but it wasn’t fighting with fear and the instinct for
survival.

What was it? A dead fish? Maybe. Or was this
the oldest trick in the book - a log or a piece of junk that could
fool even the most experienced fisher? He applied all his muscle,
reeled and reeled - felt some give, some movement - and he began to
move forward into the water, closing the distance. Triumph turned
to disappointment as he realised it was merely flotsam, a dark
patch floating in the inky darkness. But so damn heavy. If there'd
been any resistance it might well have snapped his line. What was
it?

He would get his hook free and then head home
quickly, dry off, warm up. He'd barely left himself enough time to
get to Barbara's for dinner. He'd had some good, small catches
today. And that beautiful seven pounder. He couldn't complain.

Water swirled around his kneecaps, clumps of
seaweed brushing against his boots, and then there was a sudden,
large swell, breaking with a roar as rain began spitting. The wave
crashed into him and with it the floating dark patch was thrust
forward violently, causing the length of the fishing line to go
slack. Costas realised, in that instant and with the cold mental
slap of shock, that it was the dead weight of a human body. Cold
human flesh collided with him.

He lost his balance and was flung back, the
rod slipping from his grip. He landed on his back in the water, the
weight of the body on top of him, and he fought to push himself
back to his feet. Although his eyes hadn't fully focused he knew
instinctively it was the naked corpse of a woman. Her limbs became
entangled with his.

The rain began beating harder, coming down in
diagonal sheets. Costas tried to push the corpse away.

Another wave crashed over them. The corpse's
face was before him now, bloated and grotesque, the skin ashen
white. Sightless eyes stared right through him, the facial features
and parts of the skull ravaged by scavengers of the deep.

Costas Yannous cried out in pure terror. Fear
pierced his spine like an ice pick. For just that moment in time he
had never felt so afraid, never felt so utterly alone as he stared
into those lifeless eyes.

The boys were an unruly bunch, undisciplined
and hyperactive. There was a lot of raw, natural talent there that
needed to be developed. It was going to be a hell of a challenge to
coach them, to mould them into a team but that was the very thing
that whetted Adam Bennett's appetite.

The seven boys were aged fourteen or
thereabouts, talking all at once, a few of them jostling each
other. ‘I said I wanted your undivided attention!’ Adam's voice cut
through the babble. They fell silent, all eyes focusing on him.

They liked Adam, responded to his open yet
authoritative manner. What communicated itself most to them was his
passion for the game.

‘Anyone here got something else they'd rather
be doing?’

Some shrugging and a few mumbles. ‘What about
you, Cain?’

He was a solidly built, freckle-faced kid.
‘No. `Course not.’

‘Can we get on with training?’ whined a
restless bundle of energy named David.

We'll get on with it when I know you guys are
as committed to this game, to this team, as though you were playing
for the N.B.A. So tell me: are you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sure.’

‘Not loud enough,’ Adam said, ‘and I don't
hear all of you. Together, as a team. Who are we?’

‘The Northern Rocks Warriors,’ they shouted
back, more enthusiastic now.

‘Still not loud enough. Are you committed to
this team?’

‘Yeahhhh!’ they shouted back in unison.

Adam began to move about in front of them,
dribbling his ball back and forth. ‘Anyone not paying attention or
mucking about will be out of the team. Got that? Out. I’m not here
to waste my time. You guys have some talent but you have a long,
long way to go. And you're up against some harsh competition in
this division. Some of the teams have been together two or three
years and they're good.’

‘We can beat ‘em,’ said Joey Cail. He was the
curly-haired boy whom Adam had noted earlier was particularly
clumsy with the ball.

‘No you can’t. Not yet. But if you listen
hard, train hard, work hard then there's no reason you can't go all
the way to the grand final. Got that?’

Nods and grunts in reply.

‘First up we’re going to practice our ball
handling skills. To the far side of the court and back again,
dribbling all the way. Let’s go.’

They were halfway across, following Adam’s
lead, when the stadium supervisor came running over. ‘Adam. Phone
call,’ said Artie Gold. Artie was like an uncle to anyone who'd
ever played the game in his district.

‘Can you take a message, Artie?’ Adam called
back.

‘It's the station dispatcher. Said it’s
urgent.’

Damn, thought Adam. He told the boys to
continue the practice run four more times, then to take a short
break. He headed over to the stadium office.

By the time Artie Gold returned to his
office, Adam was slamming the receiver back onto its hook. ‘Sorry,
mate,’ Adam said, ‘I've got no right slamming down your phone.’

‘What is it, Adam?’

‘A drowning.’

Artie's hand came to rest on his young
friend’s shoulder. ‘Stay calm, I know it’s frustrating. I'll take
over this session for you. The lads will be fine.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Go do your job. The boys won’t mind. They
like the fact their coach is a police detective. They think it's
cool.’ Artie had once quipped that with his lanky frame and
well-set features, Adam could have passed as a poster boy for the
professional leagues.

‘They think it's all so easy when they're
fourteen,’ Adam said, heading for the door.

Artie smiled after him. ‘So did you, Adam. I
remember it well - so did you.’

The high beam from the patrol car spread its
light across the strip of beach where Costas had discovered the
corpse. The coroner was already there with the two police
constables who'd been first officers on the scene.

Adam parked his Magna on the bluff beside the
patrol car and the coroner’s van. He walked briskly down to the
others on the beach. The wind was strong and the rain, heavy just
minutes before, had slowed to a steady drizzle.

‘Not the best night to be called out to the
beach,’ said Constable John Harrison, glancing up at Adam as he
packed up the photographic gear. ‘That's the trouble with corpses,
they’ve got lousy timing.’

Adam wasn’t in the mood for their usual
banter. ‘What have we got?’

‘Female. Late teens,’ said Harrison, who’d
shown a keen interest in advancing to detective work. ‘I get the
impression Markham thinks there may be more to this than just a
drowning.’

Adam had known the coroner, Brian Markham,
for many years. Fiftyish, with silver-streaked hair and broad
shoulders, he was a policeman who’d always struck Adam as having a
military air about him. Adam approached him. ‘Suspicious?’

Markham had been squatting beside the body,
water lapping at his feet, the constant roar of the waves filling
his ears. ‘Can’t be certain ‘til I'm back at the lab, but this
young woman has multiple bruising on the knuckles of her hands and
puncture marks to the veins on both arms. It’s possible there's
more to this than an innocent drowning accident.’

‘If that’s the case then it’s not much of a
crime scene.’ It was a deliberate understatement from Adam.

‘No.’ Markham straightened up, removing
rubber gloves, and he cocked his head toward Harrison. ‘Nothing
more I can ascertain here, constable. Let’s get this one to the
morgue.’

The scene of a crime - or a suspected crime -
was the lynchpin of most successful investigations. It was where
bloodstains, hair and clothing fibres and other trace elements were
collected for analysis. It was always a disadvantage if a body was
discovered after it had lain outdoors for more than a few hours,
particularly in adverse weather conditions. Adam knew the chance of
finding those trace elements was reduced. In this case - a body
washed from the ocean in a storm - there was no chance.

‘Don't like the look of this,’ Markham said
to Adam as the corpse was zipped into a body bag. ‘Naked body. No
rings or earrings. It's as though the girl, or someone connected
with her, didn’t want us to have any means of I.D. I'd say she’s
been in the water around twenty four hours, but of course I'll know
more after the autopsy. Any reports of a missing girl yesterday or
today?’ The question was directed to both Adam and Harrison.

‘No,’ Adam said.

‘Don't like the look of it,’ Markham
repeated.

After the coroner had driven off, Adam and
the two constables walked back to their cars. Harrison filled Adam
in on their arrival at the crime scene. They’d taken details from
the fisherman, who’d been extremely cold and in a distressed state,
then sent him home. Costas Yannous had agreed to come by the
station the following morning to give a formal statement.

‘Nothing more we can do tonight,’ Adam said.
‘We'll see what the autopsy reveals in the morning. When you get
in, John, run a check through all the previous missing persons
lists for anyone who fits this girl’s description. If there’s
anything relevant, put it on my desk. And get hold of a national,
updated list of anyone reported missing in the last few hours.

‘Consider it done. The girl’s most likely an
out-of- towner anyway. If she was local surely someone would've
raised the alarm by now.’

‘Maybe. I'll see you in the morning, John.’
Adam thought that Harrison, a meticulous procedure man, was
sometimes naive when it came to matters concerning people’s habits.
The simple fact was that this girl, aged late teens, could have
lived alone and no-one might yet be aware she was missing. Or
perhaps she lived with parents who were used to her taking off for
days at a time, crashing at friends places, going from work to
social outing to work again, forgetting to make contact. It wasn’t
unusual.

No point returning to the stadium. The boys
would’ve finished their training and left by now. Adam drove home.
The rainstorm had passed and the wind had died, leaving an
unnatural stillness to the night air. A neon glare touched the wet
streets and the car radio played a haunting Evanescence track about
loss.

He visualised the face of a drowning girl,
but it wasn’t the face of the girl who’d been discovered tonight.
It was another face from another time - a face he remembered well.
The pang of an old despair returned, like a ghost swept in by the
earlier storm. He made an effort to break his thoughts free, and
return them to the current case.

In doing so Adam felt an odd shiver pass
through him as he remembered Brian Markham's words: It’s as though
the girl, or someone connected with her, didn't want us to have any
means of identification.

Barbara Cail smiled at her son as he came
bounding in the front door. ‘Hi, Joey.’

‘Anything to eat yet, Mum?’ he called out,
throwing his bag down and dribbling his ball across the living
room. He was always hyped up when he arrived home from one of his
basketball practices. One of his mates’ mothers had dropped him off
tonight.

‘Not in the house, Joey. If you want to play
with that thing take it outside.’ She was certain she said the same
thing every time he came home lately.

He dribbled the ball through to his room
before stopping. ‘So when’s dinner?’