Stars Over the Southern Ocean Read online

  It would give her such pleasure to prove that self-important doctor wrong, if she could. She would make it her business to live her life to the full, to waste not even a second in the futility of despair and regret.

  ‘I am not afraid,’ she told the quiet room.

  It was true. The end would come eventually, as it did to everybody; in the meantime she would be happy. She would live.

  She heated up some soup and ate it with a buttered slice from the French loaf. The heat from the soup slid slowly through her.

  It had been quite a day; not surprising she was feeling tired. She supposed she should try to get hold of Charlotte and Gregory to let them know she was home again, but for the moment felt too weary to be bothered. The news, such as it was, could wait until morning.

  Charlotte, in any case, was likely to be out as she so often was; Hector’s career seemed to require an extraordinary level of social activity. Luckily Charlotte enjoyed such things; the prospect would have filled Marina with horror, had she been the one involved. As for Gregory … Who knew what he might be up to in his scented paradise of palm trees and islands, of beautiful women and a lot less than beautiful business partners? From the way he’d described them, they sounded like a pair of hoods, but she’ll-be-right Gregory had laughed at her concerns.

  ‘They’re businessmen, Ma, that’s all. We’ll make a killing here.’

  An unfortunate choice of phrase, but he knew them and she didn’t. She told herself to stop worrying. He was an adult, a grown man in his body if not always in his head, and she told herself with uncertain confidence that he must—surely?—know what he was doing. There wasn’t a lot she could do about it, in any case; Gregory would follow his own path, as he always had.

  She showered her weary body and went to bed. She lay for a minute, listening to the waves. Then sleep came.

  CHAPTER 2

  He hadn’t known it at the time, but Greg’s troubles had really begun back in March, at the moment of his greatest triumph, when he and Brendon Bassett had cleared a cool hundred k each from the holiday chalet development at Beauty Point, in Tasmania’s north. Success like that gave Greg overwhelming self-confidence, a belief there was nothing he could not do.

  A week later, euphoria still running like alcohol through his veins, he’d met Leyland Bruce, a businessman with Asian connections, who’d persuaded him that Thailand was the place to go.

  ‘Some of its offshore islands are simply begging for resort development,’ Leyland had said. ‘They’re dirt cheap at the moment but they won’t be for long.’

  Developing a resort on a distant tropical island had appealed to Greg’s romantic nature so a week later he’d flown to Bangkok where he had a meeting with Graham Spears, a partner in an international accounting practice.

  Spears confirmed what Leyland had said; there were opportunities for significant profit in resort development, particularly on the offshore islands in the Andaman Sea.

  ‘There’s been little development so far but that will change. Now’s the time to get in, before the rush.’

  It so happened, Spears said, that he had a client wishing to dispose of the development rights he held over one of the islands.

  ‘If it’s such a good investment, why is he anxious to sell?’

  ‘Malaysian citizen. Malaysian tax problems. Needs to raise money fast.’

  They met; they agreed on a price. For a further fifty thousand ringgit, about fifteen thousand Australian dollars, the Malaysian undertook to have his interest in the proposed development transferred to Greg with government approval. The lease stipulated that development must begin within two months of its being approved, with completion within another twelve.

  ‘Is that usual?’

  ‘Standard practice,’ Spears said. ‘But there is one thing you need to know, and it’s important. Don’t attempt the development by yourself. It is essential to have one or preferably two Thai partners, men who have contacts with contractors and government officials. Without that, nothing will ever be done.’

  ‘I don’t know any Thai businessmen.’

  ‘I’m sure the two men who were going to help my Malaysian client will be happy to work with you, now he’s out of the running. I can speak to them, if you like. A word of warning, though. They come across as utterly charming, but they are hard men, very hard. Best to bear that in mind when you deal with them.’

  Mongkut and Somchai were indeed charming men. They agreed on terms very quickly. In return for a forty per cent interest in the resort, they would arrange and oversee the development. They foresaw no problem with the completion dates. Since Greg was putting up the development rights, he would of course pay nothing in cash. Only in the event of significant cost overruns would a contribution be needed and that, they assured him, was extremely unlikely to happen.

  Budgets and cash-flow statements were prepared. A 200-million-baht development translated to a nine-million-dollar project that they confidently expected would generate recurrent annual profits of two million dollars, sixty per cent of which would be Greg’s.

  Over a million bucks a year? No wonder he felt like dancing!

  By the beginning of October, the first phase of the Nirvana development, as he had named it, had been completed ahead of schedule. There had been no significant snags. The success of the Beauty Point venture had made Greg feel he owned the world; now it was as though he held a controlling stake in the universe.

  He decided to hold a party to celebrate.

  There would be music and plenty to eat and drink. In attendance would be the usual suspects: pretty boys and prettier girls, all out for a good time provided someone else was paying; young women whom Greg categorised as those who would and those who might; publicity agents and travel agents; contractors with their wives; contractors with other men’s wives; public officials: all out for a good time and for anything in the way of business or mementos they might be able to pick up along the way.

  It was heading for midnight.

  Greg was having a great time, a truly great time. In the glassed-in room, the marijuana smoke was thick enough to cut. Elsabe, a visitor from Cape Town, was missing half her top but, undeterred, was dancing what might have been a tango with an invisible partner in the corner by the door. Chailai, a beautiful twenty-year-old from Krabi, was singing along with a local hit tune being broadcast on the radio at maximum decibels and sung by a top Bangkok singer, her voice high-pitched and nasal yet strangely compelling and in keeping with the atmosphere of the crowded room. Beyond the verandah, on the other side of the glass screen, coconut palms lined the beach, leaning their tousled heads towards the sea while, a mile or two across the water, the mangrove swamps along the mainland shore were dark.

  Singing and laughter and music, dope and booze: that was the way to live, Greg thought, with a beautiful Thai girl on each arm, in a never-ending party where coke and hash were king and there were no tomorrows.

  It was a happy world. Even his two business partners were grooving along, Mongkut and Somchai in the loudest of Hawaiian shirts, glasses in hand and laughing as they toasted each other and Greg across the room. Their bodyguard Chung, a behemoth of a man who would have put Goliath to shame, would not be far away. The accountant in Bangkok had warned him they were hard men but Greg had no doubt how valuable they’d been in helping him realise his dream of building this resort, dedicated to love and freedom, off the south Thailand coast. It was early days, of course, with only the first phase completed, but they had stuck to the letter of their agreement, putting up the finance without a quibble as the bills fell due, and they had the contacts in the construction and tourist industries. To say nothing of their influence with government officials whose co-operation was essential in expediting the development.

  A beautiful resort for beautiful people.

  They would all profit in the end, profit enormously, because the world—surely?—was crying out for a place where all things were permitted and to which people could retreat to recupera
te from the cares of their daily existence.

  He hugged his two smiling companions, squeezing them tightly against him before letting them go. They went off laughing while he strolled over to the bar and helped himself to another drink before turning to look at the party unfolding like a bunch of flowers around him.

  All was good, so very, very good, in Gregory Trevelyan’s world.

  It was there at the bar that Mongkut and Somchai found him.

  ‘We need a word,’ Mongkut said.

  ‘A brief word,’ Somchai said.

  They were smiling agreeably and he had no inkling of trouble.

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  He waited for them to say what was on their minds but they did not.

  ‘Somewhere private?’ Somchai said.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll go out on the verandah.’

  In the corner of the room the South African girl, lost in her dope-filled universe, was still dancing with her imaginary partner. The two Thai men pushed past her, Greg following, and went onto the verandah. Bodyguard Chung came with them. On the other side of the screen bugs, drawn by the light, banged and rattled against the mesh. Along the shore below the house, fronds of the coconut trees clattered in the breeze but here, on the verandah, all was still, the air suddenly serious, and Greg had the first stomach-twitch that told him things were not as they should be.

  He looked from one of his partners to the other. ‘So? What do you want to talk about?’

  Mongkut’s smile was enough to chill anyone’s blood. ‘Money,’ he said. ‘We want to talk about money.’

  Greg attempted his own version of a warm smile. ‘I guess we’re all interested in that.’

  ‘We have so far laid out nine million baht,’ Mongkut said.

  ‘That is four hundred thousand dollars Australian,’ Somchai said.

  A cold hand squeezed Greg’s gut. Could it really be as much as that? But he was an expert in cheery smiles and he produced one now. ‘That sounds about right.’

  ‘To raise that sort of money we’ve had to call in favours. And do a few favours ourselves,’ Somchai said.

  ‘The cost of bringing materials out to the island,’ Mongkut said. ‘Very high.’

  ‘And equipment,’ Somchai said.

  ‘Paying off officials,’ Mongkut said.

  ‘Cost overruns have been higher than anticipated,’ Somchai said.

  ‘Much, much higher,’ Mongkut said.

  ‘So, regrettably, we have to ask you for a contribution after all,’ Somchai said.

  ‘In accordance with our agreement,’ Mongkut said.

  Collywobbles in the gut; cheery smile on the lips. ‘How much?’

  ‘Not so much,’ Somchai said.

  ‘Quarter of a million should cover it,’ Mongkut said.

  ‘Quarter of a million baht?’

  ‘Dollars.’

  Dear God …

  Greg felt trapped in a nightmare. ‘I’ll need a day or two to organise it,’ he said.

  ‘We understand,’ Somchai said.

  ‘How many days, exactly?’ Mongkut said.

  ‘Very soon,’ Greg said.

  ‘That is good. Truly wonderful. But when, exactly?’

  Greg felt himself being pushed into a corner. ‘As I said. Very soon.’

  ‘We are not greedy men,’ Mongkut said. ‘We would not want you to think that. As you know, the total cost of the development will be much more. Well over one million Australian. Million and a half, maybe.’

  A lot more than the figures in the budget. A lot more than Greg had been expecting.

  ‘There are greedy people in government,’ Somchai said, ‘but we need to pay them, or nothing will happen.’ He gave Greg a sad smile. ‘Think of it as a gesture of good faith.’

  Smiles all round, but their eyes were not smiling and Greg had a sour taste in his mouth.

  ‘I’ll get onto it first thing in the morning,’ he said.

  ‘That is truly wonderful,’ Mongkut said. ‘Then tomorrow you can let us know when we can expect the money?’

  Still smiling, still agreeable, but still the eyes were not smiling.

  Greg swallowed. ‘Sure,’ he said.

  The atmosphere changed at once. Somchai slapped him on the back.

  ‘That is truly wonderful,’ Mongkut repeated.

  They went back to the party. But for Greg the fun had gone out of the evening. One of the Thai girls wanted to play games with him after the party ended but he wasn’t in the mood and wouldn’t oblige her, so eventually she shrugged her smooth shoulders and went off with someone else.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was the first day of what promised to be a busy week and Tamsyn, as usual, was up before six in the apartment she had bought overlooking the Derwent River.

  It had cost her a bomb, with a big mortgage to go with it, but she had no regrets. The apartment had two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom—handy for when she had guests—and a living room with what was unquestionably the finest view in Hobart. It was part of a building dating back to the convict days, constructed from massive blocks of stone. It had stood undeterred by storm or time for over a century and a half and looked as though it would stand there forever, rooted to the island of whose geology it might have been an integral part.

  She’d had the interior renovated while keeping its historical character, adding a new bathroom and an ultra-modern kitchen with all the gadgets: it was a great place to come home to in the evenings. A good place to entertain, too, something she did regularly and well.

  She was tall and slender, with her mother’s bone structure and her father’s black hair and blue eyes. She was forty-three years old, unmarried and likely to remain so. Tragedy had struck her early. For ten years it had blighted her life; then, thanks to what she still thought of as a miracle, she had finally recovered. She’d had lovers since then and hoped, without thinking too much about it, there’d be others in the years ahead. She considered herself a lucky person: a home that she loved in a town that she loved and a job that she loved best of all. Every morning when she left the house it was with a feeling of excitement.

  She looked out of the bedroom window as she dressed. The sky was clear and the rising sun was burnishing the waters of the Derwent River with golden light. A sailing boat with tan sails was heading downstream on the ebb tide. All in all, a picture-perfect day.

  She grabbed a slice of toast from the toaster and ate it with an apple. A simple breakfast, but enough. She went down to the car park, hopped into her pillar-box red Nissan sports car, pulled out into the road and was soon hammering down the hill past Salamanca Place into her underground parking bay in the firm’s office building on the waterfront. She was well ahead of the traffic so had a clear run. As usual, she was at her desk by the time the GPO clock in the city centre struck seven.

  She had an interesting morning ahead of her. Lunch with Mohinder Lal, an old sparring partner from Delhi, was likely to be a challenge. For several years Hobart Tours had worked with Lal’s company in organising the tours they’d been running to various destinations across the Subcontinent. On one occasion, thirteen years before, he had done her a favour she had not forgotten. Now he was visiting Tasmania and wanted to talk to her about other tours his company was considering.

  No doubt he’d have some wonderful ideas. As usual, he’d be looking for a joint venture with Hobart Tours; as usual, he’d be looking for cash.

  Cindy, her personal assistant, was also an early starter, arriving only minutes after Tamsyn.

  ‘Give me five,’ Tamsyn said.

  She phoned Marina, to make sure she was okay—not that her mum would ever admit to having anything wrong with her—and then asked Cindy to come in. They helped themselves to coffee and got down to work.

  ‘Mohinder Lal. When am I seeing him?’

  ‘I’ve booked a table at the Star of India for twelve fifteen.’

  The most expensive Indian restaurant in Hobart, but that was par for the course wit
h Mohinder Lal.

  Researching new ventures and their financial implications was Tamsyn’s speciality, and she was good at it. That was why she’d risen to be number two in the organisation: Harry Sharp, her boss and owner of the business, was the most results-orientated man she’d ever known. Or maybe she was only number three: there was ambiguity about her status that she believed was deliberate, with Harry playing his usual game of setting one subordinate against the other in order to get the best results from both.

  She and Will Roper were the two departmental heads. There was no love lost; she respected Roper but didn’t like him and suspected he felt the same about her. He was older than she and more experienced. He was also male, which in his opinion put him ahead of her in every way that mattered, in both life and in the business. It was a view Tamsyn did not share. She believed she was better at her job than he was; she had flair, which in her opinion he lacked, and that—surely?—must make up for her lack of masculinity. As if anyone cared about such things in the touring industry. Of course, it made no difference what she believed; Harry Sharp’s opinion was what mattered and this could be important, since Harry was not a well man.

  If Harry ever decided to retire and Will Roper took over, her position might be untenable. But now was not the time to be thinking about that; now she must focus on what Mohinder Lal was hoping to get out of them and what she was prepared to give.