The Abigail Affair (25 page)

He stepped aside to let a smart, beautifully coiffed young woman in a tailored business suit pass him on the narrow pavement. She shot a suspicious glance at him as she went by. He heard her voice from behind him. “Are you all right? Have you had an accident?”

Toby hesitated. “Yes. I fell and cut my hand,” he said. “Could I use your phone, perhaps?”

“Make it quick,” said the young woman. “Only a few cents’ credit.” She produced a pink Nokia.

Toby spelled out the phrase again. This time, he got the man’s voice even before the first ring. “Hello?”

“Abigail.”

“Noodles. Where are you now?”

“Behind the store. I’m being followed.”

Chapter 24

“Are you secure? Whose cell phone are you calling on?”

“A kind Samaritan who saw I’d hurt myself.” Toby smiled at the woman as he said this.

The two uniformed policemen emerged on to the street from the archway, saw him in an instant, and came at a run.

“Where to?” Toby said. But all he heard by way of reply was, “Your current balance is zero. Please top up your credit.”

Damn!

He thrust the phone back at the woman, who by now looked distinctly alarmed. “What have you done?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“No time to explain,” Toby said. He set off at a run. He crossed the road and found another archway in front of him, similar to the one he had just exited. With the police not fifty yards behind, he sidestepped into the courtyard and grabbed at the first door he saw. This was mercifully unlocked. Inside was an office. A water cooler stood in the narrow corridor and a defunct-looking PC, cables wound around it, lay on the floor. He tiptoed down the corridor to the next door, turned the knob and pushed it open.

He was in a furniture showroom. It seemed deserted. He closed the door quietly behind him, stepped around a huge four-poster bed with a card on it saying “Independence Day Special. Take home today for $50,” and made for the main door. In a moment, he was back on the street where the phone booth was located. He looked up and down and scanned the vehicles, which were again stationary and noise-to-tail.

He looked at his hand. The improvised bandage was soaked with blood. He couldn’t stay on the street.

And no sign of a Honda, let alone a pale blue CRV.

What he did see, however, was a maxi bus with a homemade sign inside the windscreen reading: “Founder’s Bay Hotel. Staff only.” He loped up to the bus. The driver’s window was open. There were no passengers.

“I’m a guest at Founder’s Bay. I’ve had a little accident. Can you take me to the hotel, please?”

The driver was a Rasta who wore a smart red, gold and green beanie cap. “Sure, mon, get in,” he drawled in a deep, dark voice. Toby trotted around the front of the bus and climbed in next to him. “What happened to you, mon? You get mugged or what? I better take you to the police station.”

“No, no need, I wasn’t mugged, I fell,” Toby said hastily.

“Yeah, these sidewalks a disgrace. Government do nothing. You bleedin’ bad. You need the hospital? A doctor? A Band-Aid?”

“No thanks, I’ve got some disinfectant at the hotel, and a bandage in my wash kit. This is really good of you.” As he spoke, Toby saw the policemen emerge on to the street and look around. He bent down into the foot well and fumbled in his rucksack, pretending to look for something.

He kept this up for about a minute. “Lost some ting?” enquired his driver.

“Just looking ... thought I had a packet of paper tissues ... stop this bleeding.”

“Here, mon.” The Rasta reached down with his right hand and came up with a packet of pocket handkerchiefs. “Always keep some for the kids and their runny noses.”

This gave Toby no alternative but to emerge from the foot well and take the proffered tissues. He shot a glance down the road. The policemen advanced. They hadn’t seen him, and maybe wouldn’t think of looking into a hotel staff bus. On the other hand, he was in the passenger seat right next to the kerb and the traffic was virtually stationary. They could hardly miss him. Should he dive out while he had the chance?

“Wow,” he said instead. “I sat up too quickly. I’m feeling a little dizzy. I’m going to put my head back down.”

“I tink you need the doctor, mon. How much blood you lose? You bang you head?”

“Not much—looks worse than it is. Just a glass splinter. I guess I’m a bit wobbly. I went down real hard. Not on my head, thank God.” He bent down. Of course, to a passerby, this in itself looked rather suspicious. He counted to a hundred. Surely the cops would have passed by now. Except they had been going slowly, scanning the street and the crowd for him, not running like before.

He risked a peep. No sign of them. He turned his head and yes, there they were, safely past. He watched their backs as they disappeared into the throng.

“I’m OK now.” The traffic inched forward and the driver turned up the radio, which had been on low.
Stir it Up
resounded around the bus at full volume. The CD version, of course. A moment later and the traffic got going. The bottleneck had eased. They approached the intersection and Toby saw the problem: the traffic lights were out, and a policeman with long white gloves directed the traffic. Would he be on the lookout for Toby too? No time to think. The policemen beckoned them on and they shot through the intersection. The road ahead was clear. The driver changed up through the gears.

“Bob Marley,” shouted the driver over the music. “You heard of him?”

Toby relaxed a little. The driver bobbed his head to the music.
Buffalo Soldier
followed
Stir it Up
and the Rasta was in raptures. The bus hurtled on, shot out of the town, on to the lagoon road, and back past the marina. Toby had a chance to consider his next move. He looked at his watch. Still only 9.15am. Plenty of time to call the Consulate again. If they came before 10am and he had to go with them, he would leave a message for Julia with Reception. If not, he would stay there and wait for her.

Either way, he was out of danger. The police would never find him now.

They followed the coast road in the morning sun, now hot despite the early hour, and arrived at the Founder’s Bay Hotel entrance. It looked very grand and Toby’s stomach lurched. Would they let him in, even to Reception, looking like this? With his torn, blood-smeared shirt and crudely bound wrist, he looked like a road accident victim. “Let me out, I can walk,” he said.

“No problem, mon, I have to go to Reception anyway,” said the big driver. They crunched over the gravel and into the staff car park. Toby wondered about asking to use the Rasta’s cell phone. But that would look suspicious—as a hotel guest, he could simply use a courtesy phone in the lobby, or his room phone.

Perhaps he should have let his Rasta friend take him to the doctor first for patching up.

“Come with me,” said the driver. “I’ll make sure you get some first aid.”

“No need, no need,” Toby said. But the man gave him a funny look and Toby shut up. More bluffing needed now.

They passed through a fine Roman-style pillared entrance portico into the cool of the lobby. Luxurious leather sofas and armchairs stood in groups, with glass coffee tables in front of them. Families waited around with their luggage packed beside them. A small boy sat on his mother’s lap, engrossed in his Nintendo DS.

Going-home time.

Toby heard a male Scottish accent. “Next stop, Edinburgh, kids.”

Then they were at the counter. The Rasta was by his side. “My friend had an accident, Brenda,” he said to the woman on duty.

“Name, sir?” asked the receptionist.

Toby said, “Campbell.” It was the first Scottish name that came into his head. If the hotel catered to charter flights from Edinburgh, he had a chance.

The woman moved the mouse of her computer and studied the screen in front of her. “Would that be Stuart or David?”

“David,” Toby said without hesitation or showing his relief.

The receptionist slid open a drawer. It was full of keys. “You don’t have your key? The key is out. Perhaps your parents have it?”

“Oh, yes, that’s it, of course. I went out so early, for my run—I expect they’re in the room or at breakfast.”

“Right you are then, sir. The doctor’s number is in the information folder in your room. Looks like you need some stitches in that hand.”

Toby breathed out. Thank goodness for lax hotel security and friendly islanders. He thanked everyone profusely and hurried away through the lobby towards the residential area of the hotel. A phone! He still desperately needed a phone.

He made his way through a courtyard surrounded by miniature palms in pots, and out on to a path through well-tended gardens. The hotel seemed to consist of cottage-sized buildings with one or two suites in each. He passed a gardener who raked up leaves. The sea sparkled lazily in the morning sunshine. Out in the bay, a Hobie Cat whizzed along in the trade-wind breeze. Then it came to a halt and its sail flapped as it changed tack.

The unit directly in front of him was called Bougainvillea. The front of the cottage faced the beach, and at the back was a service door. This was open and Toby could see a chambermaid’s narrow trolley just inside the entrance, piled with fluffy white towels and little cardboard boxes of soap and stuff.

He quickly devised a plan.

Chapter 25

He took off his backpack, then stripped off his bloody shirt and stashed it in a flowerpot. He arranged it around the roots of a little leafy shrub until he had virtually hidden it. Then he stepped across to a tap mounted in the outside wall, turned it on, cupped water in his hands and dampened down his hair. Then he marched up to the door, looked in, and called out, “Hello!” At the same time, he grabbed a towel off the trolley and made as if he was drying his hair.

A Hispanic face popped out of the bathroom. “Soon finish, Señor.”

Toby mimed using the phone. “I won’t be a second, I was on the beach and remembered I promised to phone my office first thing this morning. You carry on.”

Whether the maid understood or not, she showed no sign of suspicion, but merely said, “Si, Señor,” and returned to her cleaning. Toby stepped past the trolley and into the suite. The bed was still unmade. Toby sat on the edge and picked up the bedside phone.
Even With Penalties, Arsenal Can’t Win Now.
That didn’t make sense. If you went into penalties, either side could win
.
At least, in the World Cup.

He dialled the number.

The man’s voice answered again.

“Abigail.”

“Noodles.”

Toby said simply, “I’m in the Founder’s Bay Resort.”

“We’ll collect you from the lobby in ten minutes. Be there this time.” The line went dead.

Toby looked at his watch. Nearly 10am. The time he had arranged to meet Julia here, provided she had got the note and came. Well, the timing was fine. He would introduce her to his mentors as his ally, and they would take it from there.

From the glass-fronted wardrobe, he purloined a plain blue T-shirt from a hanger, and made for the door. No sense in getting caught now. On his way out, he swiped a face towel from the trolley to wrap around his hand. This done, he put on the T-shirt. He was respectable again. In fact, better than before, because this T-shirt was neatly ironed.

With a friendly “Adios” to the cleaner, he trotted back to the lobby, and there was Julia waiting for him on one of the leather sofas. Toby’s spirits soared.

“Hi there,” he said, and plonked himself down beside her. She wore a little scoop-neck top in a primrose colour and white tailored shorts, and looked ravishing—nothing like a the icy stewardess he had met that dreadful first night. “Did you get away OK?” he asked.

“I told Scott I was leaving, and that was what I did. How did you get off?”

“I’ll explain later. I’m expecting some fellows from the British Consulate any minute. They’ll look after us and get us on the plane out.” Antilla, Toby thought. Then again, perhaps not, because of the dead Russian girl. No, he would invite her back to Gatwick, London to meet his family. It would be cold, maybe frosty. Toby would gladly trade the Tropics for a northern winter right now.

“Toby, I admire how you handled yourself on the
Amelia
. You’re a cool customer.” Toby glowed at the compliment. The pain in his hand was still there, but now it felt like a badge of honour. Before he could answer, Julia continued, “Are these your guys coming now?”

Toby turned his head. “I guess,” he replied.

Two men in chinos and collared open-necked shirts approached. One was white, the other darker and shorter with Indian features. The white man had a face pockmarked by acne scars and a protuberant, hawk-like nose. No male model he.

“Let’s go,” said Beaky-nose without formality. “Don’t speak.” His accent was a bit twangy—more South African than British.

Toby realised with a start that he had abandoned his backpack outside the guest cottage. Damn—it had his phone SIM card in it, and his wallet. Too bad. There wasn’t any cash in the wallet, and the debit card was no good to anyone without the PIN number—and there was no money in the account anyway.

A pity about the backpack, though.

The four of them headed through the pillared unloading area. A black Mercedes people carrier with dark bronze-tinted windows stood at the kerb, engine running.

The white conk-nosed twangy-sounding man opened the sliding door and pushed Toby in, a little roughly, Toby thought.

The man at the wheel was a local, very dark-coloured.

Julia got in beside him. “I’ll sit in the window,” she said and squeezed past him. Toby sat next to her. Then Indian Man got in and sat next to Toby, sandwiching him. Funny, that—there were plenty of other seats in the row behind. South African Big-Nose got in the front next to the driver.

Toby looked out and saw a man in a pale suit hurry into the hotel. He felt a sudden twinge of unease.