Kendall - Private Detective - Box Set

by John Holt

  Rain clouds were beginning to form and a wind was beginning to stir. He shivered and buttoned his coat. He checked his watch. It was almost ten o’clock. He hadn’t meant to be so late. He had been asleep for almost three hours. “Three hours,” he murmured. He hadn’t meant to sleep for three hours. He hadn’t meant to go to sleep at all. But there it was. Perhaps it was for the best after all, he murmured. Perhaps by now everyone would be settling down for the night at the camp. No one would be expecting any visitors. Not at this time of night. No, he thought, as it turned out it was probably best this way.

  He yawned and rubbed his eyes. He was cold, and stiff. He was also hungry. He reached inside his jacket pocket. He shrugged and he found what he was looking for, the remains of a bar of chocolate. He looked at it for a moment and smiled. Six tiny squares, that’s all there was. It was hardly a four-course meal. In fact it wasn’t even one course. He broke off two squares and popped them into his mouth, and started to chew. Slowly, this was to last as long as possible he murmured. Five minutes later the chocolate was all gone.

  Carlos looked down into the valley below. There wasn’t a sound. There wasn’t a sighting of anyone. There were no lights shining. He looked back at the sky. It was now quite dark. Fortunately, however, the moonlight would still provide sufficient illumination for his climb down to the valley below, although there were some clouds beginning to form, occasionally blotting out the moon’s rays. He looked back down the slope. The climb didn’t look that difficult.

  He struggled to his feet and looked around once more. He saw no one. Slowly, he commenced to climb down the slope. Then the rains started. At first it was a fine drizzle that made everything slippery. Gradually it became heavier and heavier. He soon realized that he wasn’t really equipped for such a climb. His clothing was totally inadequate, especially the footwear. He slipped and fell heavily onto his side. He grasped for a handhold on the rock face, and struggled to regain his balance.

  * * *

  Fifty minutes later he finally reached the valley floor. He was sweating, and breathing hard. He was soaked to the skin, and his clothes were torn and covered in mud. His hands were cut and bleeding. His legs ached. And to make matters worse, he had to make the long climb back up the slope. Carlos looked back for a few minutes. Although he was tired, cold, hungry, and battered and bruised, he was pleased with himself. The things he was prepared to do for a story. What would his boss think if he knew what was going on? Carlos started to smile. Well he would know, eventually. He would tell him. It would all be included in his story. Every detail, every scratch, every cut, and every ache, it would all go down. He intended to get a story, a front-page story come what may and whatever it took. He brushed himself down, and sighed. He wondered exactly how impressed Senor Morres would be.

  He glanced around slowly. There was still no sign of anyone. The camp seemed to be deserted. There wasn’t a sound. Then he thought of the two men that he had seen. They must be here somewhere, he thought. Slowly he moved forward, making his way around the edge of the camp. He intended to make his way around to the large tents that he had seen over to his left hand side.

  There were packing crates everywhere. Many of them were still unopened. Apart from code letters and numbers the crates were generally unmarked. However there were two, which were clearly marked with the name Trenton. “Trenton,” he murmured, wondering who, or what Trenton was. It was almost certainly a company of some sort. He shook his head. Brilliant deduction, he thought, and sighed deeply. It was hardly the discovery of the century. There must be dozens and dozens of companies called Trenton, hundreds probably. Maybe a search on the Internet might help, he thought hopefully, although far from optimistic. He reached inside his haversack and took out his camera. He focused on the crates, and pressed the shutter.

  He replaced the camera in his rucksack, and walked over to one of the crates. He was tempted to open it, to see what it contained. He needed a tool of some kind, a chisel, or a steel bar. He quickly glanced around. A crow bar would be ideal, even a long screwdriver. He shook his head. As far as he could see there was nothing suitable. Disappointed, he slowly continued on his way. There at the far corner were more crates, all unmarked. Then he saw something lying on the ground, glinting in the moonlight. He bent down. It was a small, glass bottle. It had obviously been dropped, or had fallen. The top had snapped off leaving a jagged edge, and the contents had spilt onto the ground. Carlos picked it up. On the front of the bottle was a small white label. “Trenton Pharmaceuticals Batch 942/D,” he read. “Trenton Pharmaceuticals,” he repeated, as he placed it in his jacket pocket.

  He was still unsure what it was all about. As far as he could tell it was nothing to do with the environment, or the wild life. It was also nothing to do with the geology of the area. The only thing that he was reasonably sure of now was that Trenton Pharmaceuticals were involved somehow. That much was certain judging by the markings on the packing cases scattered all around, and that small bottle, although what Batch 942/D was, he had no idea. If Trenton Pharmaceuticals weren’t actually here themselves, Carlos murmured, their equipment was.

  He looked at his watch. It was getting late, and he needed to get back into town. He now had hard evidence concerning Trenton Pharmaceuticals. Somehow they were involved, although he didn’t know exactly how, or how significant that was. Furthermore he was still no nearing in knowing what was actually going on at the camp. He still needed a lot more information, and he needed it fast. Knowing what he did, the authorities could not possibly refuse to comment any longer though, could they? He would go back to city hall. They would have to speak up now, surely.

  * * *

  As he turned around to head back up the slope he suddenly heard the sound of dogs panting loudly and yapping excitedly. Maybe they had seen a rabbit or a fox perhaps. Or maybe they had seen him. Then he heard the sound of voices, and footsteps approaching on the gravel pathway. Somebody was coming in his direction. They were no more than fifty yards away, he guessed. The sounds gradually got louder. Then he saw the beam of the flashlight as it came around the corner. Slowly, it moved from side to side, firstly over in the trees on the far side, then sweeping across the pathway, then hitting the side of the tent. The beam then swept back across the pathway, disappearing once more into the trees. A few brief seconds later it returned. Then he saw the guards come into view.

  They walked slowly along the edge of the clearing, towards the tents, where Carlos was hidden. A few moments later the guards had reached the tents. As they did so Carlos quickly ducked back into the shadows. He hid behind the packing crates and watched as the guards slowly walked towards him. Had he been seen, Carlos wondered. He suddenly began to wish that he had stayed up on the hill, out of sight. Out here by the tents he felt strangely vulnerable, and exposed. His heart was beating fast, and loud. They must hear it, he thought, as he peered into the darkness. He pressed back further against the tent wall, and as far into the shadows as he could. The beam from the torchlight suddenly started to come closer.

  He had been seen, Carlos thought. Should he make a run for it? If he did, they would see him almost certainly and the dogs would be let loose. They would catch him in no time. On the other hand should he just stay where he was and brazen it out? After all, what had he actually done anyway? Nothing, not really, all right, so he was being inquisitive, nosey if you like. He was a newspaper reporter, wasn’t he? That’s what newspaper reporters did. Nose around. Dig up the news. That was their role in life, their function, their raison d’etre. All right, so perhaps he shouldn’t have been there. Perhaps he was technically trespassing. There had been no locked gates, and high fences. He had just walked in, unrestricted. How was he to know that he shouldn’t be there? There had been no warning signs, saying “Keep Out”, or “Private, No Entry.” Even if there had been, so what about it? He hadn’t actually done any harm, had he? He hadn’t damaged anything, or stolen anything, had he? He shook his head. You could hardly count the empty bottle,
could you? An empty, broken, bottle, where was the harm in that? None, he murmured, answering his own question. He shook his head once again. He was not convinced. Somehow he just knew that his excuses would not be accepted. But what could they do to him? Couldn’t kill him, could they? Throw him in prison?

  The guards came closer and closer, and were now just a few yards from him. One of the guards started to move towards the corner of the tent where Carlos was hiding, and then stopped. The dogs began barking once more and pulled towards the end of the tent. Had the dogs picked up his scent, he wondered? He shook his head. Probably not, he thought, because of the heavy rain. Had the dogs actually seen him? Again he shook his head. He had been well hidden, and it was quite dark. And, besides, if they had seen him he would have been surrounded by now.

  The guard tugged hard on the leads, pulling the dogs back. “Come here, Bruno,” he called out. He raised a large stick threateningly. “Come here,” he repeated louder. “Heel.” The dogs backed away. Once again the guard shone his torch over into the trees and then quickly back across the path, the light casting strange shadows on to the tents. Satisfied that the area was clear, the guards quickly moved on the beams from their torches dancing from side to side, as they went. At the far corner of the large marquee they turned and disappeared from view.

  Carlos waited silently until they were completely out of sight. Then he quickly made his way back up the slope.

  * * *

  It was just over an hour later that Carlos arrived at the top of the slope, tired and exhausted. Slowly, he made his way back along the track to where his car was waiting. He was surprised to see the door on the passenger side lying open. He quickly glanced around. There was no one. He looked back at the door. He was sure that he had closed the doors before he had left. He shook his head. Maybe he hadn’t closed it correctly. Maybe it had just sprung open. Maybe, but he wasn’t convinced. It was so unlike him. He wasn’t usually that careless. He tried to recollect his actions, without success. He couldn’t even remember opening the passenger door, anyway. Then it suddenly came back to him. He had opened it, to reach for the rucksack lying on the back seat. He nodded his head. Mystery solved, he murmured. I just never closed it properly afterwards. Careless, he muttered.

  He closed the door, put on the seat belt, and switched on the ignition. He checked his rear mirror, released the hand brake, put the car into gear, and slowly moved forward. He did not notice the young man who was watching him from the bushes close by.

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  Carlos Lopez

  It was late by the time Carlos got home that evening. He was cold, and tired. It had been an exhausting day. He shook his head and yawned. He placed his camera on the low table in the middle of the room, and threw his bags on the floor. As he sat down he looked over at his camera. He had a few good shots, in fact he had some very good shots. There was some information there at least, although what they actually showed was not entirely clear. He shook his head. He was still no closer to knowing what was going on though, was he? A handful of photographs showing some packing crates, and a broken bottle, he murmured. So what? What did that show? He really needed to speak to someone in authority, someone who was willing to talk.

  The following day was a Saturday, the start of the weekend. City Hall would be closed. Monday was a public holiday, was one of those festival days, Saint someone or the other, he couldn’t remember which. It was almost certainly Santa Maria, he thought, or maybe San Juan. They were the two favorites, or San Hosea. He shrugged. They were all the same anyway. So it would be Tuesday before City Hall re-opened. His editor would not be pleased, but he simply had no choice but to wait. What else could he do? If only he had left the valley just a little bit earlier. Maybe he would have got to City Hall earlier that day, before it had closed. He would have got the necessary information he needed. He could have written the story over the weekend, and it would have been ready for the front page of the newspaper on Tuesday at the latest. Now it will be days before it’s done, he thought. His editor would certainly not be pleased.

  Then slowly an idea began forming in his head. All right, so the office was closed. So he couldn’t get any information until Tuesday. Not from the city hall, anyway. All right, he murmured. In the meantime though, Trenton Pharmaceuticals are based in Florida, aren’t they? I’ll send an email to the Miami Herald and ask them to get some information for me.

  * * *

  That evening he sent an email to the Herald, attaching several of the photographs, and a brief explanation of what he had seen. He slowly read through what he had written. He shook his head, and sighed. It wasn’t much. It sounded so vague, so petty. He wondered if it would actually be taken seriously. “I hope they don’t think its junk mail,” he murmured. Perhaps they wouldn’t even bother reading it. He shrugged. It didn’t matter, not now. There wasn’t much that he could do about it. The message had gone, and that was that. All he could do now was to wait and hope that he would get a meaningful reply. He sighed, took a deep breath, and lay back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes, and very soon was fast asleep.

  * * *

  The email was passed through to the desk of Richard Dawson. It was waiting for him on the Monday morning when he arrived at the office. It was one of sixty-two that Dawson received that morning, after deleting the usual helping of unsolicited spam that appeared daily. It was almost lunchtime before he got round to dealing with it.

  He read it through slowly. As he did so he began scribbling some notes on to a pad. “Punta Rojas? Trenton Pharmaceuticals?” He then glanced at the photographs. “Looks like the circus has hit town,” he murmured. “That big tent in the middle must be the big top.” He shook his head, and started to laugh. “Hardly earth shattering,” he murmured. “Not exactly breaking news is it?” In fact it all appeared to be deadly dull.

  “Let’s get it out of the way, before lunch,” he murmured. He made hard copies of everything contained in the email. He then spread the documents across his desk. He sighed and started to tap them. He then reluctantly reached across his desk for the telephone. “Get me Trenton Pharmaceuticals, would you please, Joyce,” he said to the operator.

  A few moments later he was put through. “Can I speak to your press office, please?” he said. “It’s Dawson of the Miami Herald.” The line went dead for a moment, and then the canned music started to play. If there was one thing he really hated, it was canned music on the telephone. There was nothing you could do about it. You couldn’t change the music. You couldn’t turn it off, or lower the volume, you just had to put up with it. The only way to get rid of it was to hang up, which rather defeated the object of making the call in the first place. Dawson shook his head, and hoped that it would not be for too long. Thankfully, it wasn’t.

  “Press Office,” a voice said. “Anderson speaking, can I help you?”

  Dawson took a deep breath. “I certainly hope you can, Mr. Anderson,” he replied. “Can you tell me what Trenton Pharmaceuticals are doing in Punta Rojas, in Costa Rica?”

  There was a long pause. “Punta where?” the voice asked.

  “Rojas,” Dawson replied, trying not to sound too bored. “R O J A S, it’s a small town in Costa Rica. Near the coast, I think.”

  There was another long pause. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting sir,” the voice said. “But I think there must be some mistake. As far as I can see we have nothing in that area.” There was a pause, and the sound of papers being moved. “We have an office in Mexico, if that helps.”

  Dawson sighed, and shrugged his shoulders. “Thanks very much,” he said. “Sorry to have bothered you.” He slowly put the telephone back on its cradle. I knew it, he murmured, a complete and utter waste of time. He looked over at the wall clock. Eleven fifty-five. He just had time to send an email back, and then get off to an early lunch.

  “Hi Carlos,” he typed. “Thanks for your email. I have checked with Trenton. They say that they are not in
Costa Rica. There must be some mistake.” He read it over once more. “Regards, Richard Dawson.” He then pressed the Send button. I hope that he can read English, he murmured, because my Spanish is poor. He printed a copy of his email reply. He then collected all the papers together and placed them in a fresh folder. He wrote on the front cover, “Punta Rojas, Trenton Pharmaceuticals, 2005.” He stared at it for a few moments, and then he added a large thick question mark. He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled. “Done,” he announced triumphantly.

  He then looked up, and glanced around the room. “Hey Tim,” he called out, as he saw one of the office boys. “File this away for me will you please?” He handed the boy the folder and smiled. Tim nodded his head, turned and quickly walked away. Dawson looked at the wall clock once again. Twelve fifteen. “That’s it. Lunchtime,” he announced. He closed his desk, stood up, and hurried out of the room.

  * * *

  Carlos saw the email later that same day. He shook his head. He was disappointed. He still had no story for his boss. Still nothing for page one. He shook his head once again, and then re-read the email. Despite what it said he knew that Trenton was there, in the valley. He had the proof didn’t he? The crates with their name all over them and there was that glass bottle. He shook his head. All right, so maybe it didn’t prove that Trenton was actually there, but it did prove that they were supplying someone who was. Trenton Pharmaceuticals must know something. So why were they lying? He decided to call at the City Hall first thing in the morning.

  * * *

  The following day Carlos was at the City Hall when it opened. He explained the reason for his visit to the receptionist. He was told to wait and that someone would be with him shortly. One and a half hours later an official walked into the waiting room. “Senor Lopez,” he said, smiling and shaking his head. “I’m sorry to have kept you.” He held his hand out. “I have only just been told.” He looked in the direction of the receptionist and shook his head. He looked back towards Carlos. “Now, what can I do for you?” he asked.