by Tom Riggs
But there was not a great deal to read. Richard Lipakos, the third son of Constantine and Sarah Lipakos. His father, one of the richest men in Europe, possibly the world. Interests in everything from gold mines in Central Asia to agri-farms in Australia. His mother, a leading light on the London charity lunch circuit. It must have been a good divorce. Father and son seemed close. Two years ago they had gone to Antarctica together on a well-publicised trip to raise money for climate change. Munro thought it might have been easier for old man Lipakos to have just written a cheque. But from the pictures in a glossy magazine, it looked like they’d had fun. After that, he had got more involved in environmental issues. Last heard of working for some kind of save the rainforest NGO in Brazil. Until now.
The report from the local coroners’ office was brief. Death from traumatic brain injuries. Not self-inflicted. No police report available and nothing from the Foreign Office, except the name of their man in Porlamar. Thanks Rudd.
The tiny plane touched down at Porlamar Airport after just thirty minutes in the air. Munro had not had to leave Caracas’ Maquieta airport to change planes and for that he was grateful. He had been to Caracas once before, many years ago, and he felt no urge to return. Caracas has the highest per capita murder rate in the world, and Moquette was representative of the city as a whole. Coming out at arrivals was not something you forget easily. It sometimes seemed that every scam artist and thief in the city had descended on the place. The area was full of aggressive young men, sallow faced and hungry. Most of them were at least pretending to offer some kind of service – be it a taxi or money changing. But a few had given up even that pretence and just asked for money. It was only the presence of gun toting contra-narcoticos officers that prevented any violent robberies in the airport itself. Shaven headed nineteen year-olds with big guns and blank stares, they were unfriendly but at least they provided a modicum of protection.
Porlamar International was far more to Munro’s taste. A small airstrip surrounded by low-lying scrubland, the terminal building consisted of a large hanger holding a few small concession stands and a couple of rows of seats. There was no differentiation between arrivals and departures. Backpackers looking for the Caribbean on the cheap mixed happily with large families of Venezuelans who’d come for a week of sun and cervecas. The building was dark and cool, the air conditioning on full blast, the windows tinted. The backpackers, thin and pale under their recently acquired tans, sat around in small groups munching from large bags of potato chips or glugging bottles of mineral water. The Venezuelan families grazed on deep fried cheese pastries and drunk brightly coloured ice through straws from cellophane bags. One family, waiting for the next plane back to Caracas, had turned a portable radio up as loud as it would go. The tinny music, some kind of Salsa or Merengue Munro guessed, was almost drowning out the weak tannoy announcements. An overweight cop, the only one on duty, did not seem to mind. Porlamar International was Munro’s kind of airport.
Walking out of the concourse building, Munro was hit by the familiar oven blast of hot air. A small line of taxis was waiting outside the sliding doors, but few of the drivers seemed to care whether they got a fare or not. They seemed more interested in a newspaper that one of them was holding open and the others were crowding round. Munro paused on the pavement, breathing in the hot Caribbean air and smiling to himself.
“Taxi, señor?”
The guy did not look like a taxi driver. He was young, had about three days of stubble and was wearing board shorts and flip-flops. He looked more like a windsurf instructor.
“You a taxi driver?” replied Munro, in English.
“No, señor, but I’ve got a jeep,” he replied pointing to an open top light blue jeep. It had a padded roll bar, raised suspension and extra wide tyres. Perfect for cruising the beach in. Munro looked at the taxi drivers, sweating in their blue uniforms, uninterested in getting his custom. Every guidebook in the world tells you not to take an unlicensed cab, especially not in Venezuela. But Munro could usually tell immediately whether someone was one of the good guys or not. It was a cliché, but you really did just have to look them in the eye. You look at someone long enough, in the right way, and you can normally tell if they’re a windsurfer looking to make a few extra bucks or a thief looking to rob and kill you. Munro looked at the guy, his eyes were the smiling eyes of someone who spent half of his life surfing and the other half in a hammock.
“Ok, lets go,” said Munro.
He decided to get the jeep-taxi straight up to Playa Agua, where Richard Lipakos’ body had been found. The Foreign Office man and police could wait. From Rudd’s report it didn’t look like they’d have much to offer anyway.
The main highway north had little to hold Munro’s interest apart from some dangerous driving and the odd dusty tienda selling little more than old bananas and cigarettes. The airport had been built far out of town and lay alone on a plain full of small cacti and spiky gorse bushes. Isla Margarita was a dry island with some low hills in the interior; these were rocky and sparse, with few if any trees growing on them.
Every now and then the road would cross a meagre river, its flow almost desiccated by over- use and dry weather. The rivers were lined with barrio houses – shacks built out of anything their owners could lay their hands on. Corrugated iron, breezeblocks, cardboard boxes and bricks were cemented together haphazardly to make shelter. Black slicks of sewage ran from the buildings to the river. Mongrel dogs sniffed around and a few children played in the dirt. In the open-top jeep, Munro was hit by the stench of the black rivers every time they went over a bridge. But at least by the rivers the flora became slightly more attractive. Palm trees lined many of the banks, giving the barrios a tropical air that lifted them slightly from the totally desperate. Munro imagined that a clever photographer could probably make the shacks seem exotic and chic. He wondered if the people living down by the sewage-filled river thought it was chic too. It was clear that any attractions there were on Isla Margarita were on the coast.
Munro had slept well on the plane, for the first time in days. The cramped conditions and hum of twin jet engines had lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep. And with sleep came more exhaustion. Now he had work to do, he was grateful for the dust and wind on the journey to keep him awake.
He went back over the report, re-reading every press cutting and piece of information to see if there was anything he had missed. If Richard Lipakos had not been the son of a billionaire, his death would probably not have made the national newspapers. It would certainly not have been on the front page of The Times and a couple of others. But ‘billionaire’s backpacker son murdered on Caribbean island’ had been a nice little story. An exotic contrast to the schools, taxes and hospitals that readers normally got with their breakfast. But not exotic enough to make it two days running in the paper. There was an election coming up in Venezuela and the Latin America correspondent was a busy woman. All the newspapers put the killing down to a robbery, local police reporting that his wallet had been taken. Venezuela is a dangerous country and rich kid backpackers should be more careful. A local paper in Wiltshire, where Mrs Stanfield lived, had followed the story up two weeks later. She was going to set up a scholarship in Richard’s name at the private school that he had attended. Nothing new was reported on the killing. Rich backpacker goes to dangerous South American country, is robbed and killed – by locals no doubt. Local robbers, local killers. Munro guessed that the newspapers probably had it about right, whatever Sarah Stanfield thought. South America was a dangerous place, Venezuela especially so. Western backpackers were robbed every day there, usually at the end of a knife or a broken bottle. Most of them were lucky and escaped with little more than damaged nerves and a story to tell on their return. But a few were unlucky and never came back at all. Richard Lipakos had been unlucky.
After half an hour of fast driving, the tiendas spaced out along the road became more regular. Munro realised they must be approaching Playa Agua, as the tiendas turne
d into cafes and the odd open-air pizza parlour started to appear. They drove past a strip mall, semi-built and dusty, containing a real estate office and a pharmacy. Suddenly the jeep pulled off the highway onto a sand track that led down through a street of half-built concrete houses. It had been too windy for conversation until then and Munro had been busy reading the report, but now the driver seemed keen to talk.
“You here for vacation, señor?”
“Sort of. Nice here?”
“It’s not too bad, señor, the beach is beautiful. But I would avoid the main bar, Woody’s. It’s full of whores,” he paused and smiled, “unless that’s what you want.”
Munro ignored the leering smile. “Is it dangerous here at all? I heard a British guy was killed here a few weeks back.”
“This is Venezuela, señor, everywhere is a little bit dangerous. We are a poor country and have a lot of problems with drugs. But Playa Agua is normally ok. I heard about that guy, but I think that was some Colombians.”
The jeep weaved around the back streets of Playa Agua for another five minutes as the windsurfer tried to get his bearings. There was surprisingly little to see on the narrow sandy lanes. Most of them had long high walls running along them, topped by barbed wire. Some of the walls were brightly painted with the names of the hotels or apartment blocks that they protected. But others were left grey and crumbling. The effect would have been sombre had it not been for the sun and the bright flowers that peered through some of the barbed wire.
“You windsurf, señor? Margarita has some of the best windsurfing in the Caribbean. If you want, come down to Playa Terzito, I work in the windsurf shop there.”
“Thanks, I might do that,” replied Munro, “although to be honest surfing is more my thing. Never could quite get the hang of those sails.”
“A surfer? Of course” exclaimed the windsurfer banging on his steering wheel, “I thought so when I saw you, señor, you have the build of a surfer. You here at the wrong time of year though man. Only waves on Margarita come in hurricane season.”
That’s too bad, thought Munro. Although Mrs Stanfield was definitely not paying him to surf. Two minutes later and they turned through one of the gates and into a small, sandy palm-lined forecourt. Rudd had done well for a change – the hotel looked surprisingly nice. Walking into the reception hall he saw it was a two-story, hacienda-style place, with rooms arranged around a big garden and swimming pool. The garden was green and full of well-tended shrubs and flowers. Munro may have been in the army for nine years, but he could still appreciate a nice gardenia. There were hammocks slung around the garden and between the pillars outside the rooms. Rudd had done well.
The lady at the reception was South American, although she could have been Italian. Stern and short, with short hair and fair skin, Munro guessed she was Argentinean.
“Jack Munro. I’ve got a reservation. Room for one.” He put down his bag and took off his sunglasses. “Nice place you have here.”
“Thank you señor. My partner and I based it on the haciendas in Argentina. We brought a lot of the furniture and antiques over ourselves.”
“A little bit of the pampas in the Caribbean.”
The woman did not look up as she wrote Munro’s details into her large leather ledger. “Exactly señor.”
Munro took in his surroundings and smiled. He liked the hacienda look. If it would put a grieving mother’s heart at rest for him to spend a week in the Caribbean, then so be it. There were worse places to be in February.
The man on the motorbike pulled up twenty metres before the hotel entrance. It had stopped at Hotel Costa Linda, just as he had been told it would. He took out his phone and dialled.
“Boss? The gringo, he just arrived.”
5
Munro’s room was simple and clean, with a large double bed that looked as if it was built into the wall. Double doors opened straight onto the garden and swimming pool. Munro was tempted to spend the rest of the afternoon acclimatising on one of its loungers, but duty called.
He went into his room and started his exercise routine. Fifty press-ups, followed by fifty squat thrusts followed by fifty stomach crunches. And then again. And then again. After three rounds he felt the blood starting to run through his limbs properly once more. Sixteen hours flying and he had already felt his muscles start to atrophy slightly. And he hated that. Hated being at anything less than his peak. Or close to it. He looked at himself in the mirror: a little paunchy round the stomach perhaps, but generally not bad. Not bad for a civilian, and a civilian of thirty-six at that. The Munro of four years ago could have taken him down in seconds. But the Munro of four years ago was in Afghanistan.
After a long shower he stretched his arms and legs, enjoying the feeling of his muscles starting to work again. He smiled to himself, not quite knowing why at first. His conscious mind caught up quickly: it was good to be back in the field.
Playa Agua was a sleepy little resort, spread out for a mile along a long and wide sandy beach. The sun was high by the time Munro left his hotel room and he could see why people came all the way to the Caribbean in February. There was not a cloud in the sky and although it was hot, there was a good breeze coming in from the sea that made it bearable. The beach was the only real attraction in Playa Agua and the restaurants, beach shops and hotels petered out after four blocks. Most of them looked as if they had been built at least ten years before. All of them could have done with some fresh paint. There was a town centre of sorts, where the main road from the highway met the tarmac road that ran along the side of the beach. At this crossroads were several cafes and beach shops. Munro stopped at the junction and looked around, trying to imagine what Richard Lipakos had done there. This was certainly where most of the action seemed to be. Most of the life. The beach shops had rows and rows of brightly coloured flip-flops for sale outside and the cafes advertised organic coffee and fruit smoothies. Not a lot of life. The Argentinean receptionist had told him that February was low season, and you could tell. There was a scattering of European backpackers in the cafes, sipping on the organic coffee or glugging fruit smoothies. The flip-flop shops were empty. Walking onto the beach, Munro saw other backpackers. Shaggy haired Europeans in their early twenties. These ones were lounged on sun beds, some drinking cocktails, some smoking cigars. Enjoying the Caribbean on the cheap. The poor man’s Barbados.
In his jeans, flip-flops and faded polo shirt Munro did not look quite like the backpackers. But nor could he have passed for one of the middle-aged Europeans who were also enjoying the organic coffee. These tourists looked like day-trippers, up for a few hours from one of the large hotels in Porlamar. They were inevitably sunburnt and badly dressed in ill-fitting shorts and t-shirts, most of them in varying shades of khaki. After walking the length of the town twice, Munro was confident he had his bearings. It was time to go to work.
The Posada Limon was four blocks back from the beach at the far end, the last building before the sandy road started to rise steeply to join the highway that Munro had arrived on. There were no hotels or restaurants around it, only dust, rubbish and sleepy stray dogs. Munro walked through the concrete gate and looked around. It was everything that Munro’s hotel was not. Built one storey high, in the concrete prison style familiar to many South American backpacker hostels, its twenty or so rooms were arranged around a concrete courtyard. In the courtyard were a few plastic tables and chairs and some posts strung with old hammocks. The place seemed deserted, everyone at the beach. But they would be back - the sun was beginning to set. Munro settled into one of the hammocks and waited.
As it got cooler and darker, the residents of Posada Limon did indeed start to return. In twos and threes they slowly started to come through the concrete gates, carrying towels and bottles of water. Munro had chosen a hammock set into one of the corners of the courtyard. The hammock was deep and low-slung and it was dark enough for him to lie there relatively unnoticed. To anyone walking past he was just a new resident taking in the view. Ch
illing out, relaxing. Maybe Ms Stanfield was just a grieving mother with some strange ideas, maybe not. Whatever, she was paying him and Rudd a lot of money to put those ideas to rest and he was going to do the job properly. Munro was not chilling out and he was not relaxing. He was observing, recording, waiting. He knew exactly who he was looking for.
After two hours he found him.
6
The sun had set and it had got dark, but it was still hot around the Posada Limon. A few backpackers were now sitting in the chairs in the courtyard, smoking cigarettes and drinking from litre bottles of lager. Cheaper than the smaller ones. Munro saw that the posada was almost full; all the rooms seemed to be occupied. In the dark, it was a slightly more attractive place. Fairy lights had been strung around the courtyard and the only other source of light came from the bedroom windows. Seeing less of the Posada Limon definitely worked in its favour.
He approached room 9, in the middle of the block to his left, and was immediately hit by the slightly sweet but toxic smell of marijuana. Some kind of chanting music was playing inside. Munro knocked. A full two minutes later the door opened.
“Hey man, sorry to bother you. You got a light?” said Munro.
The guy that answered the door was a foot smaller than Munro, and a lot skinnier. He was white but had managed to grow fairly long dreadlocks. Munro’s hair was shorter than his goatee.
“Fuego? Si, amigo, si.” As the hippy fumbled around on his bed for some matches, Munro took a step into the cramped little room. Clothes were strewn everywhere. Their source seemed to be a large dirty rucksack at the end of the bed, as if it had erupted dirty t-shirts and sarongs. The walls had once been white but were now peeling. There were several large dark brown stains on various parts of the wall. Dirty water perhaps, possibly blood.