Diamonds Are But Stone

by Peter Vollmer

  “Mon, he’s a good man,” Bishop said, clearly unhappy.

  “I thought you’d say that,” Melville replied and walked back to the hotel.

  Bishop knew Carruthers and his minions well enough although he was in no way affiliated to him. He knew that to cross the man would certainly cost him his job, if not his life, but then he decided the van Onselen had treated him decently and Melville was obviously expecting him to do something. If van Onselen suddenly took off, how could they lay the blame at his feet?

  Twenty-Three

  Van Onselen exited the hotel at nine-thirty and climbed into the taxi, greeting Bishop with a warm smile.

  “Take me to the Maritime Museum,” he said. “Did you have a good day yesterday?”

  Bishop drove off, ignoring the question.

  “What’s got into you this morning?” van Onselen asked.

  Bishop took a deep breath.

  “Listen mon, just between you and me, I need to tell you that somebody’s looking for you and they will know where you are within the next hour or so. I don’t know what it is all about. Just don’t ask me any questions...please.”

  It was as if somebody had kicked me in the gut. I knew they would find me, but I had never imagined it would be so soon. And I certainly did not expect to receive warning of this from the taxi-driver. Only hours, he said. Well that left me with very little time.

  I stared at the driver. Although he hardly knew me, he had done me an enormous favour, which would could lead to them taking some form of retaliatory action against him if they ever figured out that he had been the source of the warning. These small islands were very closely knit communities, I was sure secrets were difficult to keep.

  ”I need you to do me a favour,” I said, thinking quickly. ”Remove all my belongings from my room. Do this immediately after you drop me at the museum, and then return to the museum. My room’s paid up to date. Do you think you could do that?”

  “I can’t do that.” I could see the fear in his eyes.

  I knew better than to ask why. Christ, I thought, this creates a predicament. Trichardt had somehow acquired the help of the island’s underworld: that could be the only logical explanation.

  Suddenly I had an idea.

  “Drop me now, next to another taxi. It would help if you could find one that thinks like you. Don’t say anything and don’t give him my name. I have your number, I’ll contact you later. Rest assured; I’ll honour my promise.”

  Bishop merely nodded his head, the taxi turning left and then moving at increased speed. Within a minute, we screeched to a halt next to a stationery taxi parked at the kerb. No word was spoken.

  I slid out of the Cortina into the Vauxhall and told the driver to return to “The Colony” where he was to wait for me.

  I rushed into the hotel, flung everything into my suitcase and bag, and immediately left by the fire escape; I never saw Melville or anyone else. I spent no more than a few minutes in the hotel.

  Flinging my suitcase and bag on the backseat, I slid in next to these.

  “Go! The Maritime Museum,” I said with a hint of fear in my voice.

  We sped off again.

  We arrived at the museum a few minutes after ten. I told the driver to stow my baggage to the trunk and wait. I bounded up the stairs two at time to the entrance. I found Maria standing just within the main foyer, she virtually inconspicuous in the shadows.

  I grabbed her by the arm. “Come, let’s get out of here... now!” I said fiercely and pulled her towards the entrance. She immediately read the expression of deep concern and fear on my face. She reacted instantly to the strident urgency in my voice and followed without question.

  We slid into the car. “Where’s your taxi?” I asked.

  “I let him go; I thought we would use Bishop again.”

  I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Don’t mention his name again. He’s helped us - I won’t want to get him in any trouble.” I saw her look down at her arm, which I had in a near vice-grip. “Sorry, “I whispered, “listen, Trichardt’s traced me, obviously with the assistance of others on the island. Probably flashed cash around. I cleared out my hotel room - all my things are in the trunk of this car. I had no choice; I had to run. I wouldn’t be surprised if our description has been circulated - the whole damn island is probably looking out for us.”

  Maria jerked her head in the driver’s direction questioningly. I could see the man looking at us in the rear-view mirror.

  “I don’t know. He was Bishop’s choice,” I whispered.

  We had travelled no more than a mile or so.

  “Stop here!” I suddenly shouted.

  I bundled Maria out of the car, retrieving my stuff from the trunk. The fare was only a few dollars but I gave the driver a twenty telling him to keep the change. He drove off smiling.

  “What on earth have we stopped here for?” Maria asked exasperatedly.

  I pointed diagonally across the road at an Avis Care Hire depot. “Let’s go.” I said. I realized that if I hired a car they would soon know about it and have a description of the vehicle but they would have to find the vehicle first. We lugged my luggage across the road. I looked at the vehicles lined up in the lot and decided on a white Ford Transit van: there thousands of these on the island, most white. I used my American Express Card.

  We threw everything into the back of the van and drove off.

  “Where to now?”

  “I haven’t got a clue,” I said. “Just let me think. What you have to do is tell Gavin to delay his return flight. I don’t care how he does it even if he has to alter his flight plan. Maybe inventing some technical difficulty, but he is not to return this way until we say so.”

  “But...”

  I knew we had little time; I interrupted her. “Don’t argue, just do it! Just tell him when he phones. I don’t yet know what to do, but we’re going to have to go underground for a while.” I screwed my eyes shut for a second. “Christ, I need time to think.”

  “Listen, let me do this, I’ve done it many times before. Don’t panic. Yes, I’ll tell Gavin what you’ve just said. Can I make a proposal?”

  “Yes,” I replied brusquely.

  “We change our appearance; we make ourselves look a lot older, wear different clothes. We put some self-stick signage up on the vehicle, you know, caterers or something, make it look like a husband and wife business and then take the ferry to one of the other islands and hole up in some cheap tourist establishment out in the sticks, a self-catering place that only dispenses accommodation without any frills. We hide there for a while.”

  I was dubious, but it certainly was better than anything I could come up with.

  “With not much else to do we can sleep, swim, and make love,” she added smiling mischievously.

  “Sounds good. This disguise you’re talking about?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll look after it. There’s always something going on here for the tourists. Just take me to one of those fancy dress hire places, there are quite a few here.”

  We soon found a small shop tucked away in a side street that hired out evening dresses and tuxedos, wedding gear, fancy dress and theatrical garments. Maria disappeared and fifteen minutes later emerged with a number of boxes in three large carrier bags. We drove around until we found a deserted alley and parked the van.

  She unpacked the boxes and handed me a grey wig, spectacles with half lenses, a grey moustache, a plain white crumpled shirt, a pair of shorts and sandals. I understood that she wanted me to change immediately. She also handed me two boxes of self-adhesive single letter decals.

  “Keep the name short and make sure the letters are straight!” she said.

  When I stepped out of the car and looked at my image in the side rear-view mirror, I had to laugh; my transformation was m
iraculous. I looked thirty years older, my appearance in the mirror reflected the epitome of a working pensioner forced to work to see him through his remaining years.

  I quickly applied the decals. We were now the ‘Spring Caterers’. It looked all quite authentic. Nobody would give us a second glance.

  Surely, Trichardt would not think us that smart, I thought.

  Maria was similarly transformed with wig and sun hat. A pair of old and slightly oversize jeans hid her figure, as did an overly large floral blouse. On her head, she wore a grey wig of somewhat wispy and straggly hair, which hid her luxurious black mane. A floppy hat completed the picture. She had powdered her face, so it was no longer as olive-toned, and had donned a pair of square rimless shaded glasses.

  She looked at me with a slight smile. “Don’t you dare comment. I’m warning you!”

  I just chuckled.

  “What about your stuff?”

  “Forget it. I’ll buy whatever I need on the island. I mean, we’ve got enough money now, haven’t we? I also paid my hotel upfront. I’m sure the worst they could do is store my stuff until I get back. I won’t disappear. ”

  Well, I couldn’t argue with that.

  We drove straight to the harbour and found that the inter-island ferry for Little Cayman was due to leave in forty-five minutes time. I walked over to the ticket kiosk wondering whether my disguise would stand up to scrutiny. Nobody took any notice of me. I baulked at the price to ferry a car across, it was ridiculously expensive, but what could we do? When I saw the crew start to secure the van to the deck with cables, I realized the reason for the price. In bad weather, they could lose the vehicle overboard.

  Fortunately, the sea was calm, only a slight swell running. The trip took four hours and we never left the vehicle other to relieve ourselves. Maria had bought a few snacks and sodas, which we finished in the van, and then still seated in the cab, we just dozed for the rest of the trip, the windows open, the trade wind coming off the sea refreshing as it blew through the van.

  Cayman Brac is the second largest of the Cayman Islands and is little more the fourteen miles in length and at its widest, about a mile and a half. A coastal road winds its way around the island’s circumference but never strays far from the sea. Most buildings are nestled next to the road or not far from it. The road hugs the northern coastline, a series of small villages with only a few buildings each joining each other along its length. There is no road on the eastern end of the island, only a narrow gravel track.

  We docked at West End, a small harbour near the Gerrard Smith Airport, both of which are situated on the most westerly end of the island. We drove along a quaint coastal road past the Government Offices, this a local landmark, then onto Halfway Ground, which, as its name implies, demarcates the centre of the island. Near a hamlet called The Moorings, we found a white board on a post that read ‘Accommodation only plus bar. Under roof garage parking’ at what we thought a ridiculously low daily rate.

  “That’s got to be the place for us,” I said.

  Maria appeared dubious. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “God, do you think the place is clean? Probably crawling with cockroaches.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Let’s find out.”

  I swung the van down the track towards the sea where we saw a large flat rambling building with a few outer buildings surrounding it. The roofs were all moss-covered tiles; only here and there, the original tiling poked through. It was evident that they had been erected many years ago, but appeared neat, the outer walls recently whitewashed, the doors painted. One of the outer buildings was clearly a garage, with three wooden garage doors to it. I hoped one of these was available.

  We entered through a narrow door, which took us into a pub, which also housed the reception area, identified by a small counter to one side on which two racks stood containing tiered upright pamphlets and brochures advertising various aspects of the Caymans.

  An overweight mulatto woman with an enormous bosom stood behind the long oak bar. The bar’s décor was intended to create an atmosphere similar to the sea nearby, with pieces of fishing net draped through the ceiling beams, trawlers lanterns serving as lights, net buoys affixed to the walls and an assortment of other fishing paraphernalia could be seen.

  I said we were looking for accommodation. She came out from behind the bar, took me by the arm, and led me to the counter, jabbering away, telling me what a wonderful spot this was and that privacy was guaranteed, they seldom having other guests except locals who visited the bar in the evenings and weekends. Only occasionally did they have guests staying over.

  “I have just the room for youse!” She said her accent strong..

  The room certainly was a surprise. It was large, similar to those that were only built in the old days, situated on a corner of the building. The two corner walls had two small windows each, and the bright sunlight streamed into the room. Two of the windows looked directly over the sea. An adjoining room had been converted into a bathroom, this larger than usual, it at least twenty by twenty feet, it too with two windows. All the windows slid up to open, their sills quite low. Large squares of colourfully stained palm-frond matting covered the concrete floors and colourful curtains adorned the windows.

  Maria smiled at me and I saw that she liked it.

  “I need a garage,” I said.

  The woman clapped her hands together and giggled. “You can choose any one of three!”

  It dawned on me that there were no other guests. I had taken a brochure from the rack on the counter, which listed all places of accommodation on the island. It did not list this hotel; I found that rather strange and wondered how it survived financially without a steady stream of guests.

  We paid for the room, giving her enough to cover three days, but said that it was likely that we may stay longer. The little luggage we had was brought to the room. I then went to park the van in the garage making sure the doors were closed behind the vehicle to ensure that it was hidden from prying eyes.

  The woman made no request for any form of identification but merely asked us our names; I said Mr. and Mrs. Donkin.

  Before we arrived at the inn, we both had removed our disguises but retained our shabby clothing. I asked where the nearest shops were. The woman pointed to the east towards a village called Tibbets Turn, probably a mile or so away.

  “The shops open at nine,” she smiled.

  There was a small kitchen behind the bar, which prepared and served a variety of snacks, mostly seafood and salads and of course, the usual hamburgers, and British fish and chips. It could also rustle up a cup of coffee or tea. This was intended for the bar’s clientele and only prepared on order, but it certainly was sufficient for our needs. If you decided to eat on the premises then this would be in the bar.

  Standing on the seaward porch, we could discern a faint pathway that led from the hotel down to a small beach between the outcrops of coral that jutted out into the sea. The whole island was a huge coral head built on a submerged undersea peak.

  That evening we ate in the bar, fish and chips served in the traditional way, wrapped in newspaper and accompanied by a couple of bottles of local beer. Certainly different from normal hotel standards and really quite tasty.

  We retired early; the day had been long and hard, as well as fraught with tension and worry. The bed was large and lumpy. Maria was initially dubious about the linen but this was clean, although well worn.

  Well, so much for resolutions. If I had proposed to keep Maria at arm’s length, I had failed miserably. In fact, I had not once given Francine a thought. I felt bad but obviously not bad enough.

  We both had automatics and I knew that if anybody came for us, we probably would be forced to protect ourselves. They weren’t looking for us merely to have a chat. I still wondered what would happen if, in the heat of the moment, we were to kill somebody.
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  Of course, I also wondered whether the police would ever apprehend the perpetrators if we were killed.

  Twenty-Three

  Superintendent John Whittle of the Caymanian Police strode through his secretary’s office acknowledging the ‘Good morning, Sir’ from the constable who served as his secretary. She immediately rose from her desk and busied herself preparing his usual early morning cup of tea. She placed the cup on the right hand side of his desk and then continued the usual morning ritual of placing a number of files in front of him; tiered one behind the other in what she thought was an order of importance, the most important first.

  The Superintendent had been assigned to the Caymans by Scotland Yard, London. He had to do a four year stint, this being usual term. He headed up the plainclothes division of the police, which was housed in the Police Headquarters Building in Elgin Street, George Town. The street housed most government division and departments.

  He had a fair number of Caymanian detectives reporting to him with a few other experienced detectives from England. They, like him, were on loan to the Caymanian government. In England, he had been attached to Scotland Yard for eight years and lived in a cottage just south of London near Biggin Hill. Of course, here in George Town he and his wife lived in a house provided by the government. His children had long since left home, so there was now only the two of them.

  He was fifty-one years of age but kept fit, jogging every morning, careful about his eating habits and strictly monitoring his beer intake. He had lost most of his hair and what was left was now grey, only thick on the back and sides of his head. His face was narrow with a slight hawkish nose, high cheekbones, and rather thin lips. Old habits die hard and he wore a suit, albeit a summer suit but still sombre: he always appeared out of place in the tropics.

  “Well, Marilyn,” he said to his secretary, a local coloured woman, well educated, who spoke English with little of the local twang. She was slim with a pretty face, smart in her police uniform. “What’s happening out there that I should know about?”