by Paula Lennon
“What does run robot mean?” asked Harris.
“A robot taxi is an illegal taxi,” said Preddy. “Usually a private vehicle dat drivers use to run a public passenger service without a license.”
Harris nodded knowingly. “Och, that would explain why we havenae heard from the driver who picked Carter up from Pelican Walk and took him tae the SUV. He’s running a robot.”
“Possibly, and with no tax and no insurance,” said Rabino.
“Plenty of people do dat foolishness,” added Spence. “And a so dem love kill off passenger wid dem bad driving, but de same passenger complain when you stop de car and tell dem to get out.”
Rabino donned a pair of white gloves and carefully opened the charred trunk pieces of which crumbled in her hands. “I’ll get the crime scene officers to see if they can recover any bullets. We have a set to compare them to.”
Preddy put his head through the rear passenger window which was now glass free. He scrutinised the remaining bits of soggy foam on the backseat.
“Darnay lucky him didn’t get shot. See, dere is a hole in dis seat,” he said, pointing.
Although Preddy had been able to deter the press from releasing the make and model of car at the outset of the investigation he had not reckoned with the traffic police in this instance. They had already alerted the media to the discovery of the car—to score well-needed points no doubt—without thinking of the consequences. The news folk did not play by the same rules as the police force and newsflashes had already started appearing. Darnay’s phone was now going straight to voicemail.
Superintendent Brownlow was informed of the latest development and sounded relieved that something was happening. Preddy knew his superior well and detected from his voice that all was not as it should be, although he decided not to push it. The man was probably still seething from the Hip Strip debacle.
CHAPTER 21
Monday, 10 August, 3:20 p.m.
The detectives had resorted to keeping a close eye on Marcus Darnay’s two paramours. With a common law wife and children at home, and a girlfriend who had given birth to his baby last year, he was sure to turn up. Preddy did not believe the claim that Darnay had gone to Miami to buy car parts. None of the airports had any record of him leaving the island, and US Customs had no evidence of him entering the country. Neither of his women was able to explain this mystery and Preddy did not have time to waste with them.
Spence had been alerted by a neighbour that Darnay was at his girlfriend’s home, which led her and Preddy to set off towards the woman’s residence. They discreetly parked their unmarked car a few doors away, near to a primary school.
Spence noticed two small girls holding hands after getting off a packed minibus and assumed that they must have been squashed as their green uniforms were quite crumpled. They reminded her of her own two daughters. The detective quickly picked up pace and reached the children before they attempted to cross the busy road. She made eye contact with an approaching driver who immediately slowed down. She held their hands, one child on each side, and guided them across, watching as the security man let them through the school gate. The smaller of the two girls turned and waved at her shyly before dashing off up the drive behind her schoolmate.
The apartment block had three storeys and at least thirty individual units. It was painted a garish shade of salmon that the hardware shop must have been glad to see the back of. They walked up two flights of stairs and Spence pointed to the door marked 18. As the detectives approached the front door of the flat, Preddy noted that there did not appear to be a second exit through which anyone could escape if they chose to run. The twenty-foot drop would be a bad idea. A young woman opened the door in response to Spence’s knock.
“Yes, what happen?” she asked, bouncing her plump baby on her hip.
“Good morning, ma’am. Good morning, little man,” Spence tickled the baby under his chin and he giggled. “My name is Detective Spence and dis is Detective Preddy. We are looking for dis man.” Spence waved Darnay’s photograph in front of the woman’s face.
“Is my babyfather dat. Him not here.” The woman glared at Spence.
“Where is he?” asked Spence.
“You no hear say him gone to foreign?” Her objection to the question was clear from her tone. “Me tell one a you dat yesterday when you a blow up me phone wid question.”
“We have reason to believe dat a person matching dis description was seen entering your premises about an hour ago,” said Preddy.
“A who tell you dat? Dem people round here fas’ eeh!” She switched the child to her other hip.
“We can come inside and look?” asked Spence.
Before the woman could answer all three of them heard the sound of a creaking door inside the apartment.
“Who is here wid you?” asked Preddy.
“Is me and me baby alone deh here.”
“Lady, if you are harbouring a criminal it going bad for you, you know,” Preddy said.
“Me tell you say him not here!”
“You smell something, Detective?” asked Preddy.
Spence inhaled. “Yes, sir. It smell like weed.”
Preddy pushed past the woman, followed promptly by his colleague.
The woman switched hips again and the baby wailed its annoyance. She patted his back. “A whe you a go? Come outta me place, man!”
Both detectives pulled out their guns and inspected the small apartment. Preddy looked at the closed bathroom door and caught Spence’s eye. “Marcus Darnay, I advise you to come out now!” he shouted.
“Dem have gun, Leeroy, come out and no bother make dem shoot up me place and kill off me pickney!” the woman screamed. “Me know ’bout dis policeman here and him love shoot!”
The door slowly opened and a frightened face looked out. The man immediately put both hands in the air while staring at the guns.
“Me tell you say him wasn’t in here!” The woman’s posture indicated that she was awaiting an apology.
“And is who dis?” asked Spence. “Come out!”
“Just a friend! Me no do nutten officer! Me just a visit!” The man quickly stepped out of the bathroom clad in long shorts.
Preddy replaced his weapon in its holster. He did share the same complexion as Darnay, but other than his short dreadlocks, bore little resemblance. His nose was a completely different shape and he had a much slimmer build. The detective recognised him as a small time criminal, the type of coward who would wave a knife and snatch handbags or gold chains from unsuspecting female shoppers.
“A me friend. Me cyah have friend?” the woman asked defensively.
“Don’t bother wid it, you know,” said Spence, staring her down. “Dat weed dat you have burning will send both of you to jail, so no ask we no question. ’Bout friend... Darnay know you have friend?”
“After me and Marcus no deh again. Is not fi him business,” she replied sullenly. The disgruntled baby struggled from her arms reaching out to the man, who took the boy and held him close. Spence looked from the baby’s face to the man’s and secured her gun.
“Oh, a so?” said Spence. “Well, when we speak to Darnay we will have to ask him ’bout dis male babysitter dat your son so obviously loves. Leeroy was it?”
“You no have to do dat, officer.” The woman’s tone suddenly changed to a more conciliatory one. “Me not lying to you. Marcus gone weh.”
“Children and second-hand smoke,” said Preddy, shaking his head at the couple. “We’ll show ourselves out.”
On the way to the door he stopped and picked up the smoking spliffs together with the small bag of weed. Outside he scattered the herbs as they made their way back to the vehicle. He unrolled the joints and ground the potent content firmly under his feet. A shame to waste it, but they should have bought the green leaves and boiled them.
“You notice how de baby resemble him real daddy?” asked Spence, grinning.
“Me see it.” Preddy nodded and then said in a newsreader’
s voice, “Marcus Darnay was not located, but significant traces of infidelity were found on the premises.”
“Pure jacket. God help de next generation. I wonder if Darnay would pay her a visit if he knew what was going on?” said Spence.
“Probably, but I wouldn’t bet on her safety if he did,” said Preddy. “He must have told her he is going away for a while though, for her to be so brazen wid de man, inna broad daylight.”
“I agree, but he is here somewhere. I just know it.”
Preddy nodded. “And he’ll make a mistake. We’ll get him.”
CHAPTER 22
Monday, 10 August, 7:30 p.m.
Preddy was at home with half an eye on a repeat of Who Do You Think You Are? and the other on fixing the microwave which had chosen an inappropriate time to give up the ghost. Guest celebrities of European heritage always enjoyed themselves the most, tracing their ancestors back to the year of nought and taking great delight in finding out that they were criminals, lawyers or both.
This particular interviewee was pleased to learn that her ancestors were imprisoned for refusing to mine coal. The detective felt pretty sure none of his ancestors would have been allowed to refuse to do anything and wondered whether his own ancestry was even traceable. Slaves had their own names in Africa and any names assigned thereafter were mainly given to them by their masters. Each time a slaver traded a slave the new owner could change the name and the detective was not confident about the veracity of any records that could be unearthed in his own case. Maybe when he was old and retired he could set about trying to find out the truth, though if the commissioner managed to pension him off early he might not need to wait until he got old to take on this challenge.
Preddy could not remember ever seeing any Chinese interviewees on the programme, but their ancestry, as far as settling in Jamaica was concerned, was well-documented. Most of them had first arrived in Jamaica in the 19th century, and finding the island to be much to their liking had never left. He knew that Terence Chin had come to Jamaica in the early 1980s, initially just to visit relatives, and he had taken a shine to the island too. It was impossible to enter a store or supermarket in a built-up area and not see one or more Chinese people running the business, so prolific was their expansion.
“Dad, dere is a woman on here dat I think you want to see!”
His son’s voice took him away from his musings and he put down the screwdriver. The microwave needed replacing anyway.
“Oh, as opposed to cats playing pianos and dogs driving cars?”
Preddy walked over to where his son lay on the floor with a half-eaten plate of jerked sausages and seasoned fries beside him. It was very rare that Roman ever viewed anything on his tablet that did not vanish as soon as his father appeared, so whatever this was it must be appropriate for parental viewing. Preddy flopped down on the floor, stretching out his long frame and stared at the small electronic screen.
“What do I need to see?”
“Wait one minute; it soon start, Dad.”
Annalee pried herself from the couch and reclined on her father’s back, peering around his neck at the tablet. Roman played the two-minute video watching his father’s face from time to time. Preddy stared intently at the scene which fluctuated in clarity and zoomed in and out. Below the heading Jamaican woman curses out police LOL! he recognised the bustling background as Charles Gordon Market in downtown Montego Bay.
The market was a messy hive of activity where one could get anything from fresh fruits on their stems to ground produce with moist soil still clinging to them. You could even get ganja leaves if you knew who to go to and what to ask for. Most of the vendors did not stay within the confines of the market zone, instead encroaching on the pavement and car park, or even crossing the road with its crawling delivery trucks and infringing on the entrances of the facing shops.
The angry woman did not appear to have her own stall anywhere. When the video began she was standing in front of a group of higglers, with her arms aloft, and then began pacing back and forth shouting her grievances in raucous Patois at anyone who would listen. She peppered her speech with lots of swear words that unfortunately Preddy’s children knew too well, so any attempt to censure them would be futile. Annalee chuckled in his ear from time to time. Roman had already watched it, so did not react much. It annoyed Preddy when adults carried on like that in public, yet as the tape rolled on he began to think that he would probably be swearing too if he thought that his wrongly incarcerated son had been paid to beat Lester Chin Ellis.
The clip ended with the woman declaring, “’Bout dem have Major Organized Crime and Anti-Corruption team. All me hear ’bout pon TV and radio a MOCA, MOCA, MOCA. A shoulda JOCA it name. A pure joker inna dat deh place!”
The video had been shot that day and the detective could tell that it was genuine. So far it had racked up five hundred views. When it finished he asked Roman to replay it and they watched it again. He shrugged Annalee from his back and she rolled off with a groan. He rubbed his son’s head playfully as he rose from the floor.
“And dere I was thinking dat all you watch is football, cats and girls.”
“Who, me?” Roman grinned.
“Finish eat you dinner,” said Preddy. “And don’t keep on de volume too loud, I need to go do some work.”
“What you going do about de lady?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said truthfully. “Might go walk around in de market in de morning.”
The detective went into his study and closed the door. The bulk of his main work space was taken up by a long wooden desk covered in paper with three overflowing drawers. A stainless steel lamp with an energy saving bulb provided bright lighting. His book shelves contained a set of non-fiction books mainly related to crime, investigations and evidence, as well as some statutes and cases on Jamaican law. A small white fridge stood in the corner containing a few bottles of energy drinks and meal supplement liquids for when he did not have time to move from his desk, let alone cook or eat a meal. And there was always plenty of ice which he would crunch if he didn’t feel like drinking anything.
The children knew better than to enter this room at any time. Even if they knocked he would always walk to the door and open it to speak to them. Sometimes there was active case evidence lying around and he could not afford to let them see it, not least because some of it could be extremely gruesome. Neither of his kids should be exposed to photos of victims of rape, wounding or murder and he would protect their young eyes from it at all costs.
As much as he did not like the idea of taking work home, sometimes there just was no other way to get it done. At times it was more productive to do so as he had a standby generator at home and could cope with the power cuts inflicted by the Jamaica Public Service company. There were no generators at Pelican Walk and if the power company cut the power for “load shedding,” as they called it, then the officers would have to light lamps and candles. It was not conducive to good policing and he sometimes wished that the government would level fines on the JPS for the inconvenience. It would never happen though, because various government offices owed millions of dollars in electricity fees and there really would be an economic crisis if the company decided to call in the government debts.
Utilities were always an issue. Even the water at the station was not a given and there were times when the water pressure was so low that barely a trickle emerged from the taps. The planned installation of a tank to catch rainwater would be a welcome addition to the station’s resources, but that plan was first aired nearly two years ago. To this day, nothing had been done.
This must all be an eye-opener for Detective Harris. There was no way that electricity and water were ever an issue in Glasgow. They probably complained about a lack of coloured post-it notes and ball point pens. Preddy sighed, wishing that these were his kind of problems.
CHAPTER 23
Tuesday, 11 August, 7:05 a.m.
Preddy pulled into the busy market lane and crawled
behind a stink garbage truck hogging the road. The workers were in no hurry; they hopped off the back and sauntered to and from the refuse collection points. At times like this he was tempted to set the siren off, but forced himself to drum on the steering wheel instead. Besides, the truck did not look the sort that could be intimidated or bullied. It was marked Seddon Atkinson and gave the impression that it could take on an army tank and glide away unscathed.
Eventually it inched on its way, leaving a nasty stench in its wake. Preddy continued to his destination and climbed out of his car. The haphazard arrangements that he stepped into brought on a sense of frustration. Half of the vendors had no permits and should not be there. He knew from experience that those who operated legally in the market were incensed that they had to pay fees to sell their wares while the people outside dodged the inspectors, paid nothing and got most of the foot traffic. This was a matter for the market police though and he had no intention of getting involved. Some would get their goods seized and confiscated, others would escape with a warning and a few would have to appear in court. Times were hard and everybody was a hustler, but sometimes an example had to be made to deter the would-be law breakers.
It did not take him long to find the woman from the video as she was recognisable on sight, although she appeared much calmer today. She sat at a spot just outside the market gates, with a wooden cart full of fresh carrots, tomatoes, cabbages and onions, covered by a broad beach umbrella with plenty of holes.
She told Preddy of her difficulty in getting the press to listen to her, but she swore on the Bible that what her son told her was true. “All up a TV station me did go and dem send security fi me. Talk ’bout me a cause disturbance,” she moaned. “Ah me pickney life me a defend, a no disturbance!”
Preddy watched the woman’s animated face and arms that flew up and down as she spoke. She insisted that her son, Jerry Knight, was forced to hit Lester Chin Ellis. She repeated her tale that her son had left jail and started buying expensive clothes, shoes and food. At first he told her that he had obtained a day’s work but eventually, ground down by her nagging, Jerry told what she believed to be the truth, that he had been paid to inflict the blows. Jerry had refused to tell her who paid him, but admitted he punched Lester twice in the face. Now her son had been charged with assault occasioning actual bodily harm, and had his case deferred until the end of September.