by T J Walter
Short nodded. ‘We got some of Fleming’s DNA from a comb in his bathroom; if that’s a match with what we found in Alison’s flat, it’s a slam dunker. We’ve got motive, means, and opportunity.’
‘Good. I need an arrest warrant for Fleming to take with me, Derek; get that organised.’
‘That’s already in hand, boss; Stumpy’s at Thames Court getting it signed.’
‘Good. Where are Jacqui and Fred? They’re coming with me.’
‘They just popped up to the canteen for a sandwich; should be back immediately.’ Looking over Brookes’ shoulder, he added, ‘In fact, they’re here now, boss.’
Turning, Brookes saw them entering the room. He beckoned them with a finger. ‘Right, you two, you’re off to the Caribbean with me. We’re going after Fleming. Jacqui, we’re going to need your French. When we’ve finished here, get off home and pack a bag.’
Short interrupted, ‘That reminds me, boss; Fleming’s false passport was issued six months ago and carries his photograph. But the guy whose name it’s in, Jason Wilson, died a few months after his birth in nineteen seventy-one.’
Rose said, ‘How is that possible, sir?’
Short said, ‘You should read Frederick Forsyth’s book, The Day of The Jackal; he tells you exactly how to go about it. Basically, all you need is a copy of a birth certificate, two photos, and a reference. You can get a copy of the birth certificate through the post, provided someone was born on the date and at the place stated. It’s only now, in the age of the computer, that the registry are beginning to tie deaths with births, and catching up with old records is a nightmare.
‘The reference is supposed to be from a pillar of the local community who knows you. But there are enough bent pillars in our wonderful community who’ll sign anything for fifty quid and that’s no hurdle. And with a population of over sixty million, most of whom seem to want to travel abroad, the Foreign Office haven’t got the time to carry out the proper checks. All they do is contact the referee and confirm what he said on the application form. It’s not difficult at all.’
Brookes added, ‘We have to work on the assumption that he has more than one new identity. So we won’t depend on names when we get there, we’ll have to rely on visual identification. At least this confirms Fleming’s complicity in the money laundering, if ever there was any doubt. An innocent man with nothing to fear doesn’t go to these lengths to prepare an escape route and abandon all that he’d built up here.’
*
At 1am the next morning, local time, the Air Caraibes Airbus A330-300 touched down at Aine Cesaire Airport, on the island of Martinique. When it finally came to a standstill, close to the terminal building, Brookes and his two sergeants joined the queue of weary travellers waiting to disembark.
It had been a tortuous journey. A ninety-minute flight from Heathrow to Paris Charles-De-Gaulle Airport followed by a frantic taxi ride across Paris to Orly Airport. Then a two hour wait; their onward flight had been delayed for “technical reasons”.
When given this news, Middlemiss had commented, ‘Typical bloody frogs; they couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery.’
Brookes had said, ‘Watch your tongue, Fred; we need these people’s co-operation.’
When they’d finally boarded the plane, they’d faced an eight-and-a-half hour slog across the Atlantic, following the setting sun.
By the time they arrived, any romantic notions of a free trip to the sunny Caribbean had evaporated. Travelling tourist class for 4,255 miles had been no picnic, especially for Brookes, whose 6’2” frame did not fit comfortably into the seat provided. And there was more discomfort to come; Martinique time was four hours behind London, and jet-lag would later take its toll.
Brookes had tried to sleep throughout the flight, but the cramped space had made sure he did no better than cat-nap. Middlemiss had watched the on-flight movie then dozed off. But Rose had been too excited to sleep and had read throughout the long journey.
She’d spent some of the time reading the briefing note on Martinique supplied by the Foreign Office. She’d learned that the island had a population of some 400,000. All but 20,000 of those were a mixture of Carib Indian, African, and Asian, the remainder being Europeans who ran the administration and the few businesses and plantations. The languages spoken were French and Creole patois.
The French don’t use the term colony; they considered Martinique and the neighbouring island of Guadeloupe as “overseas departments”, their citizens having the same rights as all French citizens. But, however they described it, the administration was more colonial in effect than the British, so much so that there had been recent demonstrations on the island over the miserable pay scales of the workers.
There were several paragraphs about the island’s past. Without the French influence, Martinique would qualify as a true banana republic. Fruit and sugar cane were the only cash crops that flourished in the dank, hot climate. Most of the staple foods were imported. The only industries on the island were fishing, tourism, and the production of rum from the sugar cane.
One interesting fact she had discovered was the origin of the term ‘Red Indian’. When Columbus had first landed on the island in the year 1502, he’d been confronted by the native Caribs. Thinking he had reached India by the back route, and seeing that their skin was bright red, he had dubbed them Red Indians and the name had stuck. In fact, the Caribs, who had not been the original inhabitants, had learned from the Arawaks who were there before them to paint their bodies with red dye (rocou) as a protection against the mosquitoes that thrived in the mangrove swamps that covered much of Martinique’s coastline.
When the French had colonised the island in 1635, they had developed the sugar cane culture and needed cheap labour to work the plantations. The Caribs had never been subdued and the French had done what other European colonists had done throughout the region: imported first African slaves, then, when slavery was abolished, brought Indians and Chinese across as indentured labour; hence the population mix.
It was the island’s strategic position that first interested the European nations. It was located in the chain of islands known as the Lesser Antilles, at the gateway to the Atlantic. In the wars between the English and the combined forces of the French and Spanish it had been a French garrison and the scene of much conflict, changing hands several times.
More recently, its close proximity to the north coast of South America and the Atlantic had given it another role. It had become a staging post for the lucrative smuggling trade; not least of all, for the vast quantities of cocaine and cannabis destined for Europe.
When Middlemiss had woken up towards the end of the flight, Rose had told him the story of the Red Indians.
He’d replied, ‘Kin ‘ell; are you telling me we’re going to be attacked by a load of screaming savages with bows and arrows?’
Rose had laughed. ‘You never know, Fred, the briefing note does say that the Carib Indians have never been conquered.’
The two of them had time to get to know each other over the past twelve hours, and he’d made several disparaging remarks about the French.
She added, ‘What is it about the French you don’t like?’
Middlemiss smiled again. ‘Well perhaps I can give you a history lesson. Do you know where we get the two finger V sign from?’
‘I presume you don’t mean the victory sign?’
He shook his head. ‘No I mean the back of the hand one. In the Hundred Year War, when the English were putting the boot up the Frogs’ arses, it was our longbow-men who were killing them in droves. So when the sneaky buggers captured one of our bowmen, they chopped off the first two fingers of his right hand, so he couldn’t fire his bow if he ever escaped. Our lads who were still fighting heard about this and, whenever they saw the frogs, they stuck up their two fingers at them; ‘up yours, mister!’ Now that’s a fact and I’ve never forgiven them for that.’
Rose laughed again. ‘You’re not serious are you, Fred?’
He winked at her. ‘Let’s say I’m half serious. But don’t worry; I’ll watch my P’s and Q’s when I need to.’
As they walked down the steps to the tarmac, the clammy heat of this tropical island hit them. Even though the wet season had officially ended, the smell of dank rotting vegetation permeated the warm air.
Inevitably, Middlemiss commented on it. ‘Smells like a bleeding mushroom farm.’
Brookes gave him a look but said nothing.
At passport control, they were met by a sallow-skinned European who spoke to them in heavily accented English. Once he had established their identities, he introduced himself as Jean Petit of the local Gendarmerie. He was of medium height and build, with lank black hair worn long over his collar. He wore a bright tropical shirt hanging loosely down over baggy trousers, no socks, and deck shoes. He was unshaven, but his teeth sparkled as he gave Rose an appraising look.
She formally introduced her colleagues in her precise French. Brookes and Middlemiss smiled and shook Petit’s hand. Being addressed in his own language seemed to thaw the ice a little.
He said, ‘On behalf of Colonel Theiry Baptiste, I welcome you to Martinique. I will show you to your ‘otel.’
Brookes replied, ‘Thank you for meeting us. You know why we are here; have you managed to trace the man we’re looking for?’
Petit, whose eyes had again strayed to Rose, returned his gaze to Brookes.
‘Yes, Monsieur, but there is nothing we can do tonight. Colonel Baptiste will talk to you later this morning. First, I must take you to your ‘otel.’
Brookes nodded, annoyed at the Frenchman’s obvious interest in Rose. But he was careful not to let his annoyance show. Without the French police’s co-operation, they didn’t have a snowball in hell’s chance of finding Fleming. But he was even more concerned about the Frenchman’s apparent lack of any sense of urgency.
He persisted, ‘Is he still on the island, do you know?’
Petit gave him a sharp look. ‘No-one of his description has boarded another plane; of that we are certain.’
‘And a ship?’
‘That is not so easy to answer, Monsieur, but we are searching. Now, I must get you to your ‘otel.’ He led the way to the baggage collection point, where they joined the throng of people waiting for their luggage.
Sensing Brookes’ annoyance, Rose spoke to Petit in her fluent French. Whatever she said clearly held the man’s attention, and he replied in what, to Middlemiss, sounded like a stream of gibberish.
In a quiet aside to Brookes, Middlemiss said, ‘Jesus, boss. If that’s the way the natives talk, it’s a good job we brought Jacqui.’
‘Yes, Fred, be damned careful how you handle this guy; we need his help.’
‘Yes, boss, I get the picture. But if he lays a hand on her I’ll clobber him.’
Brookes’ anger was rising fast, but he had no chance to reply as Petit turned his attention back to them.
Middlemiss put on a broad smile. ‘Thank god you speak English, Jean; I’m not much good at languages. What is it you do here; are you a detective?’
‘Yes, I am in the drug enforcement branch.’ He seemed comfortable with Middlemiss’s informal approach.
‘So you must be busy then?’
‘It is a problem here, yes. The man you seek; he is a murderer, yes?’
‘Yes, he killed a young woman who worked for him. That’s why he did a runner.’
Petit frowned. ‘A runner?’ Then his frown turned to a smile. ‘Ah, you mean he ran away. Why did he come here?’
Middlemiss looked at Brookes, who said,
‘He’s from this part of the world; Jamaica, in fact.’
‘So you think he is going to Jamaica?’
‘No, we don’t think so.’
‘What do you think?’
Brookes took a moment to reply. He was reluctant to tell this man everything, but he didn’t have much choice.
Making a decision, he said, ‘He was laundering the profits of a London criminal. The woman found this out; that’s why he killed her. Like we say, he’s from this part of the world; that’s why he came this way.’
‘Now I understand; it is good that you tell me everything.’
‘I hope you understand the need for secrecy. If the criminals he works for learn we know about this he will try to stop us catching him; this man knows too much about their business.’
‘But of course, Monsieur. Now I know the importance, I will help you catch him.’
Whilst they had been talking, their luggage had arrived on the conveyer belt. They grabbed it and Petit led them to the customs hall, where he spoke briefly to one of the two uniformed officers on duty. The officer nodded and waved them straight through. Petit led the way to the exit.
Brookes looked around him as they left the terminal building. There were not many people about. It was obvious that their flight was the only one expected that night and the place looked ready to close down once the passengers had dispersed. Security was not very tight; the island police obviously did not expect too many problems with people arriving from Europe. He did notice security cameras strategically placed about the building and hoped they had been switched on when Fleming had arrived.
Parked outside the building were several private cars, a dozen taxis, and two minibuses with hotel logos on their sides lined up ready to take people to their onward destinations. There seemed to be no public transport, which meant that there was a good chance that one of the taxi drivers would be able to identify Fleming and know where he had gone from the airport.
Petit’s car was a vintage Renault; its bodywork was a dull matt blue apparently held together by rust. Petit opened the boot and stood by whilst they loaded their suitcases. Closing it, he held one of the rear passenger doors open and, with true Latin charm, ushered Rose into the seat. Middlemiss gave him a glare and got into the other rear seat. Brookes got into the front with Petit. The Frenchman had lit a Gouloisse cigarette as soon as they’d left the terminal and didn’t offer to put it out in the car.
Through a cloud of foul-smelling smoke he said, ‘The ‘otel is just a few kilometres away.’
From the rear seat, Middlemiss said, ‘Are you from Martinique, Jean, or is this an overseas posting?’
‘I was born in Paris, I volunteered to come here.’
‘Where did you learn your English?’
‘I studied in Montreal for a while; I learned to speak your language there.’
Brookes interrupted impatiently, eager to get back to the purpose of their visit, ‘Did you get the photograph of the fugitive we sent?’
‘Yes, but it is not of the best quality.’
Brookes handed him an 8 x 10 frontal shot of Fleming. ‘You are aware he is travelling on a false passport; he may have others.’
Petit nodded. ‘I have colleagues questioning the taxi drivers who work the airport. By the time you wake I should have news of where he was taken. I do not think he will stay on the island.’
‘No, but how will he travel from here?’
‘Probably not by air. We have many ships that trade throughout the islands. But he will not be difficult to trace; you must trust me.’
Petit drove them to the Karibea Squash Hotel in Fort-de-France, the island’s small capital. He left them at reception, saying that he would meet them in the hotel restaurant later that morning and have his colleagues continue the search in the meantime.
As soon as the Frenchman had left them at reception and they had booked in, Brookes said to his two companions,
‘Right, get some sleep, we’ll meet in the dining room at eight for breakfast.’
There was only one night porter, who carried Rose’s suitcase. The two men carried their own luggage. Brookes’ room was on the third floor.
Opening the door, he walked in and turned on the light.
He was surprised by the luxury that confronted him. Having read the briefing note on the island on the short flight from London to Paris, he
had imagined some rundown old colonial-style place with bad plumbing. What he found was a huge bed surrounded by plush fittings and expensive furniture. The room was air-conditioned and pleasantly cool after the sultry heat outside. He wondered at the Met Police’s generosity in booking this place for them.
Surprisingly, he was not especially tired. Finding ice in the room’s mini-fridge, he poured himself a stiff whiskey from the bottle he’d bought at the duty-free shop in Paris. He opened the sliding glass doors that led to a balcony overlooking the ocean and sat on a comfortable recliner, thinking and sipping his drink.
He tried to put himself in Fleming’s shoes. Pursued by both the police and the drug dealers, where would he hide? Certainly not Jamaica, that was far too dangerous. No, he would find somewhere else where neither the police nor the criminals were likely to find him. But where? Probably somewhere he was familiar with and where he would feel safe; maybe somewhere he’d visited before.
Then it hit Brookes: Fleming’s bank statements. He remembered seeing debits shown as card transactions which stated the place they had been issued.
He quickly went back into his room and opened his laptop computer on which he had a copy of the murder file. He looked at copies of the bank statements found at Fleming’s flat. The man had travelled widely in the past twelve months and there were several hotel bills. He found what he was looking for: it was a payment to a Hotel Paradiso, Matamoros in Mexico.
Taking a map of the Caribbean from his briefcase, he quickly found the place. It was a small port close to the US border. Of course! That was it; knowing he would be followed, he wouldn’t go straight to his destination. He’d want to lead his pursuers astray. But once he was in Mexico he could easily cross the border into The United States and disappear.
Going back out to the balcony, Brookes sat down and took another swig of whiskey. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that his theory was right. But the man couldn’t go anywhere without money; the key to catching him was the fortune stashed away in a Cayman Island bank. If Brookes could deprive him of that, the man would be stymied.