“Nothing to it.”
Eric made some instant coffee and winced at the taste. He opened a can of fruit cocktail and devoured it. Twenty minutes later he relieved Ken who went below and climbed into the bow bed. Despite what he said to Eric he wasn’t full of energy. He had slept little during his last few breaks. Again he tossed and turned for twenty minutes before climbing out of bed and pouring himself a large drink from the one bottle of rum they purchased in Venezuela. Ten minutes later Ken slept fitfully.
Ken’s eyes flashed open. Had he heard a ship’s horn? They had seen some ships at sea, but only from a great distance. This horn sounded very close.
The second blare of the horn startled him to the point where he sat up quickly and banged his head on the low roof of the boat. Eric laughed as he leaned into the doorway of the cabin holding the emergency foghorn. “Time to get up, Ken. Your kind brother returned the favour. You’ve slept for five hours.”
Ken felt like he had slept for five minutes, his pulse still racing from the shock of his wake up call. “Oh, okay, thanks, Eric. I’ll just wake up and grab a bite to eat. I’ll be up in ten minutes.”
“All right. But you’re missing a great sunset.”
The darkness closed in around the boat like a shroud as Ken carried a cup of bad coffee up the four steps that led out of the cabin of the boat.
“Anything dramatic happen while I slept, Eric?”
“Hell, no. Not a ship in sight.”
“Good. Why don’t you get some sleep?” Ken looked at the weather vane at the top of the boat and at the softly rolling seas. “The conditions are perfect for fishing. I’ll see if I can catch us some fresh food while I steer the boat.”
“Sure, Ken. You’ve been trying for weeks without a bite. We’ll be in the Canaries in a day or so and we can buy some fish from a market there.”
“It tastes better if you catch it yourself.”
Eric was surprised to hear that. He’d never known Ken to be an avid fisherman, he decided the discovery of the old fishing gear in the boat was helping Ken develop a new interest.
Eric went to sleep below while Ken fed the line through the eyes of the fishing rod and set it beside him. The sun had completely set in the west, the light on the water was an echo of the stars and moon above. Ken checked the GPS and confirmed they were on course. The second hand on Ken’s watch seemed to barely move. Ken secured the wheel and glanced into the cabin to make sure Eric was sound asleep before he put his plan into action.
After another thirty minutes later, Ken reached under the seat and pulled out a short piece of chain. Once again he glanced into the cabin where Eric was still fast asleep. Ken removed the rubber tie from the wide end of the oar and made sure the oar was sitting so it easily came out of the other rubber tie. Then he fastened the chain to the fishing line and dropped it into the ocean. The rod bent over and the reel sang as line shot out. As Ken tightened the drag, the line stopped releasing and the rod bent over under the tension. After he set the handle of the rod in a rod holder on the side of the sailboat he positioned himself back behind the steering wheel, near the dinghy. Only a small flashlight illuminated the deck as Ken calmed himself in preparation for the next step in his plan. Sweat poured off his brow and he wiped his face with a towel.
“Eric, I need your help. Eric!”
Eric stumbled out of the cabin, tripping over a rope on the floor. “Christ, Ken, What’s up?”
Ken pretended to be struggling with the fishing rod. “I’ve got a friggin huge fish on the line.”
“Ah, you probably have bottom.”
“Right Eric, I have three thousand feet of line on,” Ken said sarcastically. “Can you please give me a hand?”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve been fighting if for thirty minutes. It came to the surface twice and then shot straight down each time.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I can’t do both things at once any more. Here, can you fight it for a while?” Ken handed Eric the rod.
Eric struggled with the weight on the end of the line. “Christ, how much does this thing weigh?”
Eric moves closer to the edge of the boat and Ken gripped the handle of the wooden oar and pulled it from the behind the rubber strap. Holding the oar like a baseball bat Ken swung forward with all his strength, hitting Eric in the back of the head. Eric and the rod tumbled overboard, landing with a loud splash, and disappearing into the darkness.
Ken fell back onto the plastic bench surrounding the deck of the boat, his heart racing. He dropped his head as tears filled his eyes as he realized that he was now alone in the world.
Chapter Seventeen
The taller buildings a block away from Hyde Park added twenty percent more property to the list of possible addresses, but came up with two very promising properties. The first was a penthouse apartment purchased through a bank account in the Caribbean. Each three-bedroom apartment in the elegant first building was just north of Hyde Park and had great views of the birds in the larger lake. The manager of the building indicated the unit hadn’t been occupied for over six months and advertisements were the only mail delivered. The trail to find the owner, or owners, reached a dead-end as the bank from which the money was drawn wouldn’t divulge the information because its policy was to protect the identity of its clients. The taxes were paid from the same account, another dead end.
Later that day, the detectives sat in a pub on Bayswater Avenue discussing the likelihood of the apartment. The drinks were expensive, but the beer tasted good after spending another day flipping through piles of paper, or making phone calls.
“Well,” said Henry Baker. “The Clellands were in a penthouse in Edmonton, and ocean front in the Caribbean. It only stands to reason that they would live the elite life here.”
“Perhaps,” added Thorpe, “but I don’t think they own that apartment.”
“How’s that, Albert?”
“Well, it’s the price. How much is that apartment worth?”
“It’s worth just over two million pounds,” said Baker.
“Exactly,” replied Thorpe. “The Clellands have money, but they’ve been pissing it away like water.”
“Good point,” added Collins. “We had an estimate that they were worth between five and six million Canadian. That home in St. Kitts went for 1.5 million. They spent huge amounts of money on equipment, vehicles, and explosives to carry out their crimes. If that’s a reflection of how they lived, and presuming they didn’t work, they must have used up at least half of their money over the last two years. So, they’d barely have enough money to buy that property let alone live the high life in an expensive city like London.”
The other two detectives nodded agreement and Baker flipped through his notes. “The second apartment’s a less elaborate two-bedroom unit on the eighth floor. It sold for two hundred and thirty thousand pounds, or about half-a-million Canadian.”
“Much more workable,” added Collins. “Henry, are the others still scouring the area for other possible properties.”
“They are. They’re working on the rentals now. There are few of those in the area and they’ve found none of interest. I have to say, gentlemen, that this smaller one looks very interesting.”
Thorpe and Collins drained their beers.
“Okay, lets dig right into this thing and try and find a link,” said Thorpe.
The building of the second condominium was older with rows of bay windows and balconies. Inside the detectives found a labyrinth of hallways still covered in dark wood paneling installed when the building was constructed in the early twentieth century. Baker arranged a viewing of an apartment with a similar floor plan to the property they were investigating. None of the apartments were exactly the same since the building had been converted from a large mansion into twenty luxury apartments thirty years ago. The detectives questioned all the other tenants. None recall seeing a tall man or twins near the apartment.
The next day the detectives visited the real estate firm that sold the property where they hoped that there was a paper trail leading at least partially to Canada. Documents from the transaction indicated that a local lawyer handled the whole transaction and the conversation with the lawyer gave the detectives little information. The lawyer did indicate that the transaction was for cash, and also from a Caribbean account. Collins wrote down the name of the numbered company that owned the apartment, 414112125123 LTD.
The lunch hour was beginning as the detectives left the lawyer’s office just south of the apartment.
“Well,” said Baker. “I know a very nice pub just around the corner. Let’s get a bite to eat and go over what we have.”
The Canadians agreed and the policemen sat at a street side table outside the pub. The street in front of them was abuzz with taxis and double-decker buses covered with advertising. The Canadian detectives couldn’t resist ordering fish and chips. Baker surprised them by only ordering a salad. All three detectives ordered coffee as they reviewed the information collected on the owners of the apartment.
“I still think there must be a paper trail, digital or other wise, from that apartment to the owner. Perhaps the monthly bills or the tax bills,” said Thorpe.
“Good point, I’ll get one of the detectives at the office to track down all the bills and where they were sent.” Baker made a note on his phone.
After making his notes Bakers started his habit of tapping his stylus on the worn wooden table. “The other area we should check is the furnishings. I hope to have a court order to get into the place, but I’m concerned that they may find out we were there.”
“True,” added Thorpe “but it is a good lead. Most people want some personal say in the furnishings, colours, comfort, etc.”
“Agreed. Until then we have to post officers to watch the building. We can do much of it through video.” Baker pointed to the camera atop the street light feet from their table. “London is blanketed with them. The average person is recorded three hundred times every day.”
While Thorpe and Baker scribbled notes into their phones Collins flipped through his tired notebooks, concentrating on the notes made since they arrived in the U.K. First he reviewed the other properties they had investigated making sure they hadn’t missed anything. Everything pointed to the apartment they were currently focused on. He set down the book with the notes from the stop at the lawyer’s office on top. His pen fell on the cobblestone bricks and he bent to pick it up, discovering that the young waitress had beat him to it and handed it to him.
Collins looked up at her and smiled. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. I’ll be right back with your lunch.”
As the waitress moved aside another large red bus was stuck in traffic directly in front of their table. The advertisement on the side of the bus promoted a “number crossword puzzle” carried in one of the local newspapers. Collins recognized the type of puzzle because he did similar ones in the Toronto paper. As the bus sat there Collins returned his glance to the notebook, studying the notes from the Law office. He looked up again at the bus and smiled as he set a clean piece of paper out of his notebook on the table. After quickly writing out the numbered account he rewrote them again spaced further apart. Holding them up in the air caught the attention of the other two detectives who watched Collins look back and forth from the paper and the bus that sat stationary in the congested traffic. Collins divided the numbers again, this time into eight numbers, some one digit and some two digits. This time when he held the paper up in the air he turned it backward, the sun helping him read the numbers through the paper. The other two detectives puzzled by his actions.
A broad smile crossed his face and he pointed to the paper. “Have a look at this, gentlemen.”
Collins wrote out 4-14-1-12-12-12-5-12-3. Below this he wrote out the numbers from one through 14. Beneath these numbers he wrote the corresponding letters from a through n.
“Now here’s the trick.” Collins printed the corresponding letters below each number of the numbered account that was used to purchase the apartment. It spelt d-n-a-l-l-e-l-c. He then reversed the letters spelling c-l-e-l-l-a-n-d.
Baker and Thorpe looked at the page.
“There’s our link,” said Baker.
“Nice work Jim,” added Thorpe.
Baker stood up. “Let’s get back to the station. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
* * *
The wind died as the warmth of the sun spread across the eastern Atlantic Ocean and Ken lowered the sagging sails.
“Little point in having you up,” Ken said to the sails as he strapped them to the boom.
The light of the rising sun also buoyed his spirits and he celebrated his independence by brewing some real coffee, having grown tired of the aftertaste of instant. The chore also gave him time to think. As the coffee bubbled in the old pot Ken had to decide if he should move quickly to get to his new home, or take more time to let things cool down. He poured a cup of the steaming brew and carried it on deck. On his way through the companionway of the boat he picked up the binoculars hanging on a hook. Balancing the coffee and the binoculars as he made his way to the bow of the boat he perched in the hammock and sipped the hot coffee. Through the binoculars he focused on the beckoning piece of land to the east. Ken knew it was either the island of La Palma, or the island of Hierra in the Canary Island. By taking frequent GPS readings Ken was certain he was on course. The last thing he wanted was to land in an African port where they would ask too many questions. The Canary Islands were a perfect choice because there were hundreds of private sailboats docking every day.
Ken finished his coffee and returned to the rear of the boat. He checked the GPS once again and confirmed that he was forty miles away from the nearest island. He checked the fuel supply and the tank was nearly full as the trip across the Atlantic had steady winds from the west thanks a fortunate steady wind from the south.
The old diesel engine coughed hello after Ken pressed the starter button, then spewed out a cloud of smoke. It settled into its usual rhythm and Ken put it in gear. The ship moved forward at four knots for twenty minutes. Ken checked the temperature gauge and it showed the engine wasn’t overheating so Ken increased the speed to six knots. An addition check of his position through the GPS verified he would arrive at the more northerly island of Las Palma in three hours.
While Ken had no charts or maps of the island he was only interested in getting safely ashore. He dug through his backpack and found the stack of different identifications. Pulling out the British passport and drivers licence he decided his British name, Harry Stuart, would be his permanent name. As he ripped up and tossed the other identifications overboard he decided he would develop a clean London accent and blend into city life.
Two hours later the sailboat skirted along the west coast of Las Palma. Ken watched for a beach near a reasonable sized town or city. As he moved north he spotted hang gliders in the sky and jet skis in the water. A crescent beach of black sand stretched along the cliffs used by the hang gliders to a tall white lighthouse flashing a welcoming beacon.
Near the south end of the beach three sailboats of a similar size to Ken’s were anchored. Ken slowly moved closer but continued past the boats and lighthouse. A narrow road twisted along the base of the steep cliffs facing the ocean. Twenty minutes later Ken motored around the large point of Punto Gordo. There were no other boats in sight and Ken kept a close watch on the depth metre and anchored in seventy feet of water. He pulled out the binoculars and scanned the coast where ten or twelve villas dotted the lush area serviced by the end of the same road he spotted earlier. The next few hours were spent memorizing the makeup of the beach and an open area well away from any houses. He untied the dinghy and checked three times that there were no markings to link it to South America, and Venezuela in particular, or anything linking it to him or his brother. As he put the two oars in the locks he felt odd that he had no remorse about wh
at he had done to Eric.
As the afternoon wore on Ken filled the backpack with the few things he needed, including the four thousand dollars. It was plenty to get him to England and he stuffed the smaller bills in his pockets and half of the big bills in the hidden compartment of the bag. The remaining two thousand dollars fit nicely in the travel pouch he kept around his waist, inside his pants. His final major task on board was going through the boat twice. He checked for anything that would indicate Eric and he had been on the boat. He took anything that might float into the cabin.
Ken checked his watch, sunset was about an hour away and remembered that he had forgotten to take any water or food with him. He filled two bottles with water and managed to stuff them and some dried fruit into the bag.
The old dinghy danced in the water and Ken was pleased to see no water had leaked in. He set the bag in the dinghy and waited fifty more minutes.
After the sun set Ken went into the cabin of the boat for the last time and opened the cover leading into the bilge. Reaching inside he unscrewed the drain plug which was pushed out of his hand by the spray of seawater shooting into the bilge. Ken watched it for a few seconds, thinking it was the second thing he had condemned to the bottom of the ocean. The flow of the water was slow but steady, moving up the side of the fibreglass hull.
Ken exited the cabin and securely closed the door. After climbing over the thin rope that surrounded the cockpit of the boat he set himself down in the dinghy. Realizing he was backwards Ken flipped around on the seating before untying the small craft from the sailboat.
As he slowly paddled to shore he watched the sailboat list to one side. Ken stopped paddling as the tired vessel flipped upside down and sank out of sight, the gurgle of bubbles its farewell song.
Ken paddled to shore and climbed out of the dinghy, happy to get out of the musty smelling rubber boat. As he took stock of his situation he studied the small beach of sand and rocks. There were few signs of tourists as the sand was free of footprints or garbage. Ken had a flashlight but chose to search for a way to the road by moonlight so he wouldn’t attract attention. A twenty-minute walk to the north brought him to the treed area he had memorized from the boat and he was pleased to find a narrow pathway through the palm trees and thick bushes. After climbing for an hour he came to the narrow road which wasn’t paved, but showed signs of regular use.
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