by AJ Kirby
Mark was flabbergasted by his interrogation, but was also enjoying the attention, the interest in him.
Finally, and courteously, they all started to eat. The food had started to go cold, and it seemed that they were all waiting for Mark to make the first move. As soon as he reached for that first portion of Sonouk - for which he had developed a real taste - suddenly, everyone’s hands were tucking in. For once in his life, Mark was not scared of eating in front of somebody else. He felt at home; he even began asking questions himself, despite the fact that his mouth was still full.
‘I really like your house and all of the others too. Having said that, can you tell me why all of the houses around here still have steel poles sticking out of them? It’s as though they are still in the process of being built.’
Mauritia laughed. So did her father; they both had exactly the same, uncontrollable whooping-cough chuckle. ‘Mark, have you not seen that most of the houses on this side of the island are like that. You see, we don’t have to pay any tax for unfinished buildings, and therefore everyone leaves theirs in semi-derelict states. It’s not just the foreigners coming here who are on a tax-dodge!’
They talked the night away, sometimes everyone talking over each other, sometimes there’d be periods of quiet reflection. Mark reflected that it couldn’t have been more different from the last time he’d sat down to eat with a large group of people; the Last Supper at Di Maggio's. Here, there was none of that affectation, that showing off verbal skills as if they were the dolphins training for their one great display. Mark felt secure here.
How to lay a trap
Jim Hunter wasn’t exactly sure what he would do if and when he found the criminals responsible for the heist at Edison’s Printers. How could he explain to his former colleagues that although he’d known the names of the three men responsible, he’d not informed the relevant authorities or gone through anything like the correct channels? He knew that he couldn’t very well make a citizen’s arrest. He questioned his own motivation; what was he planning to do? Was he going to kill them?
Whatever, the company of Ruth Sharp certainly bought him a cover story; he could have simply been in Mauritius innocently, on holiday with his girlfriend…
Ruth Sharp had been engrossed in the in-flight movies; a procession of crime capers which seemed too close to the knuckle for Jim to bear. Jim had instead occupied himself with reading Mauritius guidebooks, and taking advantage of the free drinks from the trolley. His knees started to ache, though; he was squeezed almost unnaturally into the tiny seats in Standard Class. He could have bet that his criminals would not have had to put up with such discomfort. Two standard tickets had been all his meagre police pension could stretch to now that he was on unpaid suspension from his security job at the printers.
Ruth kept nudging him, pointing at the small screen on the back of the chair in front which was showing the films. She had an almost childish excitement at their impending adventure. She’d been like that on the previous day, when she’d accompanied him, as designated driver, on a couple of visits to case-related locations. She’d only had two vodkas, Jim had reasoned; by that point, he’d sunk probably his whole week’s worth of units.
She’d giggled as they had used a credit card to bypass the Yale lock on Mark Birch’s front door in Wortley. The man had clearly left in a hurry. His cupboards were still full, drawers were open; their contents upended onto the floor, and there was a pile of post which almost blocked the front door. Jim opened some of the letters; most of them appeared to relate to a recent funeral, and the arrangements to pay for it. There was also a hand-written letter from Mark’s mother, thanking him for some money. She claimed that she’d been able to put a deposit down on a flat in a much nicer area… Again Jim felt that the net was closing in on the criminals.
The Ruth Sharp and Jim Hunter team had also visited Danny Morris’s house in Chapel Allerton. When they’d approached the front door, they saw that it had been boarded up by two planks of wood. A note from a debt-collection company was nailed to the middle of the door. It said that the house had been repossessed for non-payment of the mortgage.
Was this a reason why they’d committed the crime? To help them out of the hole of bad debt which they’d seemingly dug for themselves? A phone call to Chris Parker’s landlord had confirmed that he too had deserted his home; leaving a stack of unpaid rent cheques; he’d closed his bank account.
The trap was closing; he could feel it.
When Hunter finished reading the guidebooks, he sat around impatiently for a while and then asked Ruth if he could read her copy of the free newspaper that they’d handed out on boarding the plane. It was a broadsheet and therefore incredibly difficult to read without resting one page on the lap of the passenger to his right and one page half-folded over so Ruth Sharp could still see the small screen in front of her. Soon though, the practical aspects of reading the paper were put out of his mind. As soon as he read the headline of the third page, in fact.
Edison’s security guard out of coma; is quizzed by police, it blared. Hunter devoured the text. He learned that Callum Burr had responded well to treatment and had started to breathe without the aid of a machine. As soon as he’d started to talk, the police had been in to see him. There was no news, as yet, about what had been discussed. But Hunter knew that all of the questions would be geared towards his connection with the Wardle crew; the fact that he and a member of the gang were team-mates on the ex-forces rugby team. They were still casting their lines into the wrong bloody stretch of water.
But at least Callum Burr had survived. At least he would not have the death on his conscience any more. Absently, he wondered whether the news had reached Mauritius yet.
The fifth page of the newspaper bore more interesting news. It contained information that Hunter may well be able to use. Apparently, a North Yorkshire business called Parker’s Fine Foods had been outed by a reporter from the Yorkshire Post newspaper. They’d been linked to the death of a schoolchild and to local organised crime networks. Mal Parker, the owner of the company, faced prosecution. And Mal Parker, as Hunter knew, was none other than Chris Parker’s father. The net was closing, and closing fast. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place.
The plane had landed at Port Louis Airport, from which they’d taken a taxi to the town of Rose Hill. Throughout the journey, Ruth kept pointing out places where she’d been on her previous visit. Jim Hunter was only interested in one thing from her previous visit, and that thing was actually a person. The Dodo. He wondered how they’d be able to track the man down once they arrived in Rose Hill. It wasn’t like he would be advertising his services in the phone book, or on one of those huge hoardings which flanked the road.
Luckily, Ruth’s enthusiasm and wealth of innate practicality brought him back in line.
‘I know you’re worried, but listen, the Dodo is something of a local celebrity. Somebody here is going to know how to track him down, as long as we ask the right questions.’ She rubbed two of her fingers against her thumb, indicating that they might have to resort to bribery. ‘Also, if you’re right that the criminals are going to need somebody to unlock this money printer, then somebody round here might have seen them. It’s still barely in-season here; foreigners are going to stick out like a sore thumb.’
Hunter admired the rational way in which her scientific mind worked and worked at a problem until it found a solution. He agreed with her. The first thing they needed to do was find a hotel, and then they start the search.
They found a reasonably well-priced hotel – more of a boarding house in actual fact - close to the town’s main square, and as Jim was hunting around in his hand luggage for his foreign currency, Ruth had engaged the receptionist in conversation.
‘We’re actually looking for our three friends; three English men. We’re supposed to be meeting them here. We’re doing some scientific research.’
The receptionist raised her eyebrow, perhaps alarmed at the particu
lar nature of the ‘scientific research’, but then she nodded.
‘I have only just arrived here for the summer season. This is my second day of work… I can ask one of the maids when she comes; she cleans at other hotels too… they might have stayed there. Tell me, do you not have contact numbers for them?’
‘We want it to be a surprise,’ cracked Jim, who had now risen from his root around in his bag and was now holding a fan of crisp Mauritian rupee notes at the receptionist. ‘Sorry, take the right money - I trust you- I just never get the hang of foreign money.’
After three hours of walking round and round in circles in the town, Hunter needed a drink, and badly. They retired to a small bar in the main square and ordered two of the local rum drinks which Ruth had told him so much about. Hunter played nervously with the ashtray, unable to meet Ruth’s eyes; he still liked her, but wasn’t sure what the situation was with her husband, and was too afraid to ask.
With a nervous twitch, he suddenly dropped the ashtray off the edge of the table, and all-apologies reached to pick it up. It was only when he raised his head from under the table cloth that he realised what had been underneath the ashtray. It was a small white business card with the black silhouette of a Dodo on it; on the back was an e-mail address and nothing else. He waved it in front of Ruth’s face.
‘Is this his calling card?’
Ruth sighed, ‘Jim, do you not realise how much people here trade off the Dodo image? It’s like bulls in Spain, or the haggis in Scotland; you find them everywhere. This might very well be a bloody pottery shop or a sugar cane factory for all we know.’
‘But it’s a start!’ cried Jim excitedly. ‘Come on, let’s find an internet café!’
For once in his life, Jim Hunter left behind an unfinished drink.
The search for an internet café proved just as difficult as their previous search, and eventually, they were pointed back to their own hotel by a helpful store-keeper. The store had been called Dodo Jewellery; Jim had almost laughed.
It was Ruth that took control of operating the computer back at the hotel; Jim still had an ingrained fear of them; a fear of the unknown. She opened up her roving e-mail account and clicked on ‘New Message’, then stopped.
‘What the hell can we write? We can’t just put that we’re looking for a computer hacker, and then ask them if they are one…’
‘Just type in the e-mail address and put something like “We need your help.” Let’s see what we get back..’
Jim was gasping for a drink again now; he felt so useless - like a spare part- that a drink might actually help the situation. He was supposed to be the one conducting the investigation, and yet here Ruth was, doing it all without him. Ruth’s fingers moved rapidly across the keys. In a blur, she’d sent the message.
‘Well, nothing we can do now, but sit back and wait. Fancy a drink?’
She had seemingly read Hunter’s mind; was there no end to her talents? He watched her walk out of the computer room towards the bar. She walked as though she was on a catwalk, gyrating her hips and rolling her shoulders seductively. Jim once again marvelled at the one particular talent which had attracted him in the first place; her powerful self-confidence. He’d never felt guilty about their affair because he knew that she could handle the emotional turmoil in a way he never could; she had an ability to compartmentalise. It was all a part of her scientific brain. Conversely, Jim had fallen apart when the affair had ended; once his wife had left him, it had shattered the idea that he could simultaneously move across different worlds.
All of a sudden, a yellow envelope symbol flashed up in the corner of the screen with a ping; an incoming e-mail. It shook Jim out of his reverie; he began to panic. He didn’t want to grab the mouse and then somehow delete the incoming message, but then he really wanted to be the first to read it. Other thoughts spun through his mind; what if it was a private message from her husband?
Gently, his long fingers enclosed the mouse and he gingerly moved the cursor across the screen towards that yellow envelope.
Then, before he could stop himself, he double-clicked, and the envelope expanded to fill the screen. Adjusting his eyes to the white background, he immediately registered who the e-mail was from; in the address line was the legend - [email protected] Jim silently punched the air and then read the message:
Hello weary travellers,
Thank you for requesting my help in the correct fashion. I will require further detail before I can action this, however.
Dodo
Jim was taken aback; how did this man know that they were weary travellers? Granted he would have been able to see that the initial e-mail was sent from an English e-mail address, but how did he know that they were not in England? Intrigued, Jim clicked on the ‘Reply’ tab and slowly, one finger at a time, he began to type his response.
Thank you for your swift response, Mr. Dodo. You are a hard man to find. I will need to speak with you in person however so that I can outline the exact requirements.
Jim was still wary about giving too many details out; he knew that he could be talking to a practical joker. Quick as a flash, another yellow envelope symbol appeared, and this time, Jim had no qualms about opening it up.
I appreciate that this may be a difficult job then, sir. I will meet you in one hour at my house. Simply follow the trail of Dodos. And enjoy your drink. She’s put Diet Coke in it. I think she worries about you.
At that very moment, Ruth Sharp walked back into the room carrying what looked like two rum and cokes. Jim’s jaw dropped; how could the man have known? He must be somehow watching them. He craned his neck to survey the ceiling and the walls, looking for a camera.
‘He’s watching us, Ruth,’ Hunter whispered, a little shaken.
‘What? Who is? The Dodo? What are you talking about?’ Ruth carefully deposited the two overflowing glasses onto the computer desk. ‘Forget about that, you’re just being stupid.’
Hunter shook his head, trying to reopen the e-mail to show her. Frustrated, he picked up the glass of rum and coke and lifted it to his lips.
‘I’m sorry Jim,’ said Ruth, quickly. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you, but I know that you’ll be able to tell. I got Diet Coke instead of Coke; I know that you hate Diet Coke.’
Jim slammed the glass down and shouted back at her, making her jump backwards. ‘That’s exactly what the Dodo said! He told me that just before you came into the room. There’s a camera in here…’
Ruth spotted it straight away; a red light was just about discernable, right there, in the middle of a statue of a Dodo which was propping open the door.
They talked as they walked; Jim filling her in on the e-mail conversation and the trail of Dodos that they were supposed to follow in order to find their contact’s house. This time, for once, Jim’s attention to detail proved to be the key element in solving the riddle. They had passed a tall whitewashed wall and Jim had been alerted to some graffiti which was almost hidden by some weeds growing at the bottom. He had the policeman’s eye for spotting things which were out of the ordinary, and this was the first example of graffiti that he’d seen in Mauritius. He bent down to inspect the drawing, and saw that it was the black spray-painted caricature of a Dodo; the exact replica of the one on the business card which they’d found in the café.
Once Ruth knew the game, she became an expert very quickly. Soon, she’d identified the second and third Dodo symbols; one on a high kerbstone, and the second on a large metal bin. Hunter could barely keep up with her now; she was on a roll, loving every minute of it. He saw her crouch down by a lamp-post, and then turn and give him the thumbs-up. She was almost dancing her way through the streets now, sashaying from one side of the road to the other, keen eyes surveying every gate, every trellis, and every garden wall. Hunter saw that they had turned into a wide avenue of imposing, white colonial houses.
Suddenly, all of the cars in the driveways were Rolls Royce or Jaguar. He wasn’t usually one to take notice of car
s, but his attention was drawn to the low-slung two-seater which was in the driveway of one particular house. It was identical to that belonging to Steve Elton back in Morley. Ruth came to stand by his side as he stared at it.
‘I’m sorry Jim,’ she said, ‘I seem to have lost the trail. I’ve walked right to the end of this street, and there’s no more Dodos, I’m sure of it.’
But Jim was still staring at the racing car; instead of the usual silver lady on the back, the badge in this case was a small, black Dodo.
As Jim and Ruth approached the palatial entrance-way to the house, a small, wispily bearded man came out to greet them.
‘Ah Mr. Hunter, I’ve been expecting you. Do come in,’ he said, waving his hand towards the open front door.
‘How do you know my name? Have you been watching us? Are you the Dodo?’ The questions streamed from Jim like a river which had broken its dam.
‘One thing at a time, Mr. Hunter,’ said the small man, shepherding them towards his front room. ‘I think you need to see something.’
He led them into the darkened front room, and as Jim’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw a massive wall of monitors; it was bigger even than that of the MMC at Edison’s Printers. The small man smiled, and patted Hunter on the arm.
‘Yes, Mr. Hunter, I can confirm that I am the Dodo. Now, how can I help you?’
Although he was expected to respond, Jim was staring speechlessly at the images on the monitors; he saw the grainy image of the hotel’s computer room, and then, next to it, an image of the bar. On another screen was an image of a much plusher hotel room which had a fantastic tapestry hanging on one of the walls.
‘That’s the Midas Hotel,’ Ruth almost shouted, pointing at the same image which Jim had been looking at. ‘How do you get all of these pictures?’