Depth Charge by Jason Heaton (carter reed .txt) 📗

the lenses with a handkerchief. “I’ve offered MOCHA’s assistance for crime scene photos. Our experience with sensitive archaeological sites would be of value, I’d have thought.”

“But?” Ian chimed in.

“But this police captain, Gooneratne, was not interested,” Dinesh said. “They’re relying solely on eyewitnesses, which is slim evidence indeed, seeing as the boat was anchored offshore and it was 7:00 in the morning.”

“Well, I’d like to go speak with this policeman myself tomorrow. Maybe we can wear him down and at least be allowed to produce some photos and evidence and…” he hesitated, “recover any bodies.”

Just then, a tall man strode up silently to their table and stood over Dinesh.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, in an accent that was hard to place. Scottish? Danish?

“You are Dinesh Ranasinghe from the Ministry of Culture, Heritage and Archaeology, correct?” The man was very pale and, despite the heat, wore a thin navy turtleneck and cream-colored linen trousers. He was not sweating from what Tusker could see, and had a beard and silvery hair pulled tightly back in a ponytail, showing a scar on his forehead.

Dinesh stood up. He was a full head shorter than this man. “Yes, I am he,” he replied, extending his hand. “And you are…?”

“Rausing, Malcolm Rausing,” the man said. “I wanted to express my condolences about your colleagues. What an awful business.”

Dinesh was taken aback. “Ah, thank you, Mr. Rausing.” he managed. “How did you know I worked for MOCHA?”

Rausing smiled and ignored the question. He turned to Tusker. “And your friends?”

“This is Mr. Julian Tusk and Ian Walsh,” Dinesh introduced them. “They were friends of one of the men who was on the Taprobane.”

“As I said, awful business,” Rausing said, shaking his head while eyeing Tusker. “I own the Depth Charge, the ship doing some work in the new harbor. If there’s anything we can do to help...”

Tusker didn’t like the man and was impatient to get back to the conversation with Dinesh. “Thank you, Mr. Rausing. We’re working with the police to find out what happened to the Taprobane.”

“Of course, of course,” Rausing nodded vigorously. “But my offer stands. I have a crew of accomplished divers ready to help.”

“Thank you very much,” Dinesh chimed in, sensing the tension between Rausing and Tusker. “Mr. Tusk and Mr. Walsh are actually expert divers as well.”

“Is that so?” Tusker thought he saw the shadow of surprise cross Rausing’s face. “Well, do be careful out here. The currents in the east can be tricky and the sea floor gets deep rather quickly.”

“I thought your crew was in the harbor,” Ian said. Rausing’s eyes blazed at him, then he eased into a smile.

“We are, but have managed to take the odd day off for some offshore diving fun,” he said. “Well, I won’t keep you from your drinks. It was nice to meet you, gentlemen.” He turned to go, then paused. “And do give my regards to Captain Gooneratne.” Then he was gone. Tusker watched the tall figure stride across the crowded verandah and into the darkness.

A Police Matter

Batticaloa, Sri Lanka. The next day.

“It was an explosion,” Captain Sunil Gooneratne said, blowing ripples across the surface of his cup of tea. “The fishermen said it went up like fireworks. Sank fairly quickly too.”

Tusker sat across the worn metal desk and mopped the sweat from the back of his neck. He and Ian had endured an hour in the lobby of the Batticaloa police station, waving away flies with a small queue of locals who were waiting to file some complaint or other.

“Did any debris wash ashore? Any sense of how it happened?” Tusker already didn’t like the chubby captain and his indifference. He controlled his annoyance, knowing that to show exasperation would only make things worse.

“We collected a couple of life jackets and a wetsuit. Empty of course, but nothing else.” The captain smiled, as if at a joke. “I’m sure with all those scuba tanks and electronics on board, that boat was a floating bomb.”

Tusker leaned forward in his chair, a blood vessel in his neck pulsing.

Ian put a hand on Tusker’s arm and interjected. “Have you been able to examine the wreck yet? Surely that would help explain how it exploded.”

“Mr. Walsh, we are a busy police force here in Batticaloa and don’t have the time or resources to be out scuba diving.” He made it sound like it was a holiday snorkel.

“You see, here in the east, we are understaffed and have other serious matters. Surely you know, we have all these Muslims here, not like in Galle or Colombo…” He gave a knowing look at Ian and Tusker, as if they would sympathize.

After the Easter bombings, the country had descended into the same paranoid divisions that plagued Europe and the West, and there was tension between the Buddhist majority Sinhalese and the Muslim population, which was concentrated in the cities of the east coast.

Ian smiled back, ignoring Gooneratne’s thinly veiled bigotry. “What about the Navy? Or the coast guard? Wouldn’t this fall into their jurisdiction to investigate? It seems awfully suspicious that a boat would just explode.”

“This is a police matter, Mr. Walsh,” he replied. “Anyway, I told all of this already to your friend, this Dinesh from Colombo.” He stood up as if to signal their time was up. “We’ll be completing our investigation, interviewing witnesses, and will release a report when we finish.”

The police captain walked around his desk and extended his hand. “I know things in England and America work differently, but here in Sri Lanka, we have our own process. Now, thank you for your concern and your time. I have a number of other citizens who require my attention.”

Outside, Tusker was silent — fuming. “Guess it’s time to go check out the Taprobane,” Ian said.

“Yes,” Tusker said. “Let’s do that, now.”

Sebastian was nowhere to be found when they returned to the Deep Blue. Tusker walked past the workshop to the small swimming pool used for dive training, its surface matted with yellow leaves and