It was going to be a long night: I drove Jill Salton back to El Cerco. I’d expected Negrini to offer her transport but he didn’t, so I was left with the job of chauffeur, a service which she blandly accepted as of right. It was a hell of a long way to El Cerco and back and I felt decidedly sour.
We talked very little during the drive. I was busy going over what Negrini had told me and she seemed to be wrapped up in her own thoughts. It was only when I stopped the car outside the gates of El Cerco and waited for a sleepy guard to open them that I said, ‘That conclusion you jumped to on the drive out.’
‘What about it?’
‘You can scratch Mr Black.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Positive. He’s quite a man, isn’t he?’
‘I’ve always liked him. He and David were good friends.’
I drove through the gateway. ‘Is he married?’
‘To the eyeballs,’ she said. ‘A wife and six children.’
Most uxorious. It seemed funny to think of a Mafia chief living in domestic bliss, bringing up a string of little Negrinis and worrying about their education, just like any bowler-hatted City nine-to-fiver. Still, people don’t actually live in casinos, do they?
I drove down to the little quay. As the car stopped, a man was already in the launch and starting the engine. Jill got out of the car and, after a moment’s hesitation, so did I. She called out to the servant in the launch, ‘I’ll take her across.’ He nodded and climbed up on to the quay.
She turned to me and said, ‘You don’t have to go back to San Martin, Bill. It’s a long drive and you must be tired.’
‘I must admit I wasn’t looking forward to it,’ I said.
‘You can stay in the guest cottage – it’s ready for you. It’s where David and I lived while we were building the house on the island.’ She turned her head and said to the servant, ‘Show Mr Kemp to the cottage.’
She jumped lightly into the boat and looked back. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Bill.’ Then she cast off and the boat curved away into the darkness.
I looked after it thoughtfully and turned to find the servant looking at me with veiled amusement. There wasn’t much I could do about that, so I said, ‘Lead on, MacDuff.’
‘The name is Raymond, sir,’ he said. ‘This way.’
Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t a cottage – at least not the kind with the thatched roof and roses around the door. Had it been put on the property market in Britain it would have been described, in the curious English affected by estate agents, as ‘a commodious gentleman’s residence situated in delightful surroundings’.
There was a refreshing lack of expensive gimmickry: the beds were rectangular and not circular, the chairs were of wood and woollen fabric and not plastic stretched over chromed gas-piping, and the bath was normality itself and not carved from a single hunk of mother-of-pearl. Pyjamas and a dressing gown were laid out and there was a new toothbrush still sealed in its container.
There was also an imposing array of bottles and fresh ice in the ice bucket, so I poured myself a whisky and undressed slowly. It had been a long day. I put on the dressing gown and stood at the window, sipping the whisky and looking out over El Cerco. There was a single light shining from the house on the island and it flickered as someone moved in front of it. Presently it went out, so I finished the whisky and went to bed.
I was woken by the distant sound of an aircraft engine. Sunlight flooded the bedroom and reflections danced on the ceiling from the waters of the lagoon. The noise grew louder. It sounded as though the Lear was taking off so I got up and put on the dressing gown. By the time I reached the window it was overhead and its shadow flicked at me. I watched it climb over the sea and curve to the north. Then it went out of sight.
Somebody tapped gently at the door so I opened it and found John looking at me. He said, ‘Mrs Salton asked me to look after you, sir. She hopes you slept well.’
‘I slept very well.’
‘Would you care for coffee, sir? And what would you like for breakfast?’
We discussed the menu gravely and then he said, ‘When would you like it served, sir?’
‘Shall we say half an hour?’
‘Very well, sir.’ He paused. ‘Mrs Salton regrets that she can’t see you today. She has had to go away.’
Involuntarily I looked towards the window and the sky. ‘In the jet?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You don’t know where she’s gone?’
‘No, sir.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Breakfast in half an hour.’
While splashing in the shower, I wondered why Jill had found it necessary to jump off for points unknown at an unreasonably early hour after her last words had been that she would see me on the morrow. It was fairly certain that she had left Campanilla: not even a millionaire uses a Learjet for local commuting. That would be like going from London to Paris by space rocket.
I used the electric shaver thoughtfully provided, dressed and went in search of breakfast. I had just broken the yolk of a fried egg when John came in with a telephone. ‘You are wanted,’ he said, plugged in the instrument and laid it on the breakfast table.
I picked it up. ‘William Kemp here.’
‘Detective Superintendent Hanna. I understand Mrs Salton is absent from El Cerco.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Have you any idea where she has gone, Mr Kemp?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘I see.’ He paused and I could hear a murmur of voices as he consulted with someone. He spoke again. ‘A man was severely assaulted in San Martin last night. A notebook in his pocket contained your name and a telephone number. The number proved to be Mrs Salton’s, unlisted.’
‘Who is the man?’ I noted that my knuckles had whitened as I gripped the telephone.
‘He appears to be a Mr Owen Ogilvie. Do you know him?’
‘Yes. I’ll be in your office as soon as possible. What’s your address?’
I skipped breakfast that morning. Within three minutes I was on the road to San Martin.
FOUR
I
Detective Superintendent Hanna was a tall, lanky local with a thin face and sleepy eyes. Though the hour was early, his Palm Beach suit was wrinkled and tired. Hanna himself looked exhausted and I suspected he had not been to bed that night. He lit a long cheroot and said, ‘Is Ogilvie a friend of yours?’
‘I suppose I’m his boss.’ I told him what Ogilvie had been doing and why and, as I spoke, I could see that he was becoming increasingly worried. To him, this sounded as though it might be political, and good policemen hate the taint of politics. There are too many abnormal pressures, too much interference from the top and a hell of a lot of thin ice to skate over.
‘Do you know anything about his movements yesterday?’
I ignored the question: I had enough of my own. ‘How is he?’
Hanna drew on his cheroot and inspected the end of it. ‘He was very badly beaten. Some of his ribs are broken and so is his right arm, his skull is fractured and he has many bruises and contusions. He is in hospital.’
‘And he’s still unconscious, otherwise you wouldn’t be asking me for an account of his movements.’ Hanna nodded. ‘He saw your people here; he went to the Chronicle office where he spoke to a man called Don Jackson; he saw Dr Winstanley, who conducted the post-mortem on Salton’s body; and he saw Dr Collins, Salton’s physician. I last saw him at the Blue Water Casino at about midnight.’
Hanna grabbed for that one. ‘Was he winning?’
I shook my head. ‘He wasn’t gambling.’ It wasn’t going to be as easy as that for Hanna. There could be many reasons for the attack on Ogilvie but he certainly wasn’t mugged and robbed because he’d made a killing at the casino.
‘Why did he want to see Winstanley?’
‘To hear what he had to say.’
‘But he knew what he’d say.’ Hanna ticked off points on his fingers. ‘When he came here,
Ogilvie saw Inspector Rose, who showed him the police report, the pathologist’s report and a transcript of the inquest. All Winstanley’s evidence was there.’
‘Do you believe everything that’s said at an inquest? Some day, I’d like to hear your opinion of Winstanley’s professional qualifications and his fitness to be a pathologist. In fact, I wouldn’t mind hearing it now. That body was far gone and Winstanley was a damned sight too certain in his evidence.’
‘Is that what Ogilvie thought?’
‘He thought the pathologist’s report was a joke,’ I said flatly. ‘What did you think?’
‘What I think doesn’t matter,’ said Hanna.
‘It should matter,’ I retorted. ‘If you had anything to do with the investigation.’
‘I was called in when David Salton’s body was discovered.’ He spoke reluctantly. ‘The fisherman who found it passed downwind of Salton’s boat – he smelled the body. That’s what made him investigate. Yes, Mr Kemp, the body was far gone, as you say.’
‘And you let Winstanley get away with that?’
‘I don’t control the conduct of inquests and I’m not responsible for their findings. Dr Winstanley’s testimony was given under oath.’
I leaned forward with my hands flat on Hanna’s desk and said, ‘Do you know what I think? I think the idea was to get rid of Salton fast – rush the inquest, stop the rioting in the streets and bury Salton so he could be forgotten. And you know damned well that a policeman is not bound by the findings of an inquest. That’s one legacy the English legal system has left you.’
He said stiffly, ‘I obey the orders of my superiors.’
‘Oh yes – Commissioner Barstow, who has Prime Minister Conyers breathing down his neck. Were you actually ordered not to press too hard?’
‘I don’t have to account to you for anything.’ Hanna looked at me with dislike. ‘And I don’t see that this has anything to do with the assault on Ogilvie.’
‘Then you must be bloody blind,’ I said. ‘Or are you deliberately not seeing? The man who might have been your next Prime Minister is found dead in mysterious circumstances, another man investigating his death is assaulted, and you don’t see any connection! How did you get to become superintendent?’
Hanna took a deep breath and then relaxed. ‘You can’t insult me, Mr Kemp. You say you saw Ogilvie at the Blue Water Casino last night. What was he doing there?’
‘He was there to see me.’ I hesitated. I didn’t want to bring Jill Salton into this but Hanna was sure to find out she was there and he would wonder why I hadn’t mentioned it. Thus is suspicion born where none should exist. ‘I was there with Mrs Salton. We had driven over from El Cerco.’
‘What were you doing – gambling?’
‘No. We had a few drinks in the bar.’
Hanna was politely incredulous. ‘You drove all the way across Campanilla just to have a few drinks in the bar of the Blue Water Casino?’
‘Not at all. I went to see Ogilvie.’ Again I hesitated, but I decided that Mr Black was very well equipped to look after himself. ‘And to see Mr Negrini.’
‘Negrini? What about?’
‘About the manner of Salton’s death.’
‘Would he know about that?’
‘He might.’
‘Yes, he might,’ agreed Hanna. ‘But did he?’ He looked with disgust at the stub of his cheroot and extinguished it in the ashtray. ‘You needn’t answer that. He wouldn’t tell you if he did. But I find it interesting that you should think it necessary to ask him. Did Ogilvie talk to Negrini?’
‘A few words on introduction, that’s all. This isn’t getting us far, is it, Superintendent?’
‘I’m doing all right,’ he said placidly. ‘Who did you see yesterday, Mr Kemp?’
‘Am I being investigated?’
He smiled wickedly and leaned forward. ‘You should never antagonise a policeman, Mr Kemp. Failure to answer reasonable questions can be construed as obstructing the police in their duties. For a foreigner, this can lead to summary expulsion from Campanilla. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’
‘No,’ I said resignedly. He was right and I shouldn’t have pushed him so hard. A copper has too many ways of hitting back – and they’re all legal. ‘I saw Don Jackson at the Chronicle, Mrs Salton, her lawyer Mr Stern, a few house servants and the pilot and engineer of Salton’s plane.’ I paused, remembering. ‘And the pilot’s wife.’ I paused again and came up with one more name. ‘And Jake McKittrick.’
That brought a reaction. ‘Jake McKittrick! Why did you talk to him?’
I grinned. ‘I asked him the way to El Cerco. He wanted me to present his condolences to Mrs Salton – that’s how I know his name.’
‘That’s all?’ Hanna was suspicious.
‘That’s all.’
He thought for a few moments. ‘You and Ogilvie both saw Don Jackson. Together or separately?’
‘Separately.’
‘Why see him at all?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! He runs a newspaper. It’s a good source of information.’
Hanna pondered. ‘All right, Mr Kemp, that will be all for the moment. I must ask you to keep yourself available for further questioning. Where are you staying? The Royal Caribbean or El Cerco?’
‘The Royal Caribbean. Where can I find Ogilvie?’
Hanna scribbled on a notepad, tore off the sheet and handed it to me. ‘That’s the hospital. One more thing – where did Mrs Salton go this morning?’
‘She didn’t tell me.’
He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can find out from Benning.’
‘How would they know?’ I asked curiously.
‘All aircraft leaving Campanilla must depart from a state-licensed airport. That usually means Benning International.’ He smiled. ‘We have to collect the departure tax, you know.’
Plus it makes a handy method of police control, I thought. I stood up and said, ‘I’ll get along to the hospital.’
‘There’s not much point,’ said Hanna. ‘He’s still unconscious and you probably won’t be allowed to see him.’
‘I’ll go anyway,’ I said, and left his office.
The Chronicle’s editor had implied that the police were unreliable in this case, being corrupted by the government. Hanna had reinforced this impression: although he declined to say so outright, he had as much as told me that Barstow, under pressure from Conyers, had soft-pedalled on the investigation. Yet there was room for hope in the lines of Hanna’s questioning. He knew damned well that Salton’s death was a factor to be considered when looking at poor Ogilvie.
And then there was his interest in Jill Salton’s sudden flight. Twice he had asked me where she had gone, once on the telephone and again in an apparent fit of absentmindedness that didn’t fool me for a minute. It struck me that Hanna might be a fundamentally good copper who would go on doing his job in spite of instructions to the contrary from above.
I found Ogilvie looking like something recently excavated from a sarcophagus. The bits of him that weren’t bandaged were blue with bruising. He breathed stertorously, but then he was lucky to be breathing at all. He was still unconscious.
The doctor in attendance was professionally cautious. When I asked him the outcome, he said, ‘It’s difficult to say at this stage, Mr Kemp.’
‘Try to put a percentage on it.’
He shrugged slightly. ‘Call it fifty-fifty.’
Fifty-fifty – a toss of a coin as to whether a man lived or died. ‘I know you’ll do your best, doctor.’ I looked down at Ogilvie. ‘He’s a friend.’
II
A blind man has no trouble finding his way about his own house because he knows from experience where the furniture is placed. Put him in a strange house and he’ll stumble around, barking his shins. I was a blind man in a strange house and I needed a seeing-eye dog. So I went to see Mr Black.
I told him of Ogilvie and of my session with Hanna. He heard me out, then said disagreeably, ‘So you put m
e in the middle.’
‘You are in the middle. If Hanna checks on me and Ogilvie, he’s certain to find out I talked to you last night. I just cut a corner by telling him before he asked.’
Negrini nodded gloomily. ‘Is Hanna reopening the investigation on Salton?’
‘I don’t know. But if I have anything to do with it, the investigation into the assault on Ogilvie won’t have a soft core, and if it leads to Salton then the chips will have to fall where they may. I need help. I need someone who knows Campanilla, who knows where the bodies are buried. I need information.’
Negrini was sour. ‘And you’ve elected me.’
‘I could have gone to Jackson at the Chronicle,’ I said. ‘But I don’t like him and I don’t trust him.’
‘And you trust me?’ Negrini laughed. ‘That’s one for the books. All right – what do you want to know?’
‘I could stand knowing where Mrs Salton is.’
Negrini looked faintly alarmed. ‘She’s missing?’
‘She flew the coop early this morning. Hanna said the plane would have to put into Benning before proceeding. Could you check and find out the destination?’
‘I can do that. Anything else?’
‘When Haslam and Philips took the plane to be serviced, they’d have to do the same. Maybe check on that flight, too.’
‘That was a while ago, but it should be on record.’ Negrini looked at me curiously. ‘You think there’s something funny about it?’
‘I don’t know. The devil about this kind of business is that you don’t know which questions to ask, so you have to ask them all.’
I stood up and he said, ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Report back to London, tell the boss that fifty per cent of the Campanillan task force is out of action.’
‘Yes,’ said Negrini. ‘Break the news that they might have to pay out on his insurance, too.’
‘That’s not funny,’ I said. ‘Owen Ogilvie has a young wife and a one-year-old son.’
‘I guess it wasn’t funny at that,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
III
Things began to break. People came to me instead of me having to go to them, which is always a good sign. In the next two hours I had two telephone calls, both anonymous, and two callers.
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