Drainland (Tunnel Island Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

gracing us with his presence tomorrow.”
    “What?” Chandler had been sorting the mail. He now appeared at the door with a handful of envelopes. “Why?”
    “Wants to meet the new girl,” said Denny.
    Romano looked up from the television. “Who are we talking about? Me?”
    “You and O’Shea. The regional inspector,” said Denny.
    “Is he coming here? He better not be fucking coming here. We better clean up,” said Chandler.
    Denny shook his head. He had a tin of beer open and took a sip from it. “I don’t know what O’Shea is doing over here but Senior Constable Romano here is to meet with his team at Sienna Beach, ten-thirty, tomorrow morning.”
    “Bloody hell,” said Chandler.
    “They said bring your bathers,” said Denny.
    Romano looked from Denny to Chandler and back to Denny. “Fuck off,” she said.
    “That’s what they said.”
    “Don’t listen to him,” said Chandler, going back to his work.
    “That’s what they said. If you don’t believe me, call them back. Go on.”
    “Don’t do it,” said Chandler.
    Romano kept her eyes on him. Denny performed what she assumed was a shrug, though it was hard to tell with his gym shoulders engulfing his neck.
    She turned back to the TV.
    After a while, Denny said, “I fucking hate Peter Ustinov,” throwing his empty beer can towards the bin. There was a sharp ping of aluminium on the marble as he missed.
    Chandler’s voice drifted in. “Pick it up, dickhead.”

6
Saturday, July 17, 2004
    O n Saturday , the rain slowed. A low ceiling of grey cloud turned the day humid and damp. Romano sat at the picnic table by the beach and cursed the sweat pooling in her uniform. All this despite a complete lack of sun. It made no sense. It was the dead of winter back home. Here, it was as if the heat operated within its own season.
    At exactly eleven o'clock, a black SUV wound its way down the short bitumen road to the campground car park. The place was empty. The SUV crawled across the park and came to rest at an angle, across several vacant spaces. A small woman stepped from the SUV. She wore plain clothes and held a leather folder. “Constable Romano?” Her voice fell flat in the morning drizzle.
    Romano stood.
    The woman turned back to the occupants of the car and spoke with them, then came over. “The Inspector is over here for a quick dip on his way to meetings on the mainland. Did you get our message about dressing for the water?”
    “I wear my uniform when I'm at work,” said Romano.
    The woman’s eyes widened a little. “Not today. Don't get into this with him.” She glanced back at the SUV. “I packed a spare set of swimmers. I figured you for about a size eight, from your file.”
    Romano stared at the woman. Behind her, two men appeared from the SUV: a short stubby thug in a uniform followed by an older man, balding with a beard. He was wrapped in a white terrycloth bathrobe. As they approached, the uniformed one smirked at Romano, but the older man kept to a grim expression, barely acknowledging her. “I’ll see ya out there, Constable,” he said in a thick Irish brogue, and kept walking.
    “I’ll get that swimsuit for you,” said the woman.
    Romano tried the bathers on in the camp toilets, finding them tight. They had a robe for her as well, a small concession. She did not check the mirror. Instead, she carefully folded her uniform into a pile, placed her holster and sidearm on top, and carried it all down to the beach. The inspector was already out in the surf. She could see him bobbing in the distance. The other two stood watch on the shore. Romano dumped her clothes at their feet—“Don’t touch any of this,” she said—and took off her robe.
    Without letting herself hesitate, Romano walked down the sand and into the ocean. The first lick of the winter sea water was brutal and sharp, but after diving under and swimming a while, Romano found herself at a level temperature. O’Shea seemed to expect this. As she came up