Murder in Montego Bay

by Paula Lennon

  Preddy patrolled outside, surveying the grounds, his eyes invisible behind the dark shades necessary to keep out the blinding sunlight. Beneath his jacket he was armed and ready for the unexpected. He hoped that the criminals had enough respect for the dead not to interfere in this private, overwhelming moment of grief, or at least had the good sense to realise that the police would likely be present.

  Preddy found himself next to Harris. “Notice anything strange?”

  “If ye mean the dazzling multi-colours and the tight revealing clothes, I’ll have tae say, aye.” Harris removed his shades and polished them with his handkerchief before setting them back on his nose. “Blinding stuff out here.”

  Preddy was not sure whether Harris meant the weather or the women, but he had detected a twinkle in the foreigner’s eyes. “Dat’s Jamaica for you. We like to be different.”

  “Ye are certainly that.”

  Suddenly, Preddy craned his neck having recognised a familiar face in the crowd. He had not expected to see this man. Not even dark aviator shades could disguise Marcus Darnay’s heavy set features. He was in deep conversation with another man whom Preddy remembered from his days on the lottery scam taskforce. That team was created solely to investigate electronic crimes that had blossomed out of control in a very short space of time, catching the police and public completely unaware. Technology had done great things for Jamaica, however the parish of St James had become the headquarters of the advance fee fraudsters who targeted vulnerable people, usually retirees, mainly based in Canada and North America. These unwary people would either be emailed with a congratulatory message notifying them that they had won a large lottery prize, or telephoned if the scammer had been industrious enough to procure an international phone number.

  Preddy could just about get around the idea of the victim being scammed the first time around, but he was baffled that the victim would then wire more money because of some alleged snag and maybe even a third set of funds if the scammer said it was the final requirement. It came as no surprise to anyone on the force that a new anti-lottery scam bill became law. Everyone was aware of the pressure that was being brought to bear on the island by powerful countries whose citizens had suffered most. As far as Preddy was concerned St James must remain famous for its breath-taking beauty and not be diminished by the ugliness that some worthless citizens would like to smear on it.

  The detective could think of no reason why Darnay and his cohort would be at a high profile funeral like this, particularly when he had denied knowing the family. The two criminals stood at quite a distance from the mourners, dressed appropriately enough in black suits and ties. Either Darnay was getting careless or he was supremely confident that the murder could not be linked to him.

  Preddy left Harris and continued to scope the crowd until he spotted a crying man carrying a scrappy bouquet of wild flowers and kicking a car tyre. Preddy removed his glasses and made eye contact with Spence then gestured towards the man. She nodded almost imperceptibly and slowly made her way through the crowd toward the man. Preddy watched as they spoke, wishing he could lip-read. The man stopped kicking the car and stood weeping quietly with his head slightly bowed, while Spence stayed beside him.

  The repast was due to take place at the Doubloons where all hangers-on would be prohibited from entry, and Preddy made a decision not to venture onto the premises since the family had already hired extra security guards for the complex. Unknown to the detective, someone else was also busy surveilling the crowds that afternoon, someone seated in a car a good distance away and watching keenly through powerful binoculars.

  *

  The noise of high-pitched voices echoed long before Preddy was in touching distance of his front door. A tantalising odour of boiling coconut milk and thyme hung around the doorframe. Smiling broadly, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, accepting the disarray welcoming him in a manner that only an indulgent father could.

  Every inch of kitchen work surface was taken up by pots and pans as well as a variety of vegetables and spice bottles. Fourteen-year-old Annalee was going to show her father the latest dish that she had mastered and he was not looking forward to it. It was not that he doubted his daughter’s ability to cook; she and her brother successfully assisted him in cooking pots of food for the homeless persons’ kitchen from time to time. But he knew she was preparing a vegetarian meal and Preddy was a meat and fish sort of man. Sixteen-year-old Roman had also rolled his eyes when told that dinner would be courtesy of his sister and would be missing a vital red ingredient. He lay sprawled on the floor playing games on his phone, making no effort to assist the hardworking cook who loudly demanded that he pass the kitchen towel. The overhead fans and the air-conditioning unit were all on and Preddy turned off the unit before reaching towards the nearest window.

  “JPS,” was all he said.

  Annalee squealed loudly when it went off and turned to smile at her father. “Don’t you mean JCF, Dad?” She ran and hugged him with floury hands, leaving an imprint on his shirt.

  “No. I meant what I said. When you can pay JPS light bill you can turn everything on.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Roman, what a gwaan?”

  Roman looked up and grinned. “Me cool, Misser Officer!”

  The children had not seen their father for a week and the initial plan was to go out for a meal. That plan was scuppered by the forecast of heavy rain, but although the skies were heavily overcast and the humidity unbearable, the rains did not come. Having to stay indoors was annoying at the best of times. Having to stay indoors without meat was even worse, on this Roman and his father agreed, and when Annalee took a break to make a phone call, Preddy showed his son a large margerine tub containing jerked pork hidden in the back of the fridge. If all else failed there would be pre-cooked meat tonight.

  Roman had never seen Annalee use a grater before this evening and he expected to hear her yell when the coconut slipped as it surely would. She did stop a few times but there were no yelps of pain, she just gritted her teeth and started again more carefully. Preddy offered her the use of a high-speed blender which she turned down as she was determined to cook coconut rundown in the way that her grandmother cooked it. He knew that it was his mother who had suggested this meal, rather than his ex-wife who, like him, would just use the blender or add water to the powdered product, time being precious and all. He was glad that his daughter was trying out the good old-fashioned methods of cooking as they always tasted better.

  When the meal finally arrived to the table, the presentation was immaculate. Annalee had produced an impressive meal of boiled yellow yams, cornmeal dumplings and green plantains, served with gungo peas, cho-cho, red peppers and escallion cooked together in coconut rundown. Roman gave an exaggerated bow towards his sister before taking up a seat at the table. Preddy soaked his cornmeal dumpling in the coconut sauce and savoured a mouthful, nodding appreciatively at his daughter.

  Familiar reggae music played in the background and they sang along to the songs even when they did not know the words and laughed at their mistakes. They agreed to toss a coin to see who would undertake the mammoth task of washing up which Preddy lost by flicking a fake double-headed coin and calling tails. As he put away some of the uneaten food he smiled at the sight of the margerine tub that never made it out of the fridge. Nice one, Annalee.

  *

  “You alright, Dad?” Roman peered at his father through the half-darkness.

  Preddy rolled over and blinked at the slender silhouette reflected in his bedroom doorway. Gradually his eyes made out his son clad in pyjama bottoms with phone glued to his hand. The detective had briefly forgotten that the children were staying overnight with him, not that the knowledge would have deterred his dark dreams.

  “Alright, son. I wake you up? Sorry, about dat,” he mumbled. “Is Annalee okay?”

  “Yes, she still a sleep. Me no hear no movement from her room.”

  “You go back to bed son, everything cool.”<
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  “Eeh? You sound like somebody a beat you,” said Roman. “Is not de first time I hear you bawl out so.”

  “I’m fine, honestly. Gwaan go get your sleep, man. Nothing is wrong.”

  Roman departed reluctantly. As soon as the door shut, Preddy sat up in bed and wiped his wet brow with his forearm before reaching over the side table for the reading lamp. The clock told him it was nearly 2 a.m. He was getting used to this now, waking up at least once a week to the sound of bullets and people screaming. It had been like this ever since the bloody raid and the detective wondered when things would ever return to normal. All offers of counselling were rejected because he had assumed that with time the visions would go away, but they had not.

  The plan had been to arrive in Norwood with a show of force and take the wanted men by surprise. Coming quietly would be the only logical way out of their predicament—that was the thought anyway. Instead, the men failed to acknowledge the officers’ calls to come out with their hands up and movement was heard inside. A shot rang out from an unknown source. It caused a panic ripple effect within his six-man squad, resulting in the officers kicking down the door and firing blindly. Even as Preddy shouted at his men to hold fire, he watched as the youngest of the outlaws, at a mere eighteen years of age, collapsed to the floor in a pool of blood.

  He had held the dying youngster’s head up and begged him to breathe while witnessing him taking his last breath. The walls inside the house were pock-marked with bullet holes and blood, and brain matter spattered throughout. It was a sight that he could not erase from his mind.

  Another image that refused to fade was the face of the sole survivor who had stood in a corner hands above his head, urinating uncontrollably and begging for his life while awaiting execution. Death did not come to him that moment only because Preddy had stood in front of him while waving his men away. Even when hidden behind the sturdy detective, the man still screamed and pleaded not to be killed, so strong was his fear. At Preddy’s insistence, he reduced his cries to stifled whimpers. It was only when taken out of doors that the survivor fell completely silent. Outdoors he had good reason to believe that he would not be mown down in full public view.

  Two of Preddy’s team were injured by ricocheting bullets, although it was later discovered that the shots came from weapons in the hands of their own colleagues. The suspected men did not have guns on them, a fact mentioned more than once in the follow-up reports in the media. Preddy had argued that this was unknown at the time, and days later the officers had located the stash of guns buried under a thick stone slab in a chicken coop mere metres from the house.

  Preddy reached for a glass of water on his nightstand and downed it in one go. He folded his arms behind his head and lay back, watching the shadows of the tree branches playing on the ceiling.

  CHAPTER 12

  Wednesday, 29 July, 10:00 a.m.

  Preddy and Spence spent the early hours at Chinchillerz headquarters speaking to the staff. Ida and Terence had approved the visit and agreed not to be present. It was an opportunity the detectives could not afford to miss, not least because the police needed to be seen to be working on the case.

  None of the staff members had ever been interviewed by the police before. Some found it thrilling, others terrifying, and the rest were happy to escape from their stations for an hour. They gathered in the combined space of the canteen and games room, complete with pool table, flat screen TVs and bar. The employees were all dressed either in office wear or in gowns with white mesh caps covering their hair. The detectives were allowed to make a statement, requesting help and information in identifying possible suspects in Carter’s murder. Business cards were handed out. The employees wishing to speak with the officers on a one-to-one basis were invited to phone or visit Pelican Walk station as soon as possible.

  The detectives were then taken on a tour of the extensive factory floor with its giant walk-in freezers, cooling machines and countless plastic containers of varying sizes and shapes. Preddy had never seen so much gleaming metal in his life—stainless steel pipes and tubes were everywhere, and everything was whirring away demonstrating efficiency and precision. The work surfaces and floors were spotless. Rolls of food labels sat on the shelves carrying the distinctive red and orange logo of Chinchillerz. The aroma that permeated the air was a mixture of many fruits, some of which were easily identifiable, others not. Pineapple was the most distinctive, with soursop a close second and mango heavy in there too. Crocus bags full of citrus were stacked upon each other in one corner. A conveyor belt transported huge watermelons from one side of the factory to another where a machine resembling a guillotine bobbed up and down in anticipation. Long stalks of sugar cane were fed into a crusher by hand and the resulting juice caught up in a giant glass bottle. Whatever else was going on in the world, the multi-million-dollar operation of the Chinchillerz empire was functioning at full throttle.

  Miss Ida’s secretary showed them to the top floor of the three-storey administrative block which was quieter and even more modern. Light poured in through the wide skylights, giving the broad leafed plants below much needed energy. The family members had large offices next to each other, partitioned by solid walls, although the doors were made of transparent glass and all carried a name plate. Terence’s office was at the end, Ida’s next to his, then there was a space occupied by a juice fountain and a stack of ottomans. Beside that chill-out area was Carter’s office which adjoined Lester’s. On the opposite side of the corridor were offices belonging to the directors of finance, marketing and operations. All were male and tried to not raise their eyes from their file-strewn shiny desks as the detectives sauntered past.

  “Can you imagine if Pelican Walk did look like dis place?” whispered Spence in awe.

  “If only.” Preddy gave her a rueful smile. The public sector and the private sector would never play in the same league, let alone on the same field.

  Spence thanked the secretary for her assistance as she escorted them back to the car park. As the detectives drove away, Preddy was aware of being watched by various members of staff. One employee in particular had caught the detective’s eye earlier and the man was now visible in the rearview mirror, watching keenly—Arroun Fisalam, chief finance officer.

  Lester Chin Ellis also watched, unseen through the tinted windows of his chauffeur-driven car which passed Preddy’s on the long driveway. This was to be Lester’s first full day back at headquarters since the death of his brother, although he had popped in briefly once before to ensure that the incoming and outgoing deliveries were running to schedule. There was also the matter of the building of a children’s playground on land abutting Chinchillerz car park. The workmen needed supervision. If they moved on to another project he would have difficulty getting them back and he really wanted the playground to be completed for the children.

  His parents had not fully returned to work either, although they still conducted vital business from the confines of their home. It was at their insistence that he was being driven around by a chauffeur, despite the fact that his physical injuries were long healed and his mental scars would not be worsened by him driving a car. Eventually, he had just given in. They were great parents and it could only be a good thing that he did not have to anticipate the actions of erratic drivers on the road.

  Lester waved at the security guard and made his way through the masses of employee cars and company vans parked in the forecourt. He could still remember when his parents had bought the empty twenty-acre lot. Back then Carter and he had raced their dune buggies back and forth to the annoyance of the surveyors and contractors who were trying to lay the foundations. The sprawling building had taken nearly two years to build, and since the original structure went up they had added a much-needed staff relaxation zone. If people were giving their all, they deserved to have somewhere pleasant to unwind in.

  A brief smile played on his face as he recalled their mother’s indulgent treatment of them throughout their childhood
. She had even allowed her pre-teens to rename the business and they had had fun playing with names until finally agreeing to the change from Ice Island to Chinchillerz, although she had put her foot down at the idea of changing the logo to purple, his favourite colour at the time.

  Lester greeted the receptionist, wishing that she would stop using blue eyeshadow and deep red rouge on her cheeks. She was dark and lovely enough, but spoiled her beauty with her overdone make-up. He entered the lift, nodding at employees who smiled sympathetically at him, and emerged on the third floor. He passed his parents’ offices, which doors remained locked and lights out. A slight chill ran through him as he walked past Carter’s office towards his own. The layout of the floor had been his father’s idea. It was important that this tight family worked side by side and not divided by outsiders.

  Lester opened his door and sank into the plush leather chair while gazing around him. The walls were decorated with family pictures in between expensive artwork. It was more like a small suite rather than an office, with a long leather sofa and matching armchairs, coffee table, and small entertainment system. A lot of work was done in this room and the result of the last brainstorming session was still all over the room, on the whiteboard, on the desk and on prototype artwork for posters.

  The product developers had popped in bringing various blends of fruits for a possible new ice-cream flavour and had decided on a tamarind guava mixture with a hint of vanilla. The taste testing went down well particularly with Carter, who had finished off the three-ounce cup in a matter of seconds. The buttercup yellow colouring had to go though, as it looked more appetising as a much lighter shade of yellow. Try as they might they could not make anything tasty with avocado pear and had decided to scrap that idea completely. In any event, a public questionnaire resulted in a lot of negative responses to the idea of avocado yoghurt or ice-cream. Avocado was a savoury treat for eating with a good plate of cooked rice or hard dough bread or bulla cake they said, and not for mixing with milk and sugar.