Deadly Tide. Sandy Curtis
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photograph showed sparse black hair and a bulbous nose that drew attention to the narrow dark eyes and thin lips of a man in his late forties.
'Kosanovos,' Peter continued, 'is one of the lynch pins in the drug trade in Melbourne. About four months ago, his company bought a fishing licence, purchased the Kladium from a Gold Coast fisherman, and hired a Brisbane skipper and deckhand to run it.'
'I guess that deckhand was McKay.' Chayse leaned back and stretched his long legs under the table. He sometimes wondered if Peter had chosen the hard plastic chairs so the discomfort factor would prevent anyone from falling asleep. He was tempted to ask for a coffee, but experience told him the quality would be unpalatably low and the temperature too high to finish a cup before he'd want to get out of the cheerless room. Even the sexy calendar taped to the door of the old-fashioned fridge and the mismatched but colourful coffee mugs on the sink couldn't dispel the cold air of sterility that seemed to emanate from the room below.
'We wanted to get an operative to take his place, but the Kladium's skipper, Karl Folter,' another photo joined the growing pile, 'wasn't hiring anyone locally. But when the boat was released after being impounded, he soon had another deckhand.'
'From Brisbane?'
Peter's bushy eyebrows drew together and he shook his head. 'No. Melbourne. We're looking into his background now.'
'And Folter?' The square-jawed, ruddy-complexioned face, framed by shaggy brown curls, looked innocent enough, but Chayse had long ago learned that even serial killers could be the most charming people imaginable - until you became one of their victims.
'We don't have a lot on him. His wife took out a restraining order against him because he used to belt her up. She'd never press charges, but divorced him seven years ago and went interstate. He was also up on an assault charge after a pub brawl but got off with a good behaviour bond. We did find out one other thing. A few years ago Folter skippered a trawler operating out of Gladstone.'
'Then he'd know the local area.'
Peter nodded. 'Probably the reason Kosanovos picked him.'
'So what are you proposing?'
'According to our boys in Melbourne, Kosanovos has been very active lately. He seems to have extra money, but they can't determine where it's coming from. We need to know if he's using the Kladium for smuggling drugs into the country, and if Bretton is involved. The Kladium's out, but we want you to get a job on Bretton's boat, the Sea Mistress. As a deckhand.'
'If the skipper has bail restrictions, and a broken leg, he won't be working.'
'No, but this man, Bill Marvin, has worked for him for more than twenty years, so he'll probably take over. The boat usually has two deckhands, so we intend you to be one of them.'
Chayse's craving for coffee was getting stronger. But not as strong as his urge to dash the growing pile of photos to the floor and walk out of the soulless little room. He knew Peter wanted him to ask more questions; it was a game the older man played, he with the knowledge, spooning it out in small dollops with Chayse as his dutiful Oliver Twist. The same with the photos. Some supervisors lined them up with identities listed, and explained the entire case while the operative simply looked, took notes and absorbed.
But Chayse was tired of playing games, so he just crossed his arms, and waited.
'The local police have spread the word that they will be keeping a very close eye on the Sea Mistress,' Peter eventually offered, 'and that seems to have killed any interest in the deckhand position.'
'Does Bretton have family?'
'Marcy, his wife. A thirty-year-old son, Brendon, and a twenty-nine-year-old daughter, Samantha, both living in Bundaberg, and a twenty-year-old daughter, Tina, at university in Bundaberg. They all check out clean. Not even a speeding ticket.'
Silence descended as Peter placed the rest of the photographs on the table, and walked over to the bench and turned on the kettle. Chayse knew that he would turn back and offer him a coffee, and the need to end the session and get out became too great. 'Why me?' he asked.
'We had another operative picked out for the job, until he told us he gets seasick,' Peter grimaced as he walked back, 'violently seasick. And as your file shows your hobbies are fishing and boating...'
'I haven't thrown a line in the water for years. And I know nothing about prawns.'
Peter smiled and inclined his head towards the processing room below. 'Max is going to teach you all he knows. You have twenty-four hours. Starting at four in the morning.'
With a barely restrained sigh of relief, Chayse levered his tall frame out of the chair and walked to the door. The knob was cold in his hand as Peter's voice, soft with underlying meaning, asked, 'Chayse, are you ... up to this?'
His knuckles whitened under the pressure of his grip, but Chayse didn't reply.
'That case in Sydney two months ago,' Peter persisted, 'I heard you got personally involved, and it ended badly.'
'Is that why you've had me working with the spooks since I got back?'
'Everyone does surveillance when there's no specific job for them, you know that.'
Chayse nodded. 'I'm fine.'
It was a lie, but he wasn't sure who he was lying to.
Samantha Bretton tried to control her anger.
'I can handle it, Dad.' She looked down at her father as he struggled to rise from the living room chair. His crutch slipped as he balanced on one leg, and Sam ignored his frustrated curse. She wanted to pick it up for him, but knew that would only emphasise his current incapacity. And fuel his temper. 'I know trawling is a lot different to skippering a catamaran, but you have to concede the Lady Musgrave is one big cat.'
'She's a bloody tourist boat. All you have to do is sail out to the island, nursemaid the tourists, then bring them back. That's hardly the same as skippering a trawler for a couple of months.'
'I've skippered the Sea Mistress before.' It was hard to keep calm when he did this to her. She knew he was only being protective - no, amend that - over-protective, but it was time he recognised her abilities. And in the present circumstances he really didn't have much choice. 'I have my ticket. Bill has his Master Fisherman's Licence.' She kept her tone reasonable. 'We'll get a deckhand to replace Eddie, and -'
'No way!' If the plaster cast on his leg hadn't prevented it, Tug Bretton would have stomped over to his daughter and shaken her. There was no way she was going to get into that situation again. 'I'll hire another skipper.'
'You can't afford to, Dad, and you know it.' Sam felt her patience snap. 'You've lost two weeks already. If you miss any more of the season you'll lose the Sea Mistress as well. The bank will repossess her, and the house. I won't stand by and watch that happen when I'm capable of preventing it. Don't you think Mum has enough to worry about with you being arrested for murder?'
'You know I didn't kill him, Sam!'
'Then tell the police why you were on the Kladium.'
'I can't do that.'
'Yes, you can. You've been set up.' Sam watched her father's rigid jaw, and silently cursed his stubbornness. 'And by not saying anything to the police you look guilty. Dad, I'll go to the police myself if you don't.'
'You can't. It would kill your mother.'
The pain in her father's eyes dissolved Sam's anger. 'She doesn't have to know, Dad. The police can keep it quiet.'
'Not in this town.'
'Mum hasn't found out yet.'
'Only five of us knew, Sam, and we weren't likely to say anything.'
'I'll take the risk.' Tears of frustration moistened her eyes. 'I don't want to see you go to jail.'
'Okay. You can skipper the Sea Mistress.' Defeat lowered his voice.