Diamonds Are But Stone

by Peter Vollmer

  Of course, I thought with relief. He was right; the new aircraft would only be reregistered once in South Africa when a new certificate of airworthiness was issued. This was excellent news; Trichardt’s men would not consider the aircraft suspicious until we actually drove into the airport’s gates!

  “Francine wants to speak to you,” Gavin said and put her on. I didn’t want him to do it but there was no way I could stop him without creating an incident.

  I heard Francine’s voice on the phone.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” I said. I could see Maria looking at me in the semi-darkness giving me that look. I could not ignore the cruel smile on her face as she watched me squirm.

  Of course, I had to reply to Francine’s insistent demands for reassurance; I had to tell her I missed her, and that I could not wait until we got together again and that I loved her.

  Maria was three feet away listening, trying to stifle her cynical laughter.

  After some small talk, we cut the connection.

  “Hi sweetheart, of course I love you,” Maria mimicked sarcastically, and laughed at me. I grinned weakly.

  But she had not finished. “Oh, I get such a hard on just thinking about you.” She added more poison, smiling distrustfully, her voice full of scorn, her contempt for me obvious.

  “Maria, don’t start with me... please. You know what the situation is.”

  “Madre Diaz, don’t start? You know, you’ve got to be the biggest shit around. How can you do this to the woman?”

  I detected a quiver in her voice; she was clearly perturbed. Careful, I thought, I’d never seen her like this before.

  ”You fuck me every night, telling me God knows what, whispering all sorts of wild wonderful words in my ear and Christus! Now you tell her you love her! And me...? Well fuck you, Peter.” She spat venom.

  I threw up my hands. “I’ll never understand women. Even in a situation like this you just can’t get away from that bond of sisterhood you all have - you band together and see all men as assholes.”

  “You’re right there! You’re an asshole all right!”

  “I thought you said my relationship with her didn’t worry you, that you’re just having fun - that you like me - not that you love me. Remember what you said - I’m fun to have around?” I exclaimed in protest although I knew that that was not exactly what she had said, but I had to stop this charade.

  “What the hell do you think? That I’m some sexual pervert? A whore who fucks without feeling? Have you no perception of the feelings of others? Have you not over the months and days realized what my true feelings for you are?” Her voice was icy with unconcealed disdain.

  I was now getting into serious trouble. “But sweetheart, I do have...”

  That’s as far as I got. She slapped me, hard, across my face. For a moment, I thought I’d lost my eye.

  “Don’t sweetheart me and don’t you dare touch me tonight. I swear to God I’ll kill you!” She hissed and turned her back on me and disappeared into the lower cabin.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The twin engine Norman Islander rolled to a stop in front of the terminal building at Gerrard Smith Airport. Whittle alighted followed by the detectives James and Davids and finally, Whittle’s secretary Marilyn. A black Rover sedan and a Land Rover waited for them on the tarmac, which then whisked them away.

  James and Davids had done a sterling job on Grand Cayman and once they had woven the numerous snippets of information together from their informers, they realized that a full-blown manhunt for the couple was underway, fuelled by the ridiculously high reward on offer from Carruthers.

  While this was only hearsay, they also believed that a dead or alive tag had been stuck to the capture of the couple.

  Whittle believed this to be no more than a killing waiting to happen, and had decided that he personally needed to head up the investigation. The other deciding factor was the idyllic lifestyle on Cayman Brac - serious crime was virtually unheard of, the place was a police officer’s paradise and hunting down probable killers was not one of the local force’s stronger points.

  The problem was further compounded by the fact that until the couple was either kidnapped or killed, there existed no reason to initiate any arrest. No member of the public had laid a charge, no crime appeared to have been committed, and there was no tangible proof that a threat existed - he had to deal with at least one hand tied behind his back, if not both. The only manner in which he could intervene was to ensure that the police’s proximity and knowledge of what was about to occur, would act as a deterrent.

  Whittle immediately took control of the small police force, relegating the island’s commanding officer, Sergeant Des Warburton to a subordinate role. The man raised no objection; he was somewhat in awe of the detective.

  “Take us to the Beach Hotel,” Whittle directed the black constable at the wheel.

  On the way, the sergeant gave Whittle whatever background he had on the Campbells, the brother and sister they were about to visit at the hotel. The sergeant was well aware of their connection to Carruthers, but added that the association was more one of fear rather than of willing participation. Besides he added, these people would always be associated with somebody on the wrong side of the law; it was their business that prescribed it - not to mention that their livelihood depended on it.

  Bess and Christopher recognized the police car when it pulled up and came out to meet it. They had a good idea what the visit entailed.

  After brief introductions, Whittle asked a number of questions and was surprised to note that they were willingly cooperative; mentioning that after a telephone call in the morning, the couple had immediately left. They also added that a short while thereafter four men from the main island had arrived looking for the couple and wanted to know in what direction they had gone. Bess said that no, they had no idea where the couple went but saw their van heading in the direction of Bottom Bay.

  Bottom Bay was Whittle’s next stop.

  He involuntarily groaned at the sight of the harbour with its many yachts and cruisers but then realized that if he were to hide, one of these boats would be the ideal place. He sent his men out to question crews, security men and others.

  They returned within forty-five minutes but with little information. The group then moved to a coffee shop on the opposite side of the road, which overlooked the harbour.

  “Look,” said Whittle, “they’ve got to be here. They’d be fools to attempt escaping Carruthers’s mob by air or ferry - I’m sure they have both places under surveillance. At the moment, the only way to get off the island is by boat. Do you agree?”

  Drinking tea, the five debated various ideas but fell silent when a car drew up at the harbour jetties, four men alighting. That they were not locals was apparent by their dress. And they certainly did not appear to be about to go on a boating trip.

  “That’s got to be them!” the sergeant said.

  “He’s right, sir! I recognize two of them,” James added.

  The officers watched the four as they slowly made their way down to the jetties, stopping to speak to those on board the boats.

  “I think they’ve got the same idea we have. If they’re hiding, they’ve got to be on one of these boats. Carruthers’s men have a problem - they can’t force their way onto any boat - most are privately owned.”

  “How about we using some pretext... let’s say a drug search? We could then go through every boat,” James asked.

  “Let me think about that,” Whittle replied running his fingers through the sparse hair on his head. “But Sergeant, I’m going to need you to place a watch on this harbour - not someone in uniform. If I wanted to escape Carruthers’s mob - this is where I’d leave. I want to know immediately a boat departs no matter whenever that may be. Have you got a police patrol boat?”

  The Se
rgeant replied smartly. “No, but we can use the Fisheries Department’s boat.” He pointed to one of the piers. “It’s the grey boat.”

  “Can you arrange for it to be made ready for immediate use?” Whittle asked.

  “Can do, sir.”

  “Please ensure you do this surreptitiously - .“ Whittle added.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The damn woman was now being ridiculous, making me leave the cabin to allow her to change, lying on her bunk with her back turned to me. Of course, it was pointless saying anything. She simply ignored me to such an extent that I was forced to make my own supper and coffee.

  Men never use sex as a weapon; women do so all the time.

  Last night we had been physically intimate as only true lovers can be, and tonight it was “fuck you - no sweeties for you tonight”. It as if it was a special type of punishment I had to endure.

  The fact that some assholes out there were trying to kill us now suddenly meant diddlysquat; she thought it was more important to stick a metaphorical knife into my chest and twist it. Christ I thought, all I needed was Francine to display the same attitude when she arrived. Were Carruthers’s crowd to kill me, it would be a relief!

  I decided I best address her sternly on the matter.

  “Maria, I know you’re awake - don’t fuckin’ ignore me. We’ve still got to get away from Carruthers and I need your help.”

  The cabin was still dark and I could barely make her out on the opposite bunk, wrapped in a sheet, part of the vest she wore just visible. That too was unlike her, she liked to sleep in the buff, everything displayed. God, I thought, I was truly out in the cold here.

  She did not reply. I waited.

  Her voice muffled by the sheet, she finally spoke.

  “Well, what’s it you want to say? It better be confined to how we can get off this island.”

  ”Stupid bitch,” I thought, but wisely I didn’t say it.

  I was about to start the sentence with the word ‘Sweetheart” but changed the wording.

  “I’ve got a crazy plan. The airport on this island is close-up against the coast, the one end of the runway actually protruding into the sea on a small peninsula. We get Johnny to take us to the airport by small boat, not this boat, something like a fifteen or eighteen footer. They drop us off on the coast next to the airfield and we approach our aircraft from there.”

  “What about immigration?” she asked her voice still muffled.

  “We don’t worry about that - we just sneak aboard. Gavin can have the stairway down. In this warm weather that’d be normal. He’s only going to arrive at five, so we can wait until its dark.”

  I heard her turn over to face me.

  A small victory.

  “Who says Carruthers hasn’t got somebody watching the harbour all the time?”

  “Well, that would be a problem. And we probably have to assume that’s what he’s doing.”

  “And the police?”

  I sighed. “In actually don’t know how they fit into things but I’m sure they’re here because of Carruthers and us. The moment we do something that’ll permit them to intervene; they’ll be all over us as will Carruthers’s crowd.”

  “Well, discuss it with Johnny to-morrow.” I heard her turn over to face the wall again.

  Damn woman!

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Johnny arrived early the next morning without his father.

  I discussed my proposed plan with him. He thought it a great idea. He said Fergusson actually owned a ski-boat with two seventy-five horsepower outboards on the transom; it would be just the right vessel to use to sneak up the coast at night. It would be a ten-mile run, requiring us to round the eastern end of the island. He believed there were a few semi-sheltered spots on the coast near the airfield’s main runway that could be approached on foot from the coral beach.

  “It’s also not unusual for boats to go out at night; quite a few anglers do that,” he said enthusiastically.

  A night’s sleep alone seemed to have benefited Maria greatly. She was not quite as testy as the evening before, managing a few monosyllables in reply when spoken to. She even made me a cup of coffee. I got a slight smile when I told her that Johnny thought her idea good.

  The ski-boat was on a trailer parked in a boathouse on Ferguson’s property. They used Ferguson’s Land Rover to fetch the ski-boat, while we remained aboard. They would launch the boat later that afternoon from the harbour’s slipway, which the small-boat community all used.

  At eleven that morning, we all jumped as the strident sound of the satellite phone pierced the tranquillity on the boat.

  “I’m in Miami, we’ve just refuelled,” said Gavin.

  I told him of our change in plans and that he was to ensure that the aircraft’s steps were not retracted on arrival, and should remain so during the night so that we could gain access. As we would only be able to approach at night, he would need to delay his departure until first light the next morning.

  Johan Senior and Johnny returned from Fergusson’s beach bungalow at two in the afternoon, towing the boat behind the Land Rover, which they immediately reversed onto the slipway, sliding the boat into the water. Maria and I observed this from the cabin cruiser. Cruising on one engine, they brought the ski-boat across the harbour and alongside the cruiser. Johnny jumped aboard the larger boat, dropped two fenders over the side, and then tied the boat alongside. They had filled the tanks with petrol on the way to the harbour; this would ensure that we had more than sufficient fuel for our planned trip.

  During the course of the afternoon, they prepared the boat, ostensibly to go on an evening fishing trip. We noticed that two other boats in the harbour were similarly being prepared. Johnny even had a discussion with one of the other boats as to what was the best bait to use for tonight’s trip. He was convinced that the proposed night-out with the boat would not seem suspicious at all.

  The airport was only a couple of miles away. At around five, I saw a Lear jet approaching and knew that this had to be Gavin. There couldn’t be that many executive jets landing at this airport.

  In the tropics, the twilight is of short duration and as soon as the sun set, it rapidly darkened. By eight, the first stars twinkled in the sky and shortly thereafter, a three-quarter moon rose above the horizon, its silver light mirrored off the calm sea. It was only along the coastline that there was some surf action. The usual trade winds had abated to a breeze.

  At about nine, we all clambered aboard the ski-boat, Maria and I hiding ourselves in the small for’ard cabin, the rear of which was open. A VHF marine radio hung from brackets just under the roof while a compass had place of prominence on the small dashboard behind the helm. We had taken little with us, just a few items of clothing, the satellite phone, and our wallets. The automatics were cumbersome, but considered essential. We had nowhere else to put these other than stick behind belts in our backs, under cover of the loose shirts we wore.

  Johnny took the helm and we slowly idled out of the harbour following one of the other boats, which had also just cast off. All our navigational lights were ablaze. Once beyond the breakwater, Johnny swung left keeping a few hundred yards from the shore, opening the throttles just sufficiently to get the boat up onto a slow plane over the water. The speed was slow enough to keep the ride over the swell to a muffled thump, the spray shooting outwards from below the hull, the boat’s bow wave revealed by the fluorescence in the water. Anybody with binoculars would have no problem following our passage.

  John Senior said that he thought we should see the runway lights within an hour and a half.

  “We’re coming up to the ‘Keith Tibbets’,” Johnny said.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s an old wreck. After that we’ll round West End Point, and then I’m going to bring us closer
inshore.”

  Maria had still not spoken to me but although she still rebuffed me, I now found her occasionally looking at me, no longer as hostile as before.

  Or was I only imaging this?

  We kept a sharp lookout for any signs of pursuit but other than a fishing boat that trailed behind us, there was nothing to be seen. The fishing boat was a good mile or so distant. Nobody thought that Carruthers would come after us in a slow lumbering fishing boat.

  In order to avoid the treacherous shallows and reefs, we rounded West End Point quite a distance out to sea. It was then that Johnny extinguished the navigational lights, in fact all the lights, plunging the boat in darkness. I estimated that we could not be more than a mile off the coast. This was the Atlantic side of the island, the wind stronger, the shoreline taking the brunt of the easterly trade wind, the white combers, which now attacked the coastline, clearly visible.

  We approached the shoreline with caution, looking for a cove that would provide some shelter. Johnny decided that he had no choice but to drop us off in the shallows, leaving us to wade ashore. He was afraid that there were insufficient hands to slide the heavy boat back into the water from the beach if he went any further inshore.

  “Stop the engines!” John Senior shouted. Immediately Johnny had the engines in idle, they immediately gurgled to a stop. The boat rolled from side to side, the only sound the wind and the slap of waves against the hull.

  “Listen!” the old man said.

  At first, I heard nothing. Then Maria grabbed my arm and pointed, and I heard the sound of engines. Just from the sound, I knew this had to be a large boat. I scanned the sea towards the east. Then I saw it. It was a large cabin cruiser, making a good fifteen knots, its bow out of the water, it also showing no lights.

  It too was moving in the direction of West End Point.

  “No lights,” John Senior said. “That’s trouble. I hope they haven’t seen us.”