False Nine (17 page)
‘Go ahead and ask your questions,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you what I can tell you.’
‘Are there any leads you’re working on?’
‘Not as such, no.’
‘Have any bodies been found on the island that have yet to be identified?’
‘I don’t think he dead, if that’s what you mean, Mr Manson. Antigua’s a very safe place. Safer than London or Paris.’
‘Still, there are murders here, aren’t there? DJ Jewel Movement, for example.’
‘Murder is rare on the island. We caught the man who killed DJ JM more or less immediately. The whole thing be cut and dried.’
‘Yes, yes of course. But actually I was thinking of suicide.’
‘Don’t do it, Mr Manson.’ He grinned. ‘You’re still a young man with your whole life in front of you.’
I smiled back at him. ‘He was prone to depression, you see.’
‘What the hell he have to be depressed about when he can afford to stay at Jumby Bay?’
‘That’s a good question. But of course that’s not how depression works. His footballing career in Paris hadn’t gone so well. Which is why he was on his way to play for Barcelona. He’d broken up with his girlfriend. And he was taking antidepressants. So, maybe he heard about a favourite suicide spot on the island. You know? A cliff. A beach with a rip tide.’
‘You swim far enough you’ll meet a shark for sure and then we might never find him. Only, the desk clerk at the hotel said he was in a good mood when he left. Even after he’d paid the bill, which would have depressed me. ‘Sides, why go to the airport if you thinking of doing yourself in? It don’t make no sense that he should do himself in if he be about to check in and go home. I don’t see him packing all his bags and then going for a swim. Also, if you be going to do yourself in you generally leave something behind. Maybe not a note. But possibly your mobile phone. The rest of your stuff. But it ain’t just Mr Dumas who is gone, it be all his stuff too.’
‘Good point.’
The inspector sighed and waited for me to ask another question. It was beginning to seem as if in spite of my pretty speech he wasn’t about to volunteer any information. And I didn’t need to find a horse’s head at the bottom of my bed in the morning to get the message: me and my Inspector Poirot bullshit really weren’t welcome here.
‘Are you working on any theories as to what might have happened to Mr Dumas?’ I asked.
‘Theories? Shit, yeah. Got plenty of those.’
With each reluctant answer I was also aware of the dust on the floor, the chewed pencil on the desk, the brimful ashtray, the open door which, alongside the ceiling fan, was the room’s only air conditioning, and the many advantages of my own life compared with his. As he’d suggested, the bill I was very likely going to generate at the Jumby Bay Hotel would probably be as much as a cop like him made in a year. Sometimes you had to wonder how it was that more tourists in a place like that didn’t come to a sticky end. Quite what the inspector would have made of Jérôme’s more obviously luxury lifestyle – which was there for all to see in the latest edition of
GQ
that was on the coffee table in my suite – I could only imagine.
I waited for a long moment and then asked: ‘Might I ask what these are?’
‘I personally am of the strong belief that the man was snatched from VC Bird Airport minutes after he arrived there at the end of his holiday. That someone figure he be a man with lots of money. Like all of you folks at Jumby Bay. But unlike most of the folk who go holidaying in Jumby we happen to know he went to some bad boy clubs in St John’s that is frequented by drug traffickers. For that reason we think he came up on their radar as someone who might be worth kidnapping. And that they persuaded some girl to entice him away from there. I am of the opinion that he probably be held somewhere in the centre of the island. Signal Hill, perhaps. That they be looking to deliver a ransom request when they think it a bit safer than now. And that they be keeping their heads down for fear that we be catchin’ them. Fact is, I got my men searching the whole island looking for this young fellow and I am confident that we find him any day now. It’s just a question of time, see? Everything on Antigua take a bit longer than it does back in England. But rest assured, sir, that if he’s on the island, we will find him.’
I nodded. ‘What clubs are they – the bad boy clubs you were talking about?’
‘I wouldn’t recommend you go to any, Mr Manson. We got enough trouble as it is with one missing tourist.’
‘Nevertheless, I would like to know the names. For my report, you understand.’
He nodded. ‘All right. There’s a place off the Old Road on Signal Hill that’s called The Rum Runner. They smoke a lot of weed, get drunk on canita, run their whores, watch football and porn on TV. The satnav on an Enterprise Car that Mr Dumas hired showed he’d been there. He was also near a brothel in Freetown that’s widely known as the Treehouse.’
‘And have you questioned the people there?’
‘Questioned, sure. Didn’t get no answers. Didn’t expect to get any, neither. RPFAB ain’t welcome in they places. People tend to clam up when we start asking questions.’
‘Perhaps if we were to offer a reward. Say a thousand dollars.’
‘Here’s the thing about rewards, Mr Manson. As I told your employers in Paris they’re not a substitute for good old-fashioned police work. They waste my time. A high income on the island is thirteen thousand US dollars. People say anything in search of a reward which is as much as what you’re suggesting. For a thousand dollars I myself would tell you I saw the man abducted by aliens. Ya see what I is saying? I just don’t have the men to separate the time-wasters from what might be a genuine lead. So keep your money quiet, please.’
I tried another tack. ‘You’ve considered the possibility that he’s no longer on the island, of course.’
‘Sure. We’ve been checking out private airfields, boatyards all over Antigua. Believe me, sir, we leaving no stone unturned in the search for this man. I call you as soon as I find something. My advice to you is go back to your comfortable hotel and sit by the telephone.’
I wasn’t going to do that, although he was right, of course. I was merely playing at what he was doing professionally, 365 days a year. He did it because he had to do it, in order to make a living. He knew it and I now I knew it; and, as I was leaving his office, I reflected how polite he’d been. I might easily have laughed if Winchester White had turned up in my office posing as a football manager, and yet here he was, listening patiently while I asked my very obvious questions. I felt appalled at myself and decided then and there that this was going to be the last time I was ever persuaded to play the joke role of amateur detective.
I thanked him for his time and walked out the door. In a little waiting area outside his office was an attractive, well-dressed woman in her early thirties who, seeing Winchester White, stood up, politely. A black Burberry briefcase sat on the floor by her polished black shoes. In spite of the heat her white blouse looked as clean and fresh as the tablecloth I’d had on my table at breakfast time.
As she smiled at me I realised she must have heard every word I’d said to the police inspector.
Not that there are many secrets on an island the size of Antigua.
I went back to the hotel and found myself sitting by the phone.
It wasn’t because I was awaiting a call from Inspector Winchester White – I wasn’t holding my breath for that – but because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Ordinarily, in a place like Jumby Bay, I’d have swum in my private pool, sat in the sun, ordered a cocktail and read a book, probably. But that didn’t sit right with me while I was taking money from the club. Especially as they weren’t having the best season. And things had only been made worse by the departures of goalkeeper Andoni Zubizarreta and the club captain, defender Carles Puyol. Meanwhile there was a lot of talk on the sports pages that Chelsea would make a move for Lionel Messi in the summer. There were few who doubted that Roman Abramovich had the money and the balls to afford the £156.7 million buyout on the Argentine’s contract (not including image rights and salary). Not that UEFA FFP restrictions would have permitted such a transfer. Probably. But it came as a surprise to me that Viktor Sokolnikov was also talking about trying to bring Messi to the Crown of Thorns. And the thought that I’d walked away from a great football club where I might have had a chance to manage a player who was probably the best footballer in the world left me feeling a little blue.
So when the phone did ring I thought it might be someone from Barcelona, PSG, or even a Qatari calling to enquire how things were going and if I’d yet discovered anything useful. I wouldn’t have known what to say. To my relief it was just Everton – the Jumby Bay boatman.
‘Hey, boss, I looked you up on the internet. You is famous. You played for Arsenal. And you managed London City. I was thinking, while you’re here maybe you could come down to take a look at a youth side I work with. They call theirselves the Yepton Beach Cane Cutters. Give they a few tips.’
‘Maybe. Perhaps later when I’ve done what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m a little busy right now. The Catalans they’re anxious to have Jérôme Dumas back in Barcelona before
el clásico
. I take it you know what that is?’
‘For sure. It’s like the most important match in Spain, right? Listen, boss, I flashed some of your money around St John’s but so far come up with nuthin’. I reckon anyone who knows anything about what happened to Jérôme Dumas is going to want a lot more than just a hundred bucks.’
For a moment I remembered the inspector’s words about the effect of money on people who didn’t have very much and how they might start to invent stories they thought I might like to hear. I hate it when cops are proved right.
‘I think that I should be there if that happens.’
‘Sure, boss. Maybe we can meet this afternoon. There’s a bar on Nevis Street called Joe’s. I finish work at four today. Shall we meet then?’
Minutes later, the telephone rang again.
‘Mr Manson? My name is Grace Doughty and I’m a lawyer at Dice & Company. We almost met today at the police station in St John’s.’
‘I remember. You’re the lady with the Burberry briefcase and the nice shoes.’
‘You noticed that.’
‘I pay a lot of attention to someone’s feet. Always have.’
‘I couldn’t help but overhear what you were saying to Inspector White. I hope you won’t think this presumptuous of me, but I wanted to offer you my firm’s help in finding Mr Dumas.’
‘That all depends on what kind of help you had in mind.’
‘Perhaps I could come and see you at your hotel?’
I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t like I had anything else to do. If nothing else you’ll get a better feel for how things are here, I told myself. Besides, it always helps to have a lawyer handy when you’re nosing around in foreign countries.
‘No need. I’m going to be in St John’s this afternoon. Besides, if you’re going to help me I’d like to see what kind of front you put up.’
‘Shall we say three o’clock? I’m at twenty Nevis Street.’
‘I’ll be there.’
The quaint colonial buildings that made up Nevis Street in St John’s were Creole-style cottages with wooden pillars, small verandas and shingle roofs. As I approached the wooden steps that led up to the front door of number twenty I half expected to see a swinging seat or a rocking chair. Some of these buildings were red, some were green, a few were pink or yellow and none was higher than a lamp-post; all of them were quite dwarfed by an enormous cruise liner, several storeys high, that was moored to the pier at the end of the street, and which towered over them like a Westfield shopping centre that had come adrift from its inner-city foundations and lost its way before washing up here in Antigua. Dice & Co was located in a pink building with yellow shutters and an orange roof from which a spaghetti tangle of cables and wires led across the street to a telephone cable in front of a Seventh Day Adventist Church that looked more like a police station than the police station.
I went inside and found myself in a near-perfect facsimile of a Dickensian lawyer’s office, right down to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with the
All England Law Reports
. There was a big leather chesterfield in the waiting room, a landscape picture of King John signing the Magna Carta and several portraits of geriatric English judges wearing full-bottomed wigs. All the place lacked for an English legal atmosphere was a freezing fog rubbing on the window panes.
The receptionist ushered me straight into her employer’s office where the tone of the decor changed a little. There were two photographs on the wall of Grace Doughty wearing a karate suit; she seemed to hold a black belt which must have helped to persuade some of her clients to behave themselves – at least when they were with her. I expect they needed reminding, too, as Miss Doughty was a real looker. She was black but I figured she was also what is sometimes described as high yellow in that she must have had a large proportion of white ancestry. She wore a navy-blue jacket and skirt, a crisp white blouse and was as voluptuous as a Mexican bass guitar. I knew there had been another reason why I’d wanted to see her in person, and this was it.
‘Miss Doughty, this is Mr Scott Manson,’ said the receptionist.
Miss Doughty got up and came around her desk with brown eyes that were already sizing me up. She had the look of a woman who was destined for higher things, at least in Antigua.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.
I was just about to shake her outstretched hand when the giant cruise ship sounded its massive horn which, on that small quiet island street, sounded like the final trumpet blown at the day of judgement or, at the very least, an irate mastodon.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, shrinking into the collar of my polo shirt. ‘Do they do that very often?’
She laughed. ‘Only every day. You get used to it.’
The horn sounded again and seemed to linger in the air long afterwards.
‘I don’t think I would. I bet the young mothers of St John’s just love that.’