The white man in civilian clothes came to stand right in front of me looking down at Maria.
“I’m Superintendant Whittle. Who are you and who is this woman? How bad is she?”
”Let’s worry about her first. She is Maria Garcia - please... get her to a hospital,” I pleaded. “She’s badly hurt. She’s been shot in the stomach.”
Between the three of us, we carried her to their Land Rover. I wasn’t much help. Shock had set in; I was feeling light-headed.
“You’re also hurt,” he said.
I nodded. We opened the rear of the van and lay Maria down on the floor. She groaned. I climbed in next to her and sat with my knees hunched up, my back resting against the side of the van. I don’t remember much of the trip back into town, all I know is that the driver drove fast and we were there within minutes. Medical staff rushed out of the cottage hospital pushing two gurneys, and then immediately transferred both Maria and I to these and then rapidly pushed us up a ramp into the casualty section. A doctor was already on hand to attend to Maria.
A nurse gave me two injections, never telling me their purpose. She didn’t even speak to me, but the blood on my shirt and trousers must have indicated clearly enough that I was wounded.
Whatever the shots were she gave me, I was soon asleep.
Chapter Thirty-One
I opened my eyes to find myself in bed, the only occupant of a small ward. It was daytime, the sun shining in through the single large window. After a short while, a black nurse bent over me to check whether I was awake. I stared up into her face. She was a large woman and when she smiled down at me, her mouth was all teeth. In a broad Jamaican drawl she introduced herself.
“I’m Cynthia Blackwell. Doctor Broadhurst has given me strict instructions to look after you and not to leave you alone.”
“What time and what day is it?” I asked my voice no more than a croak; I felt like I had been out for days.
“You were admitted last night and it is now ten in the morning. You were lucky - I’m told the bullet did little damage. They only had to give you a few internal stitches but you going to have a scar on your side. You can always show it to your girlfriends - nobody is shot these days. A hero back from a war,” she said laughing at her own attempt at humour.
Taking a shot just to be labelled as brave wasn’t what I had in mind.
“Nurse, Miss Garcia, the lady who was admitted with me last night... is she all right?” I asked anxiously, acutely aware of my barely contained panic hovering just below the surface.
Her demeanour changed to that of some concern.
“Please calm down, the doctor says she will be all right but will need a while to recuperate. She was in theatre for two and a half hours - she’s recovering in intensive care at the moment.”
“Thank you,” I said with a sigh of unconcealed relief. Maria was going to be okay - that was all I wanted to hear. I soon fell asleep again.
I woke up to see the last of the day disappearing, the setting sun’s light streaked across the sky. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and realized that, hidden in the shadows of the room, somebody sat on a chair watching me. I identified him as the police officer from the night before. I couldn’t remember his name, but then I could not remember much else that had happened after I was shot.
“I see you’ve woken up,” a deep male voice said. “I’m Superintendent Whittle. Do you remember me from last night?”
I nodded my head. I had been expecting him and knew he had to have a barrage of questions to ask. Gunshots and the killing of people was a serious event. He certainly had not wasted his time!
“Do you mind if we start at the beginning?”
“Not at all,” I whispered already thinking that I would relate everything as close to the truth as I considered prudent. Try not to lie was the best way to go so as not be caught on the wrong foot at some later stage. Certain things I would have to omit.
“You’re Peter van Onselen, a South African citizen. That’s correct?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a commercial pilot and disembarked from a South African registered aircraft a few days ago. The aircraft then departed for the US. The aircraft was on a private flight - which we know. I’ve two questions. Why did you alone stay behind and what are you doing here?” Whittle asked, removing a notebook from his jacket.
“My friends are due to return this way in a few days,” I replied. I didn’t want to tell him that they were already here. I seriously doubted that he would know that they had already returned. Nobody had passed through immigration. He had no names and the aircraft now on the apron at the airport was US registered. He would not tie the two together.
“I thought I’d stay here - it’s an ideal place for a few days leave.”
He harrumphed. Did that signify any disagreement, I asked myself?
“And Miss Mary Donkin. Whom by the way, you called Maria Garcia last night.., is she your associate or is there more to your relationship? What part does she play in your more recent events?”
From his sarcasm, I realized that this was not going to be easy. The gun battle in the bamboo thicket was enough to concern any police officer and he was no exception - this was going to be difficult. No doubt, as soon as he could, he would verify my version of the events with Maria. Also, I had no papers; these had been left aboard with Johnny when we dropped over the side of the boat. I had no idea what Johnny had done with these. Had he even admitted that we were aboard the ski-boat?
“Miss Donkin is merely an acquaintance I met on the island,” I said.
I heard his sigh of exasperation.
“Come, come, Mr van Onselen, you insult my intelligence. I think you need to know that I consider both you and Miss Donkin as the good guys and those after you as the bad guys, but frankly, if you continue on this tack and don’t cooperate, I’ll have no alternative but to consider you the bad guys, with every intention of jailing you. Illegal possession of firearms, culpable homicide, if not murder - and a few other charges I could drum up. Well, what will it be?”
Well, here goes, I thought. Let me get this off my chest.
“Superintendent, I’m a South African businessman and my partner and I were en route to the US to collect a new addition to our executive aircraft fleet - we are an aircraft charter company. Miss Donkin is an acquaintance and we met on the island. As far as the relationship with her is concerned, it’s personal and I would prefer it kept private. I presume you know what I mean. As to why we are being pursued, I don’t know.”
Whittle just looked at me. He rose from his seat and turned the light on. I saw that he was not amused, his face rigidly set, his grey eyes staring fixedly at me.
“Currently, we have another visitor on our islands from South Africa. A Mr Hendrik Trichardt and a few others and from information I have, I gather from Interpol that he is a rather powerful South African industrialist with some rather dubious connections - they mention that he is a known supporter of terrorist movements in Africa for one. He has brought others with him, some of whom are of also of dubious character. Since arriving here, they haven’t been near a beach and seem to have done nothing else but pursue you and Miss Donkin and, in fact, at considerable expense, appear to have acquired the assistance of Mr Carruthers in the process.”
I was about to speak but he held up his hand.
“Wait; let me tell you about our infamous Mr Carruthers. He is not the type of person you wish to be associated with. He will do anything for a price, even murder if necessary and word has it that this is precisely what he proposes to do to you and Miss Donkin. So... we can only assume that the price was right. The question is why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mr van Onselen, don’t fuck with me. There are a couple of dead people out there who, need I need remind you, were shot by yo
u and Miss Donkin. Not forgetting to mention that the two of you were also shot!”
There was no mistaking the venom in his voice.
“Now, it certainly cannot get any worse than that, and you have the balls to tell me you don’t know?”
“You know as well as I do, that they were shot in self-defence,” I said with growing frustration.
“Really! What I believe will depend on what you tell me. At the moment it looks like murder,” he replied menacingly.
I realized I would have to tell him more. I needed to stick as close to the truth as possible, there was less likelihood Maria and I could eventually contradict each other. What I was trying to do was read Maria’s mind and guess how she would respond to the question. Superintendent Whittle was bound to make a bee-line for her the moment he finished with me.
“Okay, Superintendent, let me tell you what I know. Mr Trichardt believes I know the whereabouts of something that he’s looking for. This has nothing to do with your islands and is confined to South Africa in its entirety. The items in question are in no way related to a criminal matter, neither in the manner they were acquired nor how these have been disposed of. Neither party, that is Mr Trichardt or we, have deemed it necessary to formally lay a criminal charge. You can verify these facts if you wish. He has for the past few months, been trying to extract information from Miss Donkin and me, information, I might add, that we don’t have. We have committed no crime - as I said, you can check with the South African authorities. And neither have we committed a crime on your islands. The shootings were in self-defence. Yes, that we possessed illegal weapons is true enough, but that was not by way of choice and I admit it would be your prerogative to charge us. However, Mr Trichardt’s personal vendetta against us necessitated that we arm ourselves.”
“Why didn’t he deal with this in South Africa? Surely he could have brought more pressure to bear on his home turf?” Whittle asked, duly writing in his little book.
“He did, but ended up being unsure whether we were in fact involved. There was no tangible evidence. But when we flew into the Caymans, he incorrectly assumed that our trip was directly related to the items he sought and that we had these, which, of course, is wrong. But he does not believe this. And that, sir, is the whole story,” I said with what I hoped was a show of finality.
If he ran off to Maria to verify my story, I knew she would never admit to the cash and diamonds and hopefully say the same as I had. Would she admit to a relationship? Probably, I thought, we have to give them reason as to why we were together and the only reason I could come up with was a romantic affair. God, I thought, that did sound corny!
“The doctor is not about to discharge you. I’ve put you both under guard; a constable is stationed outside your wards. You’re not under arrest; the guards are here to protect you in case you should get any undesirable visitors. I hate to say it but I believe the others haven’t finished with you yet. Also, as I said, arresting you is definitely still an option. I’ll speak to your lady-friend the moment I can and I hope she collaborates your story.”
He rose from his chair and came over to the bed, looking down at me.
“Think about telling me the reasons - maybe then I’ll understand this desire the man has to kill you both. Perhaps it will cast a new perspective on things. Who knows, I may be motivated enough to release you - even protect you.”
I remained silent.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Trichardt and Gerber arrived on Cayman Brac on a scheduled inter-island flight.
Trichardt was disturbed; the news from the island was not good. In fact, it was so bad that Carruthers himself had deemed it necessary to fly in but on a different flight, but only after Trichardt had applied considerable pressure and upped the ante.
The feedback they had received from their people was appalling. The cruiser had returned to Cotton Tree Bay its home base where the natural harbour created by the outer coral reefs protected it from the open sea while it rode at anchor. It had not achieved its objective; both van Onselen and the woman had escaped. The sudden arrival of the police on the Fisheries Research vessel had dealt their plans a final blow, forcing them to abandon their pursuit and affect a hasty retreat.
Things had continued to go wrong; two of Carruthers’s men were thought to be either wounded or dead in the gun-battle involving Rockell.
What surprised them all was that the police seemed to out-guess them at every move. They had arrived along the coastal road within minutes of the exchange of fire, forcing Rockell to flee on foot, leaving his dead or wounded comrades and making his way back to their base on the southeastern side of the island.
The only consolation was that the woman had been wounded, if not van Onselen as well.
Trichardt found it particularly disturbing that the local police appeared to pre-empt any action Carruthers took. He considered it prudent to keep a good distance from the action so to ensure that he could not be directly implicated. He was convinced Carruthers had a police informer in his midst. How else could the police be so well informed?
Still, the police could believe what they liked, but without conclusive evidence there was little they could do.
They exited the small airport building and took one of the two only taxis parked outside the terminus, directing the driver to the beach bungalow, which served Rockell as a home base. He had rented this on a weekly basis, furnished and supplied with linen. The taxi followed the eastern coast road. Trichardt noticed that here the houses were secluded, each built on a rather large tract of land ensuring a fair degree of privacy. There was little commerce on the eastern shore, as it was all concentrated on the western coastline.
The taxi crunched to a stop on the coral strewn driveway. Rockell came out to greet them dressed in Bermuda shorts and a vest and shod in a pair of slip-on sandals.
Trichardt stepped out of the car and without even a perfunctory greeting, swore at his assistant in Afrikaans.
“Dit was nou ‘n regte fokop!”[1] He said not concealing his contempt. “Dammit man! Do you people have to fuck up every instruction you’re given? And now you’ve even got the police involved.”
Trichardt climbed the sun-bleached wooden stairs to the veranda and swept past Rockell without a further glance, Gerber right behind him.
As Gerber passed Rockell, he could not help himself.
“You’re a useless prick,” he hissed.
Trichardt found a bedroom that was unoccupied, threw his satchel onto the bed, and then retired to the bathroom.
Gerber and Rockell stood in the sparsely furnished living room. The furniture was good but showing distinct signs of use: it appeared to have been furnished with those pieces the owners no longer considered satisfactory for their own main house but had not discarded. Clearly, these considered acceptable for a holiday beach dwelling.
“What the fuck’s going on?” Rockell asked with a frown..
Gerber sat down on in an armchair covered in cloth with a floral design.
“The man’s taking personal control. Carruthers is also arriving with additional men,” Gerber replied taking a carton of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one.
“What about the fuckin’ cops? Christ! The place is crawling with them now. Two of Carruthers’s people are probably dead and the others ...” Rockell blurted, completely at a loss. “They’ll arrest us!”
Gerber’s face broke into a cynical smile. ”They might arrest you, but us...? On what grounds? We haven’t done anything!”
“Don’t be a bloody bastard!” Rockell spat with mounting frustration. “I was only carrying out instructions.”
“Stop worrying - the boss’ll look after you. You should know that,” Gerber replied resignedly showing his irritation at the younger man’s attitude.
“Just be warned. During that fire fight I realized that those two
are no amateurs, they’re both pretty handy with a gun,” Rockell muttered.
Trichardt entered the lounge and moved towards the small bar behind which a few bottles were displayed on the mirrored shelves. He selected a Chivas Regal and poured a two-fingered tot to which he added ice from an ice bucket. He was about to move towards the sofa with his drink in his hand when a Rover sedan drew up in front of the porch.
Carruthers alighted with two other men, both dressed in summer suits, black homburgs on their heads and sporting the obligatory Rayban sunglasses - the epitome of the Tonton Macoute, Duvalier’s infamous Haitian secret police. It was evident that these two were special, they both exceptionally tall and clearly brutal and vicious: Carruthers’ bodyguards.
Carruthers strode into the lounge, his two men taking up station on the veranda.
After a cursory greeting, he collapsed into the other armchair opposite Trichardt.
Trichardt wasted no time.
“Listen, Carruthers, I’ve parted and still will part with a good deal of money, but your cronies have fucked this up. Now we’ve the bloody police involved. What’re we going to do now?”
Thomas Carruthers hiked up his trouser legs and propped his feet up on the coffee table. He too wore a suit, dark-grey. The man’s skin was as black as his eyes. He too was exceptionally tall, about six feet six and well built, his pectoral muscles visible beneath the taut white cotton shirt moulded to his chest. Clearly his nonchalant attitude was designed to keep at bay any further tirade that Trichardt was about to launch.
Trichardt offered him a drink.
He refused.
“Don’t concern yourself, Mr Trichardt. We’ll deal with these people. This has been an unfortunate setback - but remember, it’s not entirely our fault. Rockell is your man.”
“Unforeseen setback! Christ! That’s putting it mildly. What’s the latest you have on their whereabouts?” Trichardt ignored the reference to Rockell.
“They’re both wounded, she quite badly. They’re being held at the Stoke Bay Dental Clinic and Hospital, under police guard. I’m told that both have undergone surgery. The chief of the C.I.D. from Grand Cayman has flown in and assumed control of the operation; he has even subordinated the local police chief to his command. The man is said to be ex Scotland Yard. Had he not arrived and taken control, we would not have had this problem; the local chief I can handle.”
Diamonds Are But Stone Page 24