by Jane Finch
The car was parked in a large winding driveway which circled a house that by any standards was massive, but by Jamaican standards was a mansion. Two stone pillars stood grandly by the entrance doors which were polished mahogany, with brass handles and an ornate golden crown sunk into the centre. Two rounded towers stood majestically at each side of the building, with little turrets made from red brick. The main part of the building had been painted white, with huge windows framed by matching mahogany shutters.
It looked absurd. Amanda knew very well what Caribbean cottages looked like, and whilst the Caymans might play home to many wealthy Americans who liked to flaunt their wealth with pretentious houses, Jamaica was not like that. This building was more suited to a diplomat than a resident. But then, she thought wryly, Samuel King probably thought of himself as King of Jamaica. The crown on the door said it all.
She was led through an entrance hall that was comparable with a five star Dubai hotel, with a flowing staircase, feature windows, and stunning landscape artwork. A doorway off to the left led into a grand room complete with fireplace, gold braided chairs, and a wall the centre-piece of which was a large gold crown. By the feature window sat Samuel King, and she was taken to stand before him. She felt like a thief standing before a medieval king, awaiting sentence.
Samuel King looked at her for a long time, saying nothing, just staring into her eyes. Eventually she looked away and tried to focus on the views outside. Huge palms tickled the sky, green lawns freshly watered, looked lush and pristine, edged by tropical flowers and colourful hedges. She forced herself to look at him again as he stretched out his hand.
“The watch,” he demanded.
For a moment she panicked. He knew about the tracker, which meant there could be no help from the team. She knew the routine, they would take the tracker and flip it onto the back of a lorry that would probably circle round and round the island so there would be no confirmation of her whereabouts.
She was wrong. As she handed it over to him he turned it over in his palm, took a small knife from the table beside him, and flipped off the back, removed the tracking device, and then re-assembled the watch. He crushed the device in his massive hand and let the pieces fall to the floor. Then he handed the watch back to her.
Still she said nothing. She half expected at any minute to feel the cold steel of a knife in her back, sliding between her ribs and twisting until she was consumed with pain and fell to the floor. She imagined that he would laugh as he watched. She had dreamed so many times that was how it would be.
But when nothing happened, and still he did not speak, Amanda found she could no longer keep quiet.
“What do you want of me?” she asked. She fought to keep her voice steady as she met his gaze again.
“Finally the woman speaks,” he said in a low voice, clasping his hands together and resting them casually on his lap. “Now, don’t rush ma, I waited a long time fer this moment, and I’m gonna savour it.” His voice, although gruff, still had the Caribbean sing-song lilt.
“You see this here, woman,” he said, gesturing around him, “this here’s ma house and ma home and ma island. ‘Cos of you I had ta leave ma island, and that’s not good. No. I tell ya now I ain’t never gonna leave ma island again.”
He stood up then, and towered above her.
“Ten years I was away. Ten long years. Thanks ta you.”
He brought his hand down hard across her face and she staggered backwards, instinctively clutching her face where he had hit her. She tasted blood where her teeth had pierced her lip.
He brought his head down so that his eyes were level with hers.
“So now ya gonna pay.”
Amanda fought hard against the panic that was building in her. If he planned to torture her she would be helpless to protect herself. She shuddered as she wondered if he planned to put her in the ground. She doubted she could live through that again. She had to co-operate.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked quietly, trying to hide the shaking in her muscles and the quivering in her legs. She had had plenty of time to think things through. She reckoned if she got this far then he wanted her to do something, and she suspected it would be a drugs haul. That would be the sort of ironic revenge he would probably want.
“Like I said, woman, I had plenty o’ time to think on this, and I reckon there’s a way you can pay ma back.”
“Whatever it is you want, I’ll do it, as long as you agree to let my husband go.”
He sat down slowly into his chair, reached for a glass of water on the table beside him, and took a sip.
“Ahh. Mr. Purcell. The lawyer. Well, it sure took ma boys a while to get him. We had to sweet talk the little secretary there.”
Amanda gasped. “Sarah?”
He nodded. “I b’live that were her name. Very obligin’ she was too, it seems. Got to enjoy a little of the Cayman life . For a while.”
“What do you mean? Is Sarah alright?”
Samuel grinned. “ Well, ‘fraid poor ole Sarah ain’t with us no more.”
Amanda shook her head. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Perhaps he was just trying to goad her. But then she remembered Sarah’s mysterious disappearance, the postcard with Cayman Islands, the mysterious email. It all began to make sense.
“Anyways, enough talk. I’ve got somethin’ for ya to do, and if ya do it well, then we’s even. We’ll call it a day.”
“You’ll let Tony go?”
“I’ll let Tony-boy come home.”
“And you’ll leave me alone?”
“I told ya, woman. It’ll be quits.”
It only took Amanda a moment to consider what he was saying. She was here to put an end to this, once and for all, whatever it took.
“What do I have to do?”
Samuel nodded to a man standing by the doorway, who picked up a briefcase and brought it over to them. Amanda recognized it immediately.
“That’s Simon’s,” she said.
Samuel flicked the locks and the lid sprung open.
“Mr. Simon Buller. Got a little too ambitious.” He picked up several papers and fingered them, then held them up for Amanda to see.
She nodded. “I’ve seen them,” she said, watching him carefully, and wondering what on earth he wanted her to do with real estate papers.
“Here’s the deal. Y’see, woman, it weren’t ‘bout the drugs at all, they was just a front. Fooled your boys good ‘n proper. Na, it were about property and land. These ‘ere documents represent all the deals we eva done. Now they’s worth a fortune. Land on Cayman’s a million a plot. That were Mr. Buller’s job. Not drug running. Investin’.”
“Money laundering,” said Amanda, sighing.
“Call it what yer like. I want me investments. Now at the moment they’s all in Mr. Buller’s name. ‘N I want you to go get ‘em.”
Amanda shrugged her shoulders hopelessly.
“But how can I do that?”
Samuel laughed out loud, a raucous, deep laugh that filled the room and shook his whole body.
“Y’see woman, that’s why ten years was worth it, ‘cos I got me a plan.” He took some more papers and handed them to her.
“There’s new identity papers for ya, Mrs. Buller.”
“What? How can I be Mrs Buller? And why, I don’t understand.”
“Well, I’ll ‘xplain it, shall I? Remember at the hotel, when you pretended ta be Mrs. Buller to get the door key? Well, the desk clerk will confirm that you’s the wife. All the papers there say you are. There’s even a Will signed by Mr. Simon Buller and leaving everthin’ to ‘s darling wife. You’s gonna get all them documents signed over to you as the grievin’ widow. Then you’ll transfer them ta ma. Simple as that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Tony looked into Clive’s grinning face and was at the point of giving up. The door of the van continued to swing in the wind as the bulk of a man beckoned at Tony. They stood about ten metres apart. Clive was holding
a gun.
“Be better for you to come quietly,” he said, his voice low and gruff, the gun hovering in his hand and pointed directly at Tony. It was still raining and now they were in the open the wind was driving the rain like a power shower. A gust of wind caught the van door and slammed it shut, startling Clive who turned automatically at the noise. In that moment Tony ran. Not away for fear of a bullet in the back, but the only way he could. He ran straight at Clive.
Tony was tired and weak and cold, but he put every last effort into the assault. Even as he was forcing his legs to run faster, Clive was turning back and aiming the gun. At that very moment, the blue Ford car that Tony had seen earlier came hurtling round the corner. The driver jammed on the brakes and the car swerved sideways as the driver saw the van in the middle of the road and tried to avoid it. Tony managed to stop himself just in time as the Ford slid noisily past the van and plowed straight into Clive. The impact carried Clive along the road for a few metres before he was lifted over the bonnet and along the roof. He then fell to the ground with a thud, quivered for a moment, and then lay still.
The woman driver staggered out of the Ford looking confused and dazed.
“I’m so sorry…I didn’t see him…the van was in the middle of the road…”
Tony hurried to her and led her to the verge where she sat down heavily.
“Stay here,” he said, and then went over to the lifeless form behind the car. He bent down and felt for a pulse, then felt the side of Clive’s neck. There was a large gash on the side of his head, and his chest was covered in blood. It was clear the man was dead.
Tony walked back to the driver.
“Do you have a mobile phone?” he asked.
She nodded slowly, felt in her pocket, and produced a Samsung.
“We need to call the Police,” said Tony.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Amanda couldn’t let herself become confused. She was no longer Amanda Purcell or even Miranda Bell. According to the documents in her lap she was Amanda Buller, grieving widow of Simon Buller, property investor and developer, late of Georgia, Alabama. The death certificate stated he had died from multiple injuries as a result of an accident. A newspaper clipping reported that he had fallen overboard from a speedboat, got caught in the propeller, and died from his injuries. He was alone on the boat at the time so there were no witnesses, but his injuries were consistent with the report by the Cayman police.
Amanda marveled at the power of money. Somehow they had removed Simon’s body and faked the accident at sea. According to the article there was no evidence to suggest foul play, and after a cremation two days later no-one was any the wiser. Now she possessed his Last Will and Testament which left everything to her. Well, to Amanda Buller.
Her new passport had been professionally prepared, her visa granted, and now she was the widow returning to execute her late husband’s Will. The financial documents were contained in a separate folder, proving ownership of several parcels of land, various properties, several commercial buildings, and a large river frontage on Cayman Kai, the elite part of Grand Cayman where the cheapest home went for more than a million dollars.
Apart from the property, there were statements from banks showing investments and assets and capital worthy of royalty, which of course was exactly how Samuel King viewed himself. The King of Jamaica.
She stopped counting after twenty million dollars. There would be a host of attorneys and realtors and bank managers falling over themselves to administer the estate, and a few thousand in the right direction would ensure it was dealt with as quickly as possible.
So when it finally came down to it, everything was about money.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
She was back at the Hyatt. There was no-one there she recognized, which wasn’t surprising really as it had been ten years. But she was following instructions, and her reservation was made and her stay paid for.
The first main meeting with the bank and attorneys was scheduled for 5pm. The wad of investment deeds and financial documents were in her briefcase, together with the Will and her identity papers. She glanced at her watch. She had just plenty of time before she needed to leave. She picked up the telephone and pressed 0.
“Front desk. May I help you?”
“I’d like to book a taxi for 4.30pm please.”
As she replaced the receiver she wondered if her calls were being monitored. Anything and everything was possible. She looked at her watch again and wished the tracker was still intact. Even if it was, she knew she could not risk making contact. Samuel’s words had been clear, if she screwed up, Tony would die.
At least they knew where she was, and would probably realize she couldn’t call them. She laid down on the bed, closed her eyes, and waited.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Inspector Finley and D.C. Blake sat side by side in the main meeting room at Walsham police station, sipping tea and staring incredulously at the man who sat opposite them.
Tony Purcell was recounting his abduction, captivity, and eventual escape. The Scottish police had been brilliant when they realized who he was and had contacted Walsham and had a special car bring him door to door. He felt a tremendous relief as he was able to recount his story. As he reached the part where the police had arrived at the scene of the car accident, and he had blurted out what had happened to him, he finally began to cry.
D.C.Blake topped up Tony’s mug of tea and sat back to wait. Tony sipped the scalding liquid and let it soothe his throat.
“I think Clive may be dead,” he said quietly, “ he went right over the top of the car and never moved. I couldn’t feel a pulse.” He took another sip. “I don’t know about Jake. I have to admit I hit him pretty hard, but I had to be sure so I could get away.”
He looked at the Inspector.
“I described the place I was being held as best I could. Do you think the police in Scotland found him? Have you heard?”
“He’s okay,” the Inspector replied, leaning forward and typing something on to the computer which sat next to the tray of tea. “Got a bit of a sore head, I have to say, but nothing that won’t heal.”
Tony nodded, strangely relieved.
“How long have I been away?”
D.C.Blake checked his notes.
“Twenty-seven days.”
Tony shook his head in disbelief.
“I must have been unconscious for several days, and then one day seemed much like another and I lost track of time.”
He sat forward in his chair.
“I asked about Jenny. Jake and Clive said their men had her, but the police said that was not true. Where is she?”
Inspector Finley clicked his computer and sat back in his chair.
“There’s a lot we need to tell you. First and foremost Jenny is safe, she is staying with your sister, but we are keeping that a secret from everyone for the time being.”
“I still don’t understand,” said Tony, sighing, “I don’t understand what this is all about, why they said they had Jenny, why they took me. And where is Amanda?”
“Like I said,” said the Inspector, “we’ve a lot to tell you. I just need you to tell us about the Justin case.”
Tony looked confused.
“Paul Justin? What’s he got to do with all this?”
“Maybe something, maybe nothing,” replied the Inspector, “but he was found dead shortly after you went missing.”
Tony gasped.
“What happened?”
D.C.Blake leant forward.
“It could have been an accident, but it’s still being investigated. He drowned in the bath but also had overdosed.”
Tony nodded. “He was a user. And a supplier, and dealt with some unsavory characters, I have to say. Actually, he had been texting me a lot, saying he needed to speak to me. On the day I was taken I had a text saying someone was out to get me. I thought it could wait until the Monday, I really didn’t take him seriously.”
“I think,”
said the Inspector grimly, “We will find that Paul Justin had contacts in high places, probably higher than he realized. Anyway, let me tell you about Amanda.”
He turned to D.C. Blake, “Get the word out to Miami as quickly as possible that Mr. Purcell has been found.”
“Miami?” asked Tony.
“It’s a long story,” said the Inspector.
CHAPTER THIRTY
It was four-twenty five, and Amanda closed her door quietly and headed for the lift. It was only one floor down to reception, but she didn’t trust her legs on the stairs. Her whole body was quivering with fear. What if they realized she was not who she said she was? Everything would fail and she would lose Tony. There were so many ‘if’s’ to worry about, but she knew she had to pull it off as best she could.
The taxi was waiting outside and she hurried into the back and gave the address of the meeting. The driver was quiet, not chatty like the usual Caymanians, but she was grateful. The last thing she felt like doing was chatting about the weather and her so-called holiday. The taxi eased forward down the long drive of the Hyatt Hotel and out on to West Bay Road. As was usual, traffic was nose to tail and they crawled along. She checked her watch three times in quick succession, knowing it was no use trying to hurry the driver, there was only one road into George Town, and they were on it.
She opened her briefcase and checked for the third time that she had everything she needed, and then began to go over her new identity in her mind. Amanda Buller. Grieving widow.
She began to look out the window at the other traffic, the beaten up Cadillac in front of them, and the endless stream of cars coming towards them. She quickly turned and glanced behind. A black sedan with tinted windows was just inches from their bumper. She imagined the driver was one of Samuel King’s men, no doubt watching her every move.