by T J Walter
Fleming licked his lips. ‘She didn’t leave me any choice; once she found out what we were doing, Silver would have killed us both.’
‘And what exactly were you doing, Mr Fleming?’
Fleming gave him a discerning look. ‘If I tell you, will that help me?’
Brookes laughed. ‘If it was up to me, I’d throw you to the wolves. But I expect the lawyers might at least find you a safe prison if you co-operate fully. What exactly did Alison find out?’
There was a long pause whilst Fleming considered his prospects. Then he licked his dry lips again.
‘The payments for the holiday bookings: they weren’t all from members of the public, most of them were Silver’s profits from his business. And Silver owned all the properties so he was actually paying himself.’
‘When you say Silver’s ‘business’, what exactly do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean, his criminal empire. Sale of stolen goods, protection, prostitutes, and pornography.’
‘Yes, I do indeed know, but needed you to say that. So we are talking about money laundering – and how did Alison find this out?’
‘She noticed that one villa was booked twice for the same period and queried it. I told her to leave it to me but she insisted on looking into it and found out the clients didn’t actually exist. She left me no choice and threatened to go to the police.’
Brookes held on to his temper; this was the information Aitcheson desperately needed. In a calm voice, he asked,
‘Exactly how much money was involved?’
‘At least sixty million, and it was increasing all the time. I knew months ago that someone would eventually find out, and I wanted to quit. But nobody walks out on Raymond Silver; he’s a terrifying man.’
‘So you prepared your hideaway months ago; somewhere in Texas?’
Fleming looked surprised. ‘How did you find out?’
Brookes ignored the question. ‘Why didn’t you just run when Alison found out your secret?’
‘I needed to settle my affairs in London; I’ve got a lot of investments there. If I just ran I knew I’d lose all that.’
Brookes’ temper finally got the better of him. ‘You’re a pathetic little man and you make me sick. You’ve already got millions in the bank here yet you kill an innocent young woman so you can get your grubby little hands on more.’ Turning to Holmes he said, ‘Put him in a cell, Chester, before I throw up.’
Holmes nodded and completed the custody record. Fleming was led down the stairs and put into a cell. Perhaps his only consolation was that he would be cool; the heat of the sun did not penetrate down here in the bowels of the earth.
Walking back up the stairs, Brookes said, ‘Any news of the Jamaicans, Chester?’
Holmes shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think they’ll try anything now we have him in custody.’
Brookes gave him a hard look. ‘You may want to give that a bit more thought, Chester. You’ve heard the kind of sums of money involved, and that’s to say nothing of prison sentences the gang might be facing if we get Fleming to give evidence. I’m convinced they will try something before we get to London.’
Holmes had the look of a worried man, but he said, determinedly, ‘My men will remain on duty throughout the day and I’ll keep two armed men in the cell passage at all times. Tonight I’ll lock the station up tight. We’ll protect your prisoner whilst he is in our custody.’
‘Good; one of us will be here at all times. I’ve got some urgent phone calls to make; may I use your office?’
‘Yes, it’s on the first floor, I’ll show you.’
He led the way through the station office and up the stone stairs to the first floor. ‘How soon can you have the paperwork here?’
‘A lawyer is only awaiting confirmation that we have arrested him; he’ll be on the next plane. That’s one of the calls I must make.’
‘That’s good. I’ll contact the attorney general and see if the extradition proceedings can be arranged for tomorrow morning.’
From the privacy of Inspector Holmes’ office, Brookes phoned London. He spent five minutes talking to Aitcheson, who had spent the night in his office, awaiting news of the arrest. Brookes finished by telling him of the conversation he’d had with the prisoner.
Aitcheson said, ‘You’ve done a good job, John. Richard Mann will have a field day now, with Fleming’s company accounts. I’ll get a barrister on the first plane out with the extradition request. Just make sure you get him back here safely.’
‘That’s my big concern at the moment. The police station we’ve got him in is an old colonial-style one with large windows and is not designed to resist an armed attack. But I’ve got a number to ring at Government House where I should get some help. The Caymans are still a colony, although they don’t call it that anymore, and we’ve got a garrison here.’
Aitcheson wished him good luck and put the phone down.
Next Brookes dialled the number Clarke had given him.
When the man answered, Brookes said, ‘OK, we have Fleming in custody, but I think our troubles are just beginning. It’ll take at least twenty-four hours for the extradition proceedings to be sorted out. In the meantime, the police station we’ve got him in you could take with bows and arrows. And we know there’s a gang of Jamaican thugs here in Georgetown who will have a bit more than that. I also need authority for my sergeant and I to be armed; I’d hate to be caught in the middle of a gunfight with nothing to protect myself with. What’s our position on that?’
‘Let us deal with one thing at a time, Mr Brookes. We have a perfectly safe garrison here full of British troops, why don’t you bring him here for safekeeping?’
‘Because technically he’s not my prisoner; he’s the responsibility of the Royal Cayman Island Constabulary until the extradition papers are signed. I don’t know what the Islands’ constitution says on the subject; if we don’t stick strictly to procedure, Mr Clarke, some smart-arse lawyer back in the UK will argue about irregularities and possibly invalidate the arrest. And I want this bastard screwed down very tight at court.’
‘Hmm, I see your point. I’ll give the matter some thought; I’m sure we can come up with something.’
‘Today would be nice, Mr Clarke; I think this could be a long twenty-four hours. Now, what about my request that we be armed?’
‘I think we can get round that, Mr Brookes. Let me set you a scenario: if the police station were to be under attack by armed men and there happened to be a firearm lying around somewhere in the station, I’m sure a local court would not frown on you picking it up and defending yourself with it. Don’t you agree?’
‘Message received, Mr Clarke, message received. Thank you for your help.’
Brookes put the phone down with a deep sigh. Typical bloody diplomat, he thought. Always leave yourself an escape route if the wheel came off, make certain you are able to deny giving authorisation to something that might later be criticised. But at least the man hadn’t come out with a flat ‘no’.
*
In military academies and police colleges throughout the world, the element of luck is discussed. Those who fail to prepare thoroughly often suffer bad luck; those who do their homework are usually the lucky ones. Even in sport, the element of luck is discussed. When Gary Player was asked by a journalist what part luck had played in his golfing success, he replied, ‘The more I practice, the luckier I get’. Events in Georgetown, Grand Cayman that night would give truth to that argument.
It was 4am; Holmes, Brookes, and Rose sat in the inspector’s office on the first floor of the old police station. Brookes had told Rose to stay at the hotel but she had insisted in joining him here. In the end, he’d reluctantly agreed she should come too.
Outside, the town was sleeping and the only sound in the room was that of their heavy breathing as each of them dozed uncomfortably in upright chairs. Brookes and Rose had taken over from Middlemiss at 6pm and sent the sergeant back to their hotel to get some sleep.
Brookes had learned a great deal about colonial policing in his short time in the Caribbean. Holmes and his men were indeed armed – but not with the most modern of weapons. Strapped to Chester’s waist was an old Webley revolver; leaning against his desk was a vintage Belgian FN semi-automatic rifle. His men downstairs were similarly armed. Brookes had been offered similar weapons. He chose the revolver as it was the only weapon he was familiar with; one lay conveniently on the desk beside him.
Rose also had a revolver, as she had never fired a rifle. In fact, her one experience with a handgun had been on a cousin’s motorboat in her teens. Brookes had insisted in showing her how to hold the weapon in two hands and pull the trigger. He secretly hoped to goodness she would not need to use it.
When the offer of weapons had been made, Brookes had asked Holmes,
‘What’s the legal position if I have to shoot someone?’
Holmes had smiled. ‘The chief magistrate is my uncle. There won’t be a problem.’ All three of them had laughed, more from nervous excitement than anything else.
In the station office below them, a Cayman Island police sergeant sat at the front desk, and in the cell passage beneath his feet, two armed constables sat dozing. Both the outside doors were locked and bolted, as was the gate to the outside yard. A Land Rover had been parked against the gate to the yard as a defence against ramming.
At 4.03am precisely, Brookes’ world exploded around him. He could be certain of the exact time as, when the scene was examined later that day, the station clock had come to a stop exactly at that moment.
The first Brookes knew was a blast of hot air that shot up the stairs, through the open office door, knocking him to the floor. This was followed by a noise like a clap of thunder that made his ears ring.
Brookes was first to recover. Grabbing the revolver, he ran to the top of the stairs; through a thick cloud of dust he saw that below him was a scene of devastation. The remains of the wooden entrance doors hung drunkenly on their hinges and there was an eight foot hole in the counter opposite the doorway. Wood splinters and pieces of masonry lay everywhere. His first thought was for the sergeant who had been sitting directly in line with the blast, but from his position at the top of the stairs he couldn’t see into the office proper.
His thoughts were brought back to the immediate danger by a burst of automatic fire coming through the shattered doorway. Two men appeared with machine pistols in their hands, firing as they walked forward. Without thinking, Brookes took up the stance of the trained marksman and fired at the nearest of the two gunmen below. The man lurched sideways into his companion before collapsing to the ground. It was this that probably saved Brookes’ life, as the second gunman took that extra moment to turn and train his machine pistol on him.
As Brookes attempted to pull the heavy trigger of his revolver, his whole life flashed before him. It seemed to take him an age to get off the second shot. But he needn’t have worried. There was the sound of two shots from behind him and the man below with the machine pistol fell over backwards, dropping his weapon.
Brookes lowered his revolver, his heart in his mouth. In twenty-six years’ police service, this was the nearest he had come to death. But the danger wasn’t over yet; more automatic fire was coming from outside.
Glancing sideways, he said, ‘Cover the window, Chester, you cover me, Jacqui, I’m going down. But for God’s sake don’t shoot me in the back.’
Holmes nodded and turned to the window beside him that looked out on the street. Rose knelt on the stone-flagged landing with her revolver extended in front of her.
Brookes made his way carefully down the rubble-strewn stairs. His view was restricted to the area between the doorway and the shattered counter; he couldn’t see the street outside. Keeping to the left of the broad staircase, he descended slowly, a step at a time.
Behind him, there was the crash of glass breaking and the sound of bullets hitting the ceiling inside. Glancing round, he saw Holmes crouched below the windowsill, with his hand to his cheek. Blood was leaking through his fingers.
Brookes shouted, ‘Are you OK, Chester?’
Holmes took his hand away from his cheek and blinked his eyes several times. ‘Yes, it’s just a scratch.’ Picking up his rifle, he pointed it through the window, fired two shots, then ducked down again. There was an immediate reply, and more bullets thumped into the ceiling above him.
Brookes turned his attention back to the front doorway. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he crouched down; he still couldn’t see through the doorway, the walls were too thick and the angle too acute. He crouched down on the floor close to the wooden counter, waiting.
There was another burst of gunfire and more bullets were fired into the building through the doorway and window. Then, a hand holding a machine pistol appeared round the shattered doorway. The weapon began spraying bullets up the stairs. Brookes took careful aim at the forearm, all he could see of the man holding the gun, though it was no more than three yards from him.
He fired. He was rewarded with a scream; the hand and arm disappeared, the pistol dropping to the ground.
Outside, there was a more sustained burst of gunfire; some of it seemed to be coming from further away. There seemed to be a battle royale taking place outside the station. Then everything went quiet. Brookes daren’t move not knowing what was happening out there.
Then there was a shout from Holmes at the top of the stairs, ‘They’re running away; the army is here.’
Brookes let out a long breath. Only now did he feel his hands shake. Lowering his revolver, he stood up. He looked to his left as he moved forward. The sergeant lay against the back wall. He was not moving and lay in a pool of blood; there was little doubt in Brookes’ mind the man was dead.
After a few moments, there was a shout from the street. ‘Hello, the police station. This is the British Military. Identify yourself.’
Holmes shouted back, ‘This is Inspector Holmes and I have two British police officers with me.’
There was a pause, then, ‘Come out with your hands up so that we can identify you.’ They did as they were directed. Once satisfied with their identities, a British Army captain introduced himself and sent a squad of men into the station to assess the damage.
The bomb that had destroyed the doors had thrown the police sergeant manning the front desk back against a rear wall, seriously injuring him; he had been shot and killed where he lay on the floor by the two criminals who had entered the station. He was the only casualty among the police apart from the cuts to Holmes’ face. The two officers in the cell passage in the basement and the prisoner, Fleming, were frightened but unharmed.
One of the British soldiers had received a flesh wound but would recover. William Smith, Silver’s enforcer, and the Jamaicans had obviously gathered reinforcements as there had been a total of eight in the raid. Of them, three were dead and two more seriously injured. Smith was one of the dead.
Brookes was later informed that there had been another battle on the edge of town. Three gangsters had been surrounded by the British soldiers and invited to surrender. One had decided to fight; he had got his wish and had been shot and killed. The other two had given up; they had no appetite for further violence once the odds had changed against them.
It transpired that Clarke had been as good as his word. The squad of soldiers had been hidden around a corner a hundred yards away with instructions not to interfere unless help was needed. Brookes would argue that they were a little slow in getting involved and that had cost the life of a policeman. But that was splitting hairs; without declaring military rule, the governor could not supersede the civilian administration.
Later that morning, as Fleming was escorted through the devastated police station, he noted the carnage that had taken place. It would prove useful to the investigation team later in England, further convincing him that the only chance he had of a long life was to co-operate fully with the police. He would later tell everything he knew
about Silver’s businesses.
*
The barrister arrived later that day from the UK. The Cayman High Court heard his statement of evidence in a special sitting and leave was granted to extradite the fugitive back to the UK. His assets in the banks on Grand Cayman were frozen pending the result of his trial. The army provided an escort, and Fleming would be safely transported to London on an RAF Transport Command plane.
Brookes and his team said their farewells to Chester Holmes, thanking him for his help; they also offered commiseration for the sad loss of his colleague. Holmes would later be decorated for his bravery under fire and the family of the dead police officer compensated for their loss by a grateful British government.
As Brookes was boarding the aircraft, he glanced over his shoulder. Among the crowd watching their departure, he spotted the face of Mr Clarke, who grinned and nodded his silent farewell.
*
Chapter 19 – Home Safe
‘Out of the frying pan into the fire.’
As the plane touched down at Heathrow, Brookes heaved a sigh of relief. A police van and an armed unit of SO 19 officers were waiting on the tarmac to take Fleming to Paddington Green, where he would be kept under maximum security.
After the smoke had settled following the shoot-out at Georgetown Police Station, reaction had set in and Brookes had sat in his hotel room thinking about his near-death experience. Events had moved so quickly during the raid that he’d had no time to do anything but react. He decided that the movies had it wrong; the survivors of gun battles did not simply blow away the smoke from their guns, holster them, and saunter off into the sunset.
On the long flight home, Brookes had collated his notes on the arrest. Over his years as a detective, he’d acquired a jaundiced view of the UK legal system, especially the people playing the major roles. So often the court players were more concerned with perpetuating the system that provided them with inflated incomes than they were with seeking justice. To many it was just a game where the one who performed best won, the emphasis being on eloquence rather than the weight of evidence. Integrity or fairness seemed to play little part in the proceedings.