Chapter Eighteen: An Unpaid Debt
“Because everything on the islands has to be imported, French Polynesia has a justified reputation for being expensive.”
• • •
Jenny had been right about one thing: it was easy to become suspicious of everyone and everything. Too easy. Stuart believed in listening to his instincts. He realised that his feelings could be viewed as paranoia, but paranoia was an unfounded belief in imaginary persecutions and conspiracies, whereas didn’t he have evidence to support his anxieties? Not all of them, he was forced to admit.
There was Jenny to start with. What were her reasons for being so nice to him? They had had a lovely day. The bike ride had been fun. They had arrived back earlier that evening, tired but happy, the final stretch of the ride completed in record speed, without a stop, in order to arrive back at Chez Pauline before it began to get dark. They had dismounted their bikes while still on the road, outside the accommodation, and had chatted and laughed. They had talked about the day: the millionaire’s condos falling into disrepair; about the long hill, which Stuart thought would never end and where he thought his brakes would fail him and he would never stop; they joked about Jenny and the crab - Stuart had not been able to resist the pun after all. Still, they remained on the grass verge, both somehow realising that stepping over the threshold into the hostel's grounds would be taking their relationship to a different stage. But what was the alternative? Shake hands and say goodnight: politeness - “Thank you so much for the day, Ms Grainger.”, “So glad you could come, Mr Ward.” - it was not the way Stuart wanted the evening to end. Casual, matter-of-fact even, Stuart had asked Jenny if she wanted to stick around, perhaps they could get something to eat? If he had been at home he would have suggested a movie. He was not seriously expecting that ‘something might happen’ - he was not even sure how he would feel if ‘something did’ - but it was nice to keep the fantasy alive for a little longer. But she had said that she had to get back. To what? To where? He still did not know for sure where she was lodging. It had all ended rather abruptly, in fact. She had asked him if he would return her bike. She had said that she would hitch back. For him not to worry, she would be fine. She would call him tomorrow. She would not forget his money either. He did not doubt it. She had always been true to her word about that. It seemed like a matter of principle with her. There had been the briefest of pecks on the cheek and then she was gone, leaving him, in charge of the two bicycles, watching her fast-retreating figure marching determinedly in the direction of Viatape. He would have watched her as far as was possible, until she disappeared from sight, where the road turned and vanished behind the trees, but a small, white, pick-up van pulled into the side of the road ahead of her, some distance before she reached this point, and instead, he was only able to witness her boarding the battered vehicle and disappearing from view, as she climbed into the front, passenger seat.
Stuart sat on the narrow stretch of sand, immediately outside the dormitory, listening to the sound of the ocean. It had become something of a haven for him; a familiar spot where he could sit and think. The moon was obscured by cloud this evening, and the only light came from inside the Brown’s tent, a flickering candle flame, strangely diffused through the thin material of the canvas, illuminating the extremities of their territory. He could hear the sound of whispered voices from inside the tent, but the conversation was being carried out at a level as to not disturb their sleeping children and it did not intrude upon Stuart’s own moment of peace.
He did not understand her. One moment everything is fine, the next... It did not make sense. He did not think that he had said anything to offend her. He had replayed their conversation over and over again in his mind. No, it was not as though she had stormed off angry. She had just... well, gone. Left, when it would have seemed more normal to have stayed. Perhaps he was reading too much into things. He realised this was a fault of his: over-analysis of situations. His mother used to joke: “Stu - it is an apt name for you”. You are always setting yourself up for disappointment when you populate your imaginary scenarios with real individuals: they never behave in the way that you plan for them to do. Perhaps it really was that she just had to get back? Perhaps she had arranged to meet someone else later that evening? But who? Stuart’s first thought had been Mike. But then he had caught sight of the tall New Zealander tending something in a saucepan, when he had passed the communal kitchen, after dropping off the two bikes at the reception hut. He did not look as though he was preparing for a secret rendezvous. And what had it been that she had said about Corrie and Norbert? He had felt a pang of unease about it at the time. They are sound, that is what Jenny had said. Those exact words. It would not have been Stuart’s own choice of word to describe the Swiss couple. Sinister, maybe. Sound, no. So how had Jenny and he reached such differing assessments? Could she be in league with them in some way? It would follow. Corrie and Norbert might view him as the weakest link in this conspiracy, after all, he had the least to lose, he was not really involved, was he? He was just doing them a favour. Turning a blind eye. It was not really a crime. Not like murder. No, it would never be construed as murder, but drink driving... it would be manslaughter, no question about that. Norbert had a lot to lose. He could be charming, Stuart had witnessed as much himself. Perhaps Norbert had persuaded Jenny to act as chaperone, to make sure that he did not speak? Did he trust her? That was what it came down to. Evidently not, seemed to be the answer, and yet, it was different somehow when they were together. Then he could believe no ill of her. Absence does not make the heart grow fonder, it just provides a fertile fallow period for sowing future seeds of suspicion and of doubt.
Since he was in this self-analysis state of mind, why not extend his diagnostic repertoire? Why not confront his real paranoia; own up to the real anxiety his mind had been formulating; the fragile framework of ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’ that had merged together to form a complex alternative scenario to the one that reality was revealing to him as the truth? Step up on to the couch Mr Ward. Now tell me, when did you first start to think that Stefan might not be dead after all?
He knew it was self-protection really. The body’s way of shielding itself from a harsh reality or an unpleasant truth; finding a different take on the evidence that was so clearly displayed before its five senses. But, still, there was that nagging doubt. He had not actually seen the body. The evidence of one sense, at least, was on his side. If he had seen the body, well then, no question about it, but all that he had seen had been a line of four figures, apparently trying to conceal something behind them in the moonlight. Plus Jenny, of course. If this newly contrived conspiracy theory was going to develop for long enough to even manage to crawl, let alone grow legs and run, he could not pretend that Jenny was not in on it too. It was the five of them against the one of him. Six, if you presumed that Stefan must be involved in some way too. But why? What had they to gain? They had all been drunk that evening, he had been the party-pooper - almost literally! - who had gone off on his own. He could well imagine them, joking and laughing as they travelled back in the car, devising some sort of stunt to play a trick on him. But one as elaborate as this? And to continue the prank for so long? It just was not funny. It made no sense. At last! Logic will always prevail. It made no sense. Thank goodness this evening’s journey into paranoia had been only a relatively short one before common sense dragged him back into the real world. Unfortunately, Stuart knew only too well that it would not be his last excursion.
• • •
The cheese-thief struck again that night. It must have been after midnight, because Norbert said that he had been up, and had poured himself a glass of milk before finally turning in for bed. He would not have failed to notice the sticker that had been clearly attached to the thermal container that Mike used to store his cold food. It was one of Mike’s few luxury possessions, on a trip where he made it well kn
own that he “travelled light”. The communication was rather more expansive this time, although the real message was only too clear and concise, so Norbert told Stuart the following morning.
“Brie? I am disappointed in you. You are a traitor to your country. New Zealand produces some of the finest dairy products in the world. Kikorangi, Port Nicholson, Mahoe Gouda, magnificent cheeses. Traitor. It is the least of your crimes.”
“Nice,” said Stuart. “Has Mike seen this?”
“Yes, it was him that brought it to me, first thing this morning.”
“Well, whoever this character is, he obviously knows us quite well.”
“That was my thought also.”
“Any ideas?”
“No, none.”
Stuart was conscious that he had not had an opportunity to follow up the mental promise he had made to himself earlier, to investigate the possible link between the cheese-thief and the Frenchman, Cedric. If he was being honest, he did not know where to start. He had not even been able to ascertain the whereabouts of Jenny, and he had had almost exclusive access to question her all day. As a private investigator he had fallen at the first hurdle.
Norbert was talking again, “He has yet to make any demands in his messages.”
“You think he will?” Stuart sounded surprised. He had not seriously considered the motives behind the mysterious messages.
“I would have thought it was obvious,” said Norbert, “A blackmailer does not normally stop at mere...” He twirled his hand in the air, “...whimsy. That is a word, yes?”
“Yes,” agreed Stuart, although not the one he would have chosen.
“I expect we shall hear more from our nocturnal friend very shortly.”
“What shall we do?” asked Stuart, “Wouldn’t it be best if we all moved on? Perhaps if we all leave, whoever it is will forget all about us.”
“Do you think so?” Norbert sounded sceptical. “You can go, if you wish, my friend. I think Corrie and I will stay. I do not think that this is something that we can run away from. Much as we may have liked to.”
“It’s not too late to...”
“Confess all? I think we both know that that is not going to happen.” Stuart saw the look in Norbert’s eyes and did not doubt the other man’s words. The Swiss man continued, relaxed now, “Which reminds me, I saw Jenny this morning.”
“Oh yes,” said Stuart, suddenly interested.
“She said to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” The eager puppy had been dropped down a well-shaft. Halfway down and it was still grappling at the smooth sides, ever hopeful of catching hold of something secure that would suspend its headlong fall. “Goodbye as in ‘can’t make it today, see you tomorrow’ goodbye?”
“No,” explained Norbert, “She’s gone. I presumed she must have already told you.” The puppy was falling faster. Norbert seeing Stuart’s look of incomprehension continued, “She had made up her mind a couple of days ago. Did she not tell you about her aunt in Australia? Townsville, was it? I am afraid that I was not listening closely. I thought that you would have been the first to know.”
“And she said...”
“Goodbye. Just that.” Splash. The puppy was in the water and sinking fast. “I’m sorry.”
Norbert turned and made to leave the dormitory. He was at the door before Stuart thought of the question, “And she didn’t leave anything for me?”
“I am sorry?” This time it was Norbert who was puzzled.
“An envelope? A letter perhaps?”
“No, nothing.”
“Some money?”
Norbert smiled sympathetically, “You are, what? Clutching at straws. Goodbye. That was all she said.” He shrugged as he began to close the door of the room behind him, “She has gone. It is over. Goodbye.”
The puppy was back on the surface, doggy-paddling frantically to keep afloat. It’s ears were upright and alert and it’s eyes were open and all-seeing. It’s tail was not wagging though.