“That yacht, motherfuckin’ Teresa, that his?”
“Hey boss, I don’t know who owns what. I just spend my days fishing here.”
“You seem to do a lot other than fishing. You seem to notice a lot.”
“Okay! I notice he goes on that boat sometimes. Doesn’t mean he owns it.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that about the ships that Michael Connelly supposedly owns?”
“I don’t know.”
I let him drop. “Thanks. You’ve been very informative.”
I hopped back in the car and flew like a one-winged bird back to the motel. I’d come back down tomorrow, bring my lock picks, bring something, some way to get in, maybe a bit of fake ID, see if the harbormaster wouldn’t let me have a look around the boat. I’d have to get up real early to do that, before the funeral, before I pick Ed up. He hadn’t called, or asked for me to collect him from the police station. I assumed he’d decided to spend the night there.
Chapter 17
The Key
I fumbled in my pocket for the key that I’d asked for earlier. It was right where I’d left it, still there, and my clothes had finally dried out. I turned the key in the lock, opened the door, pushed it in. The dark, dank smell of my sweat and self-loathing greeted me.
There were footsteps behind me. I turned, and a waiter walked past. I grabbed him by the elbow before he had time to get out of range. “Excuse me.”
He didn’t look like he thought being yanked backwards by the clientele was part of his job description, but he was well enough trained to politely answer, “Yes?”
“Can you grab me a bottle of whiskey?”
He nodded dubiously; maybe my reputation for not paying my bills had made it all the way to the back-end of this one-star inn, but he stretched off down the hallway. Hopefully to get me some.
I stepped back inside and flicked on the light, took off my coat, threw it onto the bed, onto a pile of other clothes—except I realized too late that the other clothes had a body inside them and that body wasn’t breathing.
I pulled my coat off it, threw the garment onto the floor. A big man lay there; my new friend Pavel. I slapped him hard and slapped him hard again. He didn’t wake up. I pulled his eyelids up, put a finger, two fingers to his neck, checked for a pulse. He wouldn’t ever wake up again.
I went through his pockets, went over his fingers, looked for rings, necklaces, jewelry, wallets, anything—anything of value, that is. There was nothing. They’d stripped him before they’d killed him—or maybe after; who knew?
I rolled him over onto his ample belly and felt in his back pocket. I was starting to think I’d become a bad talisman, some kind of jinx. People around me kept turning up dead. I felt awkward about digging, but it paid off because I drew out, on a long thin strand of ribbon, a single key. I put the key in my pocket, turned off the light, closed the door.
The girl in the office looked up when I walked in. “Is there another motel like this in town somewhere, just as cheap and dodgy?” I asked hopefully.
She shook her head, ignored me. “There’s nothing like that around here, sir, just this fine establishment.”
So I was stuck, apparently.
“What about another room?”
She told me to piss off until I paid the bill on the one I was currently in.
I poked my tongue out at her when she turned around. She didn’t see. And I didn’t tell her anything else.
I just stalked back up to my room and the dead man in my bed.
Chapter 18
Hangover
I woke up next to two empty whiskey bottles and a dead man. I don’t recommend doing that. Pavel was looking worse for wear, worse than he had last night anyway, and my head feeling like it had been through a blender didn’t help. I freaked out, scrabbling back from him, remembered last night, and realized that the police hadn’t come yet. They mustn’t have known about my dead roommate. It wouldn’t be easy to live with this for long; he was starting to get whiffy. I didn’t think I could do another night even.
I felt dirty and I was dirty. I was still in my clothes that had been drenched yesterday. I took them off, hopped in the shower, turned the heat up high, let the steam wash my soul. I cleansed my body, lathered up, had a shave and a vomit.
I regretted setting my alarm for so early, but then there was no way I was going back to sleep next to that thing. I rummaged around on the floor for some relatively clean clothes, put them on, found my press ID, my lock picks, put them in my pocket, made sure I had poor old Pavel’s key. I had no idea what it would open, but I knew it had been left for a reason. Maybe there were some other signs, some other kind of clue on the body. Maybe I’d missed it last night. I wasn’t my best self. I wasn’t completely sober.
I began the grim task of undressing Pavel. He was a big man; it took a long time, and I started to regret not doing this before I’d had my shower. Too late now, I thought.
When I took off the big man’s left shoe, a folded note and a wave of foot odor fell out. I unfolded the note. The handwriting was scrawling and I could barely read it.
My phone buzzed. I put the note down and picked up my phone. The screen lit up with a dozen messages. It seems Hathaway had been trying to get ahold of me. He could wait.
I finished undressing the big man. His clothes would have to be burned. I picked up the note again. It said, She sells seashells by the sea shore. My first thought was that Pavel was struggling with his remedial literacy class, and then I figured it must be code for something important enough to hide in your shoe. Important enough to die for.
It wasn’t clear whether the ‘she’ being referred to was Sarah Jones or Gemma Jones or the cigarette girl on the boat or Rebecca Lancaster, or whether it referred to someone I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting or the displeasure of finding dead.
I pulled the sheets down, out from under Pavel’s body, lifted them up over him, rolled him over so that just the top of his head was visible from the door, just that bald spot on the back of his head—that might buy me some time if anyone came in while I was out—and I stepped into the early morning sun. It was blinding and didn’t do any favors to my sore head. My editor’s rental car was still there, parked on a precarious angle across the parking space in front of the motel room.
I pressed the button on the remote and the lights lit up, disappeared, lit up again. I hopped in. I fumbled with my phone as I drove, trying to call Hathaway.
“Senior Sergeant Hathaway.”
I could barely hear him. The speaker wasn’t good. I turned up the volume. “It’s your favorite customer here.”
“You’ll have to enlighten me,” said Hathaway.
“Ray Hammer.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Where the hell are you?”
“I thought you had your guys following me.”
“I did,” he said, “but I’ve got one of your guys down here. Your editor spent the night in a cell. He’s ready to be picked up.”
“I’ll be there as early as I can make it.”
Hathaway didn’t like that. “You be here as soon as I want you here.”
“And when’s that?” I said.
“Five minutes.”
“Make it 50,” I said.
“Make it 10,” said Hathaway, “or he’ll end up black and blue.”
I didn’t fancy having Ed along for the ride to the marina, given the amount of shit he put me through so far. I didn’t mind if they gave him a little bit of a rubbing up. I came to the junction and took a ride down towards the marina, away from the city, away from the cop shop. My editor would have to wait. His wife might not forgive me, but then again, I can be pretty persuasive in bed.
There was no one around when I arrived. The restaurants were still closed and the fishing vessels had left much earlier. The fisherman I’d seen on the dock yesterday was no longer there. Turns out he did sleep, after all.
I walked along a pier until I got down to the
big gate, looked around, checked behind me. No one there. I wasn’t convinced though, pretty sure Hathaway still had his boys on me. He would’ve sent them back to the hotel and they definitely would have followed me out this morning. They probably already reported back that I wasn’t doing as I’d been asked.
I pulled out my picks and torque wrench, gave the wrench a little twist, played around with a couple of the picks. The first two I tried didn’t work. They just jiggled the locks, couple of pins went up, but that was it. Must’ve been one of those security locks, the expensive kind. The kind that actually worked. I tried one of the double-headed things, gave it another go.
Eventually the tumbler turned in the lock. I pulled the handle. I was into the marina but I still had to get into the yacht. There’s nothing quite like the thrill and the terror of breaking into something or somewhere.
I reached the boat with La Madre Teresa scribbled down the side in painfully bright pink. The yacht was gargantuan up close and I couldn’t see an easy way to get aboard. I ran my hand along the side of it, trailed it up to the bow and then back down. There was a point where I could possibly reach the rail if I jumped. It must’ve been the way the captain got aboard before his crew was allowed to embark. I gave it a shot, jumped up, missed the rail, slammed my face into the side of the boat, landed on my sore ankle, and only just managed not to bawl for my mama. Tried again. This time I caught my left hand over the rail. I wasn’t feeling strong today. Could have something to do with the empty whisky bottles rattling around in my motel room. I tried to pull myself up, fell back down, tried again, fell back down. Eventually, I managed to get my foot—my bad foot—up over the edge, hook it in under the rail and lift myself up one aching centimeter at a time.
I rolled over onto the deck. A boat like this, I thought as I looked around, would be the perfect place to hide a young girl and dismember her bit by bit; nobody to hear you and it was probably well stocked with the perfect medicine cabinet or first-aid kit that could secure her body while you were cutting off bits.
The interior was flashy—leather seats, few berths. These were all makeshift ones that you’d use if you had not enough room inside the cabin. I walked around, checked out the deck. I needed to know why Sarah and Gemma had been on here with Michael and what Andy Duffy had been doing taking that photo, why it mattered. The tongue twister on the note also seemed like it had something to do with the marina—or at least being down here by the bay—and being on the water was just as good an option as anything else.
I tried the door to the main berth. It was locked, of course. I tried the key. It didn’t turn. I considered getting out my picks and then thought better. Maybe I’d kick it in. But no, that didn’t make sense. You want to leave as little evidence as possible. But, the way Michael Connelly had treated me that first night in Gibraltar, I didn’t really care if I damaged his property. But I did care if I damaged my foot.
I got my picks out, played around, eventually got the lock open, and entered the cabin. I stepped down the stairs and into the darkness. There was an oppressive air. It felt stale as if no one had been in here for a long time. It didn’t smell of anything in particular, just that stale smell you get when people haven’t been around. It’s the kind of smell that you’d get in a cave, not quite a guano smell but the smell of damp and nothing else.
I fumbled around for a light switch and, when I couldn’t find one, I flicked on the torch on my phone. It illuminated the space well enough. There were more leather chairs down here, a whole suite of them circling a large table. On the middle of the table sat a fake plant. Clearly, it didn’t get any light down here, but it still looked green and had a fine layer of dust over the leaves. Other than that, there wasn’t much: a small kitchen, stove, oven, couple of glasses hanging from the racks, and then a hallway that led off to two bedrooms.
I opened the door to the first bedroom. It looked clean, empty, untouched. I tried the second one. It was locked. I tried the key again. Still no luck. My lock picks did their usual job and I was inside in a moment. This room also hadn’t been touched, not for a long time. The layer of dust in here was almost twice that in the living area.
My phone's screen lit up and let out a piercing ring. I hit decline; it lit up again. It was Hathaway, no doubt pissed that I’d refused to get there in ten minutes, that I hadn’t met his demands.
I found the light switch and flicked it, but nothing came on. I looked around a little bit more, opened another door—this one not locked—revealing a bathroom, a sea toilet ready to go. Quite a nice shower, but no bath. Did they even have baths on things like this? I imagined the rich, the luxurious, were quite able to pay for something like that. Why you’d want to soak in brine for a few hours while you sit on the ocean was beyond me.
I had a look in some of the cupboards in the first room. This seemed like the most likely one to have been used recently. There was nothing much—a few pairs of shoes, a couple of jackets, nothing in the pockets.
I got down on my hands and knees and had a look under the bed. There was a case down there. I pulled it out; a briefcase, flipped it open on the bed. I recognized it immediately; a Beretta M9, beloved of the US armed forces, and one of the best friends I could’ve had back in the day. I smiled to myself at the memory; not that I had a weapon now . . . if only I could remember how to put it together. I reached out and stroked the barrel, gently, as if I was getting to second base with a shy girl.
The phone rang. I hit Decline. It rang again.
I slammed the briefcase shut, slid it under my arm. There’d be time for that. I needed to see what else I could find and get off this damn boat.
Soon it wasn’t just Hathaway calling; Ed’s number flashed on the screen, and that reminded me that today was Andy Duffy’s funeral, and that it wouldn’t just be my editor there. Duffy’s wife would have flown out, too, and I owed her at least an explanation. He was here working with me when he died, doing what he loved, well, at least what he tolerated for a payday. He was a good photographer. He had the knack, knew where to go, knew how to get the pictures, how to frame them, how to sell them. I’m sure Dan Branson would have appreciated one of his pictures on the front of the paper, maybe not in the light that we would have shed it but, still, he had a penchant for his own image, and Andy Duffy’s photos could be compelling even if casting a bad light.
I decided to have more of a look around the dusty room. There was a little bit more in here, but it was all older, fashions that were outdated, women’s things—knickers; stilettos; long, flowing evening gowns; sequins; and dust.
My phone buzzed again and I answered just to shut them up, just to stop the messages and the notifications of missed calls coming through. Ed’s voice grated down the line at me. “Thank God! I’ve been trying to get you all morning. Well, Hathaway has, but I’m out of there now. Can you come get me?”
I didn’t answer, just breathed in, breathed out. And that’s when I smelt it, the faint hint of something suspiciously like gas—butane, maybe. I took a step back, out of the room, ducked down quickly. Nothing under the bed. And then, I noticed it, on the nightstand, a package wrapped perfectly, tied with a bow at the top, odd in a place that hadn’t been touched for so long, its own layer of dust over the bow and over the top of the package. I picked it up, replaced the briefcase under my other arm and let the case swing from my hand. I stepped out of the room. The smell of gas was increasingly strong. I felt my head lighten a little bit. The headache wasn’t so bad now, but what that meant or could mean to me was worse.
“I’ll call you back,” I said into my phone, and shoved it into my pocket. Gas and electronic devices did not keep good company.
I crouched low to avoid most of the fumes and realized they were coming out of the bottom of the cabinet, near the kitchen. A gas canister must have begun to leak. I held my breath and made a dash for the stairs. I took them two at a time, crashed through the door onto the deck. As I opened the door, the sunlight beamed in.
I looke
d back down at the cabin, wondering whether I’d missed anything, and noticed that the light was shining on the mirror and focusing on the floor. A slight sizzling sound was coming from the carpet—and then a spark and then an explosion, and I was lying on the far end of the deck. As flames leapt up all around, the heat swept over me, a wave that singed my hairs and brought an acrid stench to my mouth and a taste behind my tongue. I had to get off here. My phone buzzed in my pocket again. I yanked it out and threw it into the ocean.
Chapter 19
Questions
“Where the hell have you been?” Ed blustered as I threw the hire car up onto the curb and opened the door before I’d even had the chance to come to a complete stop. I didn’t bother to answer. Even though I’d done my best to clean up after I’d all but ziplined down the boat’s mooring line and bolted from the scene before the looky-loos came running. I was as cooked as an over-easy egg and would need globs of aloe vera gel to soothe my aching skin. It wasn’t a good day for bullshit questions.
He stepped in, settled in the shotgun seat, grabbed the gift-wrapped package off the seat, dropped it on the floor, then dumped the briefcase down on top of it. Since there was no tinkling of glass breaking, I could assume the gift package didn’t contain a Waterford crystal vase.
He poked the package with his toe. “Is that for me?”
“When was the last time I got you a gift?” I asked.
“Fair call,” he said.
I wondered if he’d even notice I smelled like the kitchen of a Louisiana grill shack, but he was too self-absorbed to even think of me.
“So?”
“So what?” I said.
“The funeral’s not till ten. We’ve got time.”
I glanced at the clock. It was 9:54.
The Spill: The Beach Never Looked So Deadly (A Ray Hammer Novel Book 1) Page 8