Hider/Seeker

by Hider-Seeker (epub)

  When it came to his turn, the customs officer in short sleeves didn’t give him a second glance and stamped his passport like an automaton. Harry followed his nose and pushed his way through the tired crowds towards the blinding sunlight outside.

  Black taxi drivers holding cardboard with misspelt names jostled for his attention as he looked for his ride. Then he spotted him; a white man in his late forties, wearing a wrinkled cotton suit, and moccasins with no socks. Around one ankle was a gold filigree chain. He appeared relaxed, leaning against the front wing of an old silver Ferrari, smoking a cheroot.

  The man stood away from the sixties-built roadster and dropped the cheroot, grinding it under his foot. He pulled off his hat, revealing brown wavy hair, turquoise eyes as clear as the surrounding sea, and a heart-shaped face that was perfectly tanned.

  ‘Mr Bridger, I presume,’ he said in a cut-glass English accent. ‘Oscar Underwood, at your service.’

  Harry shook his hand firmly and gave his small suitcase to him.

  Oscar Underwood was a close friend of Nelson and owned the Debeaumont resort, an eight hundred acre tropical estate for pleasure seekers, near the twin Pitons on the south-west of the island. He looked terribly familiar to Harry, but he just couldn’t place him. Nelson hadn’t said much about his background, other than he was rich, owned the best beachfront resort in the Caribbean on what used to be a sugar cane plantation and knew everyone’s business. If Angela Linehan was on the island, he was the man to help find her.

  Oscar drove Harry away from the chaos of the airport and told him he was going to put him up in a chalet away from the other guests so that he wouldn’t be disturbed or more importantly recognised by any of them.

  Harry sat back and enjoyed the open-top ride, a welcome distraction from his troubles. Oscar showed no mercy on the Ferrari’s engine as he drove into the hills.

  ‘You like cars?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘I love this one. The 275 GTS – a real classic.’

  ‘Three litre engine, two hundred and sixty BHP at seven thousand RPM. She sounds great for her age, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Should you be driving her so hard?’

  ‘Nonsense, she loves it and so do I. Runs like a top – fourteen feet of steel passion.’

  Harry smiled and turned back to gaze out of the window again. The surrounding verdant hills were like the bare beauty of a reclining muse; on every bend of the road there was the tease to see more.

  ‘God’s own secret garden,’ shouted Oscar over the engine’s roar.

  Harry nodded and watched the velvet hills slowly giving way to mountains, thick with tropical vegetation of differing shades of emerald green. It didn’t seem to matter that the sun was overhead, the hot aromatic breeze felt good as it dried the sweat from his shirt.

  ‘Have we met before?’ asked Harry.

  ‘You know, I get that question a lot from Brits.’

  Oscar throttled some more gas, double-declutching down a gear before tearing the Ferrari off the tarmac road and up a mud baked track with more breathtaking views. The road was rutted and had potholes as big as open graves that required careful navigation. Oscar pulled up in front of a palm tree that was blocking the road. It had probably been blown down during the previous night’s storm. Harry jumped out to pull back the branches with feather-shaped leaves, so that Oscar could squeeze around without damaging the paintwork.

  Then it dawned on Harry why Oscar looked so familiar. It was his profile that gave him away as it suddenly took him back to the early eighties when he used to spend every day in front of the TV. Oscar was an Artful Dodger type character in a long running BBC series inspired by Oliver Twist. It was a big hit in the US and gave Oscar a ticket to Hollywood. That was until his voice broke. He remembered once reading that the former child star moved back into TV in later years, producing game shows where he made a mint selling the formats overseas.

  Harry jumped back into the car, waving a finger at Oscar’s face. ‘I remember who you are –’

  ‘If you don’t want to walk the rest of the way, I suggest you don’t tell me who I used to be.’

  ‘How do you know Nelson?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Italia Conti. We both started on the same day and became mates. We’ve always kept in touch. He never wanted a leg up in the business from me; wanted to do it his way. I could have gotten him a decent job, you know. Would have changed his life forever. But wouldn’t hear of it. Seemed resigned to becoming a techie.’

  ‘So why are you helping me?’

  ‘Nelson told me what happened to you and your friend, Bethany. I just want to help in some way.’

  ‘Did he warn you it might be dangerous?’

  ‘I’ll enjoy the thrill of it. You’d be surprised how bloody boring being rich on a tropical island can be.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Have you heard any more on Bethany?’

  ‘I’m not expecting to until they get their money back.’

  ‘You trust them?’

  ‘No, but do I have a choice?’

  Oscar drove the car through the narrow streets of Soufriere where people stopped to stare. Above the corrugated roofs loomed the jagged rock face of one of the Pitons, like a giant about to stamp on them.

  The Debeaumont resort had a long row of gingerbread cottages that stretched from the beach, right up to the edge of the tropical forest that climbed the hillside and beyond. Harry’s chalet was well away from the other cottages and was used by the head of security for the estate, Mordecai Baptiste. Oscar had him moved to shared-accommodation with the other guards.

  A mosquito net hung over a large double bed, next to which were two cardboard boxes that belonged to Baptiste.

  ‘He’ll come back for those later,’ said Oscar nodding to the boxes.

  ‘What does he know about me?’

  ‘Nothing and I plan to keep it that way. The less he knows the better. He can get a little nosy, so watch what you say. I’ve told him you’re an old friend of mine who’s recovering from a divorce and who wants to be left alone. He knows no one is to disturb you.’

  Oscar concertinaed the fretted wooden shutters so that the chalet’s fourth wall disappeared, leaving Harry with a view of the tropical trees and the crystal blue sea beyond. The hammock on the veranda looked tempting after an eight hour flight but there was no time as Oscar was already demonstrating the open air shower.

  Back inside, he was shown the kitchen where he was to eat all his meals as Oscar did not want him mingling with the guests. The beach was out of bounds too, although a midnight swim was permissible.

  The room was hot despite the whirling paddles of the fan above their heads. But Harry was assured that it would be less sticky after dusk when the winds would pick up.

  Oscar tossed Harry a cold can of Heineken from the mini-bar and opened one for himself. Between sips of beer, Harry brought Oscar up to speed on Angela Linehan. He told him that Ernesto had been working for weeks on finding a home for her and her son before they escaped from London. But he still had his doubts that she was really on the island. Firstly, if she wanted a life in the Caribbean, Ernesto would have recommended the Dominican Republic, which has no extradition treaty with Britain. Secondly, Ernesto had to fly for more than eighteen hours to reach the location he’d chosen for her, and St Lucia was a much shorter flight from Guatemala.

  ‘Why would he recommend the Dominican Republic when the drug cartels operate there with such impunity,’ said Oscar. ‘Isn’t she supposed to be running away from them? It would be the last place where she would feel safe, surely?’

  Harry thought about it and nodded.

  ‘St Lucia may be close to Guatemala as the crow flies,’ went on Oscar, ‘but airlines don’t think like crows,’ he said while finishing his can of beer. ‘There are no direct flights from Guatemala. You have to go up to the States before doubling back on yourself to the Caribbean. I can assure you, it’s an eighteen hour journey because I’ve done it myself.’

&
nbsp; Harry couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been for not bothering to check flight schedules. Ernesto could also have cut his travelling time to a quarter if he hired a private jet. But he hated small planes and booking them attracted too much attention in a place like Guatemala.

  It was all coming together, even the fact that Ernesto was a couple of hours ahead when he spoke to Gabriela on the phone. He felt a real buzz. For the first time since leaving London he was sure he was closing in on her.

  Oscar had done some homework ahead of Harry’s arrival. Angela Linehan was more likely to be living somewhere near The Debeaumont than on the island’s busier north-west. There’d been plenty of billionaire villas springing up all along the coast on the south-west, he told Harry. They rent out at around five thousand dollars-a-day normally, but there’d been an influx of permanent residents of late, mostly Russians. He’d already taken the trouble to go through the online land registry that morning, ignoring rental accommodation, leaving about fifty freehold luxury villas belonging to local residents.

  ‘I doubt that will help much,’ said Harry. ‘The property would have been bought by her through an offshore company, and then she would rent it back through one of her many shell companies that Ernesto would have set up for her. That means you’d have to check all the rental accommodation as well.’

  ‘That can’t be done in ten days. Public records aren’t one of St Lucia’s strong points.’

  ‘Eight,’ corrected Harry. ‘I’ve got just eight days left to get them their money.’

  ‘She could be anywhere on the island, but I put anything on it that she’s here in the south-west.’

  ‘The boy needs schooling,’ said Harry.

  ‘There’s only one international school on the island worth going to. It’s run by French Jesuits in Castries. They graduate with some sort of international baccalaureate. But it’s in the north; the boy would have to become a boarder – I know someone there I can talk to.’

  ‘I got him a passport under the name of Simon Jennings, but she’s not stupid enough to let him use that now. My guess is she’ll keep him at home until she feels safe.’ Harry got up from the wicker chair and looked at himself in the mirror, still in Jairo’s crumpled trousers and shirt. ‘I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb in this. I bought winter clothes in New York.’

  ‘I’ll pick out something for you from the hotel store, we’re about the same size.’

  Harry was left to nap for a couple of hours but he couldn’t sleep, thinking only of Bethany, hating himself for putting her and the baby into so much danger. She’d been right all along about him; he’d always been nothing but trouble to her. It was the only thing he was consistent at – creating trouble.

  A knock on the door got him off his bed. He opened it to a tall hulking black man who blocked out the sunlight. A glance at the name tag on his khaki uniform told him it was Mordecai Baptiste, head of security.

  ‘Just dropped by to pick up my things,’ said Baptiste with an island drawl and a bone crushing handshake. He dipped his head under the lintel as he entered and Harry wondered who’d be mad enough to ever pick a scrap with such a man. The floorboards creaked under Baptiste’s weight as he strode across the room to pick up his boxes.

  ‘I’ll get these out of your way,’ he said, picking them up.

  ‘I’m sorry you’re having to give up your room for me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Underwood explained everything,’ said Baptiste, stooping through the front door again. ‘You hear anything in the middle of the night, just call reception. My boys will be with you in minutes.’

  Oscar returned later that evening holding a hamper in one hand and shopping bags in the other. Printed on the side of the bags was the name of his resort. Oscar took the Debeaumont name from the owners of the sugar cane plantation that was now part of his estate. Guests were taken on escorted tours to the derelict sugar mills and buildings that once housed slaves. The old sugar cane fields were now dense brush and protected by razor fencing to prevent desecration by vandals or souvenir hunters.

  While Harry looked through the clothes in the bags, Oscar opened a bottle of Bounty Rum to go with the curried goat he’d brought in the hamper. Oscar apologised for the garish Hawaiian shirts with large floral patterns, but he had to cater for the American tourists, his bread and butter punters. Harry got changed into a pair of light olive chinos and tennis shoes. He closed his eyes and grabbed one of the aloha shirts; bright orange with silver palm leaves. He wasn’t sure whether the light zipper jacket that Oscar had thrown in was for the odd tropical downpour or to help cover up the shirts.

  They sat down and ate. Oscar had good news and not so good news. He’d made a call to a teacher he knew at St Ignatius School and there was a new boy called David Shanks that fitted Peter’s description. Harry remained silent, expecting Oscar to offer a home address on the island, bringing the nightmare to an end. But that was the not so good news. Oscar’s friend at the school had told him that all correspondence dealing with the boy’s application was via a private bank in Panama, the name of which he didn’t know. The school had received a large mysterious donation for a new sports hall around the same time as the boy’s arrival. The head had only a number to call if the boy ever felt unwell or had an accident.

  ‘He’s not a boarder?’ asked Harry.

  ‘That’s it. The little chappy gets picked up by a local taxi after school.’

  ‘So that means they’re living in Castries?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Oscar topped up Harry’s glass with more rum before refilling his own. ‘Do you have pictures of the woman and her son?’

  Harry took from the suitcase two passport pictures of Angela Linehan and Peter.

  While Oscar examined them, Harry wondered whether she might have changed her looks again. She had cut her hair short in London deliberately because the men coming after her would only have old photos to work from. Even he had trouble recognising her when they met in the Italian restaurant to discuss terms. Her crimper knew exactly what she had wanted – a complete image change.

  ‘She’s not going to be alone long on this island with all those horny Russians around,’ said Oscar. ‘They’ll find her before us.’

  ‘She won’t show her face for some while yet.’

  ‘Men have a habit of finding women or haven’t you heard?’ He put the pictures on the table and continued eating.

  ‘They won’t in her case. She knows how to stay invisible. I’ve shown her.’

  ‘You’re in a strange line of work,’ said Oscar. ‘It has a sort of primeval quality about it, hiding and seeking people.’

  ‘I didn’t plan it, I just drifted into it. People come to me because they’re usually afraid for their lives. Some are nice, some not so nice. But they all have one thing in common.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Running away is their only salvation.’

  ‘And is it?’

  ‘Only on rare occasions is it the right thing to do – sometimes the only thing to do.’

  ‘Why do you do it?’

  ‘It’s the only thing I show talent in.’

  Oscar smiled and returned to the matter in hand. ‘How are we going to handle the boy?’

  Harry didn’t want to contemplate the boy not possibly being Peter. But he was playing a game of chess that would end in sudden death. There was only time for a limited number of moves to find Angela Linehan. There had to be total efficiency in whatever game plan he decided upon. No single move could be wasteful. Finally, he responded, ‘First, we need to make sure it’s him.’

  Licking the curry from his fingers, before drying them on the table cloth, Oscar picked up the picture again. ‘You know once we start asking questions about her and the boy, people will get curious. In a small place like this, they’ll start to talk and it might reach the wrong ears.’

  ‘That’s a risk I’m going to have to take.’ Harry knocked back the rum in his glass. It felt good, but he knew it would be the l
ast drop of alcohol he’d touch until it was all over.

  Thirty-one

  Harry thought it best he remained in the car while Oscar went into St Ignatius School to show his friend a picture of the boy. He needed to be certain that the new boy and Peter Linehan were one and the same.

  The Ferrari was parked on the shaded side of the street only twenty yards from the two storey school block, near King George V Gardens. Harry couldn’t have looked more conspicuous if he’d tried, wearing a canary yellow aloha shirt in an open top 275 GTS. All that was missing was a funny hat.

  While he waited, he began to feel that he was being watched. He adjusted the rear view to see three parked cars on the other side of the street close to a tumble-down shack with a rusty corrugated roof. All the vehicles were without occupants, in fact there was no one on the entire street. It was all motionless, apart from a stray dog and two old men sitting in a variety shop, chewing the fat.

  Harry was about to get out and nose around when Oscar emerged from the school. Time stood still for Harry as Oscar stopped to light up a cheroot. A puff of smoke and then a gentle nod told Harry his search was over.

  Adrenaline rushed through him. He’d soon be looking Angela Linehan in the eye again. Bethany would be safe and life would go back to normal.

  Oscar returned to the car and sat behind the steering wheel. ‘What do we do now?’ he asked, with the cheroot sticking out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘We wait for him to come out.’

  ‘Can’t sit here all day, we’ll be had for loitering.’

  ‘Your friend in the school knows what to do?’

  Oscar flicked some ash out of the window, and said, ‘He’ll call if anything unusual goes on.’

  Harry didn’t want to take any risks losing sight of the boy, but neither did he want to attract the attention of the cops by hanging around the school. It was a sleepy part of Castries and they’d look like a couple of paedophiles. His shirt alone, was a good enough reason to be arrested. It was disturbing the peace.

  Oscar turned on the engine and headed to a hotel he knew on a tree-lined hill top that served the best seafood in the capital. Harry still felt they were being watched and looked over his shoulder at every turn. But no one was following them, and Oscar told him to lighten up; his ordeal would soon be at an end.