Touching the Sun: A Harry Beck Thriller (The Bahamas Series Book 1)

by Len Maynard

  Serious crime was not a rare occurrence in the Bahamas, but car bombs were, and I could tell he was agitated by it. Luckily for him Assistant Commissioner Brooks was away at a conference until Thursday. That gave Reynolds three full days to get some kind of angle on this. Brooks was a different type of policemen entirely from Reynolds; aloof and priggish, where Reynolds was accessible and broad-minded. If Brooks were here now I would probably be in custody simply because I was as good a candidate for a suspect as he would be likely to find, given such short notice.

  Reynolds was Islands born and bred, and that seemed to give him a doggedness which, allied with his natural Caribbean phlegmatic nature, made him effective at his job whilst not ruffling the feathers of the people he questioned. Though if you were guilty of something, and he knew it, he would cling like a barnacle and ruffle your feathers so hard you’d end up bald.

  ‘Such a cowardly crime,’ Reynolds said quietly, almost to himself. ‘That poor child.’

  I shared his sentiments, though my own reaction to the murders was dulled, numbed by the vicious brutality of it all. And I was worried about Alan.

  After the car exploded I had run like hell back to the Lancaster’s house, explained to Elsa what had happened, and phoned the police. Poor Elsa. The news devastated her. She’d been Anna’s maid for years, long before Anna married Alan, and she’d treated Sally as her own child. Elsa was a stocky woman of German origin, who possessed a stolid, unflappable nature, but when I told her what had happened she seemed to crumble from within. Her erect frame sagged, and she appeared to age ten years in as many seconds. The news of Anna and Sally’s death somehow diminished her, and I doubted that she would ever be quite the same woman again.

  After I telephoned the police, I started to call all the possible places I thought Alan might be and, after at least ten phone calls, drew a complete blank.

  I returned to the scene of the explosion, getting there just as the first police vehicle arrived. Reynolds was first on the scene, along with Sergeant Jim Henderson. I knew Henderson a lot better than Reynolds – we were drinking buddies from way back – and it was to him I gave my initial statement. After that I went back to the bungalow where I poured myself a very stiff whisky, which I promptly threw up into the lavatory bowl.

  The rest of the day passed by in a blur, and it was only now, with the commanding presence of Inspector Reynolds on my boat, that my mind started functioning again.

  Reynolds was built like a wrestler; tall, well over six feet, with wide strong shoulders and a chest that resembled a rum barrel. His skin was deep black, the features of his face strangely angular despite the size of his head, the round dome with the hair shaved very short.

  Alan’s disappearance could possibly be quite innocent. He may have been called away on business at short notice; it had happened before. But I was very aware that Alan had tried to contact me that morning, and I had a gut feeling that had we managed to speak to one another the events of the day might not have developed so tragically. Anyway, we were friends, and for the sake of that friendship I had to find out what in God’s name was going on.

  ‘Was there anything else, Inspector?’ I said. ‘It’s been a rough day.’

  ‘Of course,’ Reynolds said. ‘But, Mr. Beck, should Mr. Lancaster contact you, you will let me know immediately, and I would appreciate it if you would make yourself available should any further questions arise.’

  ‘That goes without saying. I want to catch the bastards who did this…probably more than you do yourself.’

  He looked at me sternly. ‘I doubt that, Mr. Beck. I doubt that very much indeed. Good day to you.’

  After he’d gone Stevie came up from below. ‘What do you really think happened?’ she said. That was Stevie, straight to the point, but for once I had to disappoint her.

  ‘Sorry, Stevie, I told the inspector the truth, straight down the line. I haven’t got any more idea about what happened than you have.’

  She regarded me thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, ‘Okay, I believe you.’

  ‘That’s very big of you.’

  ‘So, what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘We are not going to do anything about it. You’re going home, and I’m going down to Louis’ Oyster Bar for something to eat.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘That’s it, Stevie. See you in the morning.’

  ‘You’re up to something,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not. Scout’s honor.’

  She frowned and shook her head. ‘You’re a bloody useless liar, Harry.’

  I gave her a tired smile. ‘I know, Stevie, I know.’

  5

  I meant what I said to her, I was going for something to eat, but my stomach could wait. There was something I wanted to do first. I would go to the Oyster Bar, but the man who owned it would be somewhere else.

  I went back to the bungalow, showered quickly, then drove across town to Lucayan Beach. I parked my Jeep in the small parking lot behind The Jolly Tar, a small English style pub overlooking Lucayan Harbor. The Tar was popular with the tourists, especially the British, and tonight was no exception.

  Jack Dylan, the owner of The Tar and the Oyster Bar, prided himself on the authenticity of the pub, and as I walked through the door I was greeted by the malty aroma of draught beer, and the sound of a slightly out of tune piano hammering out the strains of Maybe It’s Because I’m A Londoner, with a chorus of off key voices picking up the refrain. Why was it that the British always wanted to recreate a part of their homeland when they were abroad? Was it a love of the United Kingdom, or a reluctance to embrace different cultures?

  The pub was crowded, but I pushed my way through and found Jack. He was in his usual position on the wrong side of the bar, making conversation with a small group of tourists, while his harassed bar staff served glass after glass of cool, refreshing beer. I walked up behind him and slapped him on the back. ‘How are you keeping, Jack?’

  Jack was a giant of a man; around six foot six and two hundred eighty pounds. No longer was he the skinny boy Alan and I had hung out with at the beach after school, although even then he had been the biggest of us. He had a round, open face latticed with broken veins, giving him a permanently flushed appearance. He turned and threw his arms around me, squeezing me in a bear hug. ‘Harry, great to see you. Howya been?’

  ‘Lousy.’ I started to tell him about Anna, but he held up a hand to stop me.

  ‘I already know, Harry boy. News travels fast…bad news even faster.’

  It didn’t really surprise me that Jack knew about it. In fact, I’d been banking on it. Very little happened on Grand Bahama Island that Jack didn’t get to hear about. He also knew Alan as well as I did; we’d all been friends for just over thirty years. More than friends, we’d grown up together, shared all our life experiences together. We were close, or so I’d thought. Alan’s disappearance was making me doubt my own memories.

  Alan had helped Jack establish The Jolly Tar fifteen years ago, when Jack’s former business venture collapsed. He’d run a high-class seafood restaurant at Chub Cay on Andros, but when a virulent outbreak of salmonella food poisoning hospitalized twenty-four of his customers, and killed three more, the authorities closed him down. They were strict about such things on the Islands, but then with two million tourists coming here each year they had to be. News of a food poisoning epidemic just wasn’t good PR.

  Alan, a regular face at Jack’s tables, had just bought The Jolly Tar, or The Conch as it was then called, and he was looking for someone to run it for him. He called Jack in to do the job, and within two years he’d made such a success of it he could afford to buy it from Alan outright. In time he’d also bought the Oyster Bar.

  ‘It’s bad, Harry…Anna and Sally. Tragic,’ he said. He gripped my arm and steered me to a vacant booth at the back of the pub. ‘Too public there,’ he said. ‘I guess you want to know if I’ve seen anything of Alan.’

  ‘You’ve heard he’s disa
ppeared then?’

  ‘I’ve not seen him, Harry. We had a falling out about a rum shipment a couple of weeks back. He hasn’t set foot in the place since.’

  I couldn’t keep up with all of Alan’s deals, but I knew he had some kind of arrangement with Jack and several other of the island’s bar owners. He’d buy cheap liquor in Cuba, bring it back to the island, where it would be rebottled, and then he’d pass it on to his outlets for a tidy profit. I’d always suspected the authorities knew about the deal but turned a blind eye to it. Alan Lancaster had a lot of clout in certain high places.

  ‘I take it you’ve tried his mobile phone?’ Jack said.

  ‘Switched off.’

  We sat down in the booth and Jack signaled for one of the barmen to bring us a bottle of wine.

  ‘You know Anna was packing up and moving out when it happened?’ I said.

  ‘You’re kidding me. Anna and Alan were like that.’ He crossed his middle finger over his index finger.

  ‘She was taking Sally to the airport for a flight back to the States when the car exploded.’

  Jack shook his head sadly. He was a man with three broken marriages behind him, and knew firsthand the emotional strain of wives walking out on husbands and taking the kids with them. It had happened to him. ‘Poor bastard,’ he said. ‘Who would have guessed?’ He stared me in the eye. ‘I reckon you’ve got the right idea, Harry boy. Never let yourself get tied down. Am I right or am I right?’

  ‘I learned that lesson a long time ago, Jack. Katy, remember?’

  ‘Little Katy…God, yes, I’d forgotten about her. The Lady of Pain. Lucky escape, Harry boy.’

  ‘Lucky for whom?’ I said under my breath. ‘Where do you think he’s gone, Jack?’

  ‘Alan? Haven’t got a clue, but I’ll give you a word of advice, Harry. Stay out of it.’‘So you do know something.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. But car bombs? That’s in a different league from a little liquor smuggling. The people who operate that ruthlessly deserve to be given a wide berth, a very wide berth indeed. Take it from me, Harry. You don’t want to get involved with it.’

  ‘I’ve got to try to help, Jack, and so do you. We’re friends, remember?’

  We talked some more, just general stuff, finished the bottle between us, and then I left. Some detective I’d make. My first and only lead had ended up a blind alley. I’d thought if anyone would have an idea where Alan had got to it would be Jack.

  6

  When we were kids growing up in Port Lucaya, we’d run together. But although Alan and I were best friends, it was always Jack I’d turn to in times of trouble. It was probably because Jack was the biggest of us. Six feet tall at thirteen, he’d acted as our protector from the local bullies.

  I hadn’t heard about their recent argument; Alan had said nothing about it, and Jack, by nature, didn’t tell you anything about his life unless you asked…and then it depended on whether or not he thought it was any of your business.

  I had a theory about Jack, and it was as much centered on his success in attracting women as it was in his failure to keep them. Sure he had gone through some difficult financial times, and he had a temper that flared when you least expected it, but I think it was more about expectations and ambitions. Although Jack and Alan were very different temperamentally, my theory was that Jack wanted to be Alan.

  Alan was a third generation Bahamian, his grandfather settling there from Liverpool, England back in 1910. Henry Lancaster had built up large shipping interests during the latter years of the Victorian era and, by the turn of the century, was one of the wealthiest men in the north of England. A severe asthma attack nearly killed him, and when he’d recovered he uprooted his family, and his fortune, and transported them halfway across the globe to settle in the colony. He based the family in Nassau and quickly established himself in business once more, at first in shipping, but then, more profitably, in oil.

  Sometimes it was hard to imagine the years that had passed since we’d lazed away time on the beach. Three very different boys had grown into three diverse and complex men. Tired and worried as I was, I wondered whether all we had in common was our past.

  Wearily I climbed back into the Jeep and headed home. Alan and Jack falling out, Anna about to walk out on Alan. It was starting to look like I didn’t know my friends half as well as I thought I did. It was a sobering thought.

  But only sobering in one way. I was feeling woolly headed. Jack’s cheap wine hadn’t helped, but basically I was exhausted and needed to sleep for a good eight hours. As I drove I realized I wasn’t hungry any more.

  Henry Lancaster’s son Robert had none of his father’s business acumen. When old Henry died and Robert took over the firm, things deteriorated pretty quickly. Robert was a gambler with a penchant for the ladies, on whom he liked to lavish expensive and wildly extravagant gifts. Soon the company’s balance sheets were decimated, and by the time Alan was old enough to assume control of the business, the Lancaster wealth had dwindled to a few hundred thousand dollars, and several pockets of apparently worthless real estate.

  Alan had a shrewd head for business, and within five years – during which time Robert Lancaster died of syphilis, a return gift from one of his young ladies – he’d turned the business around, and was making use of the real estate his financial advisers had deemed only useful as a tax loss. Hotel followed hotel, and tourists flocked conveniently to the island to fill them. Now Alan Lancaster was in the comfortable position of being one of the wealthiest men in the Bahamas; perhaps not yet in the same league as his grandfather, but getting there.

  Except his wife and daughter were dead, and he had disappeared.

  I pulled up outside the bungalow, and the first thing I noticed was the front door. It was hanging askew, having been smashed from its hinges. It was pretty remote – my nearest neighbor not within shouting distance – so I’d always taken precautions against a break in. Mortise deadlocks on all the doors, security latches on the windows.

  I got out of the Jeep and approached the door cautiously. The locks had held up well, but the door looked like it had been battered with a sledgehammer. I stopped outside the door and listened carefully for the sound of movement from within. All I heard were the waves breaking down on the beach and the spluttering cough of an outboard motor being coaxed into life, somewhere down by the harbor.

  I went back to the Jeep and rummaged under the seat until my fingers closed over the cool and satisfyingly heavy metal of a lug nut wrench. Feeling more comfortable with a weapon of sorts I approached the house again, pushed the smashed door aside, and entered. I groped on the wall for the light switch and flicked it on.

  The bungalow was deserted, but it was a complete shambles. The desk had been overturned, its drawers ripped out, papers scattered about the room. The couch had been slashed open, exposing the white filling and gunmetal springs. The same fate had befallen my favorite armchair. I wandered through to the bedroom, tripping over pieces of the mattress, which had also been gutted. The built-in wardrobe doors were wide open, and my clothes had been removed and dumped on the floor in a pile. I went across and picked up my leather aviator jacket. Someone had been busy with a knife tonight. The leather was shredded and the lining sliced open.

  I didn’t bother with the rest of the bungalow, as I guessed it would be in pretty much the same condition. Instead I found the phone, which had been kicked under the bed, sat down on the windowsill, and started to dial the number of the local police station. I was halfway through dialing when something caught my attention. I replaced the handset and stared out through the window. I could see The Lady of Pain moored in the harbor, but there was something else. There was a light burning in the wheelhouse.

  I moved to the wardrobe and searched the top shelf until I found my binoculars. That they were still there told me this was not just a simple burglary. They were made by Leica and had cost me half a week’s money. I took them across to the window and used them to look down to the ha
rbor. Then I threw them down onto the vandalized bed and bolted from the house.

  I reached the harbor, breathless, my heart racing, and jumped over the rail on The Lady’s aft deck.

  And I found Stevie. She was tied to the aft rail, her legs dangling down into the water.

  She was naked and bloody.

  She’d been crucified.

  7

  Stevie was barely conscious, but at least, thank God, she was still alive. Her arms were outstretched and secured to the rail by thin leather straps, tied so tight they were cutting into her skin. Her naked body was peppered with cigarette burns, and she’d been beaten about the face, leaving one eye red and puffy, the other blackened and nearly closed. A crust of dried blood had formed where her nose had been smashed, and her lips were swollen and split. I tried untying the straps but the knots were too tight, and as I fumbled with them Stevie moaned and opened her eyes.

  ‘Harry?’ she mumbled through her swollen lips.

  ‘It’s okay, I’m here,’ I said, and stroked her hair. ‘I’ll get you out of this.’

  ‘It hurts, Harry. It hurts.’ A small tear trickled down her bruised cheek. It was the first time I’d seen her cry since her father died.

  ‘Give me a second. I’m going to get my knife. I’ll have to cut you free.’

  She nodded in understanding and I went below to the cabin where I kept my gutting knife. The fact that the cabin hadn’t been ransacked the way the bungalow was could mean one of two things. The people who’d crucified Stevie had either been disturbed before they could search it, or they’d found what they were looking for. I dragged open the door of the locker that housed my charts and log book, and found the knife.

  It wasn’t easy slicing through the straps without cutting her, but I worked as carefully as I could, whispering words of encouragement as the knife bit into the leather.