Murder in the Caribbean

by Robert Thorogood

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It took a quick phonecall to the administration department of the Central Prison to find out that Pierre Charpentier had indeed left prison three days before, and his registered address was a halfway house a few miles away.

  When Richard told his team Pierre’s address, Dwayne offered to come along.

  ‘Why?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Let me put it this way,’ Dwayne said. ‘It’s not the sort of place someone like you wants to get lost in.’

  As the Police jeep arrived, Richard found himself agreeing with Dwayne’s analysis. For the last few minutes they’d travelled down a narrow dirt road that cut through a field of sugar cane, the thick stalks pressing in on either side. Then, once the field ended, the track opened up into a dirt clearing that contained half a dozen clapboard houses that were nestling in scrubland right next to the sea.

  Camille parked the Police jeep by some overflowing bins. There was no-one around. Just some laundry drying on a line and a scrawny dog sleeping in the shade of an old pick-up.

  It felt like something out of the Wild West, Richard thought to himself.

  ‘Come on, let’s get this over with,’ he said, heading to the crumbling building that was listed as Pierre’s halfway house.

  Stepping up onto the porch, Richard knocked loudly on the wooden door. There was no answer from inside, although Richard saw a net curtain twitch in a house nearby. Interesting, he thought to himself. The enclave wasn’t as deserted as he’d first thought.

  Richard took a few steps back and looked at the upstairs windows of the old building. They had yellowed copies of the Saint-Marie Times taped to the inside, and there was a bush of some sort growing out of the gutter above.

  ‘Let me see what I can do,’ Dwayne said, heading around the side of the house.

  ‘Dwayne!’ Richard called out after him. ‘We don’t have a warrant.’

  ‘I know that, Chief,’ Dwayne replied, before disappearing.

  Richard knocked on the door again, but there was still no answer.

  ‘Mr Charpentier!’ he called out. ‘Saint-Marie Police. Are you there?’

  Richard noticed the net curtain at the nearby house twitch again. Whoever was inside was very interested to see what was going on.

  After knocking on the door for a third time, Richard was gratified to hear the sound of footsteps approaching from inside. He took a step back to make sure he wasn’t within striking distance of Pierre when he opened the door and pulled his warrant card, ready to show it.

  There was the sound of various chains being lifted, bolts being slid back, and then the door opened inwards.

  ‘Detective Inspector Richard Poole of the Saint-Marie Police Force,’ Richard said.

  ‘I know who you are,’ Dwayne said as he finished opening the door.

  ‘How did you get in there?’ Richard asked, quietly furious.

  ‘Well, that’s the funny thing, Chief. The back door was open, so I just walked in.’

  ‘The back door was open, was it?’ Richard asked, sceptically.

  ‘I mean, it took a bit of effort, but it was definitely open. Eventually.’

  After a moment’s indecision, Richard pushed past Dwayne into the house, his interest in Pierre’s whereabouts drawing him in. After all, if the back door really were open, they could claim that they were investigating the security of the house as a matter of community policing. If Dwayne had broken in, then that was something he’d have to explain to a tribunal if it ever came to that.

  As Richard looked about himself, he saw that the house was shabby, and was only furnished with the bare minimum. He saw a little sidetable with an ashtray and packet of cigarettes and matches next to it. There was also a bottle of beer that Richard saw was half full.

  Pulling on a pair of crime scene gloves, Richard went into the kitchen at the back of the house and saw a brown paper bag on the worktop. Inside there were a few basic groceries, none of them unpacked. And from the smell coming from the bag, Richard guessed that it had been sitting out in the heat.

  There was also a see-through folder to the side of the groceries that contained all the literature from the prison explaining the ups and downs following a spell inside. Richard also found an open brown envelope, and he used his pencil to raise the flap so he could see its contents. It was full of what looked to be about a hundred dollars in low denomination notes.

  ‘He left in a hurry, didn’t he?’ Camille said from the doorway. ‘He’s not even finished his beer.’

  ‘That’s what it looks like to me,’ Richard agreed. ‘And, from the state of his food here, I don’t think he was here for very long.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Dwayne asked.

  Richard looked about himself. There were no signs of a struggle. In fact, it looked as though Pierre had only just popped out for a few minutes. As Richard went back into the front room, he half expected to find a cigarette still smouldering in the ashtray.

  ‘Dwayne,’ he said, ‘I want you to bag the physical evidence.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘As for you and me, Camille, I think we’ve got a lead to follow up.’

  ‘We have, sir?’

  A few moments later, Richard and Camille had gone to the house next door where Richard had seen the curtain twitching. Having knocked loudly on the door, they soon heard a shuffling of feet from inside the house.

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ a voice called out.

  The door opened to reveal an ancient woman who was almost entirely bent over, and seemed only to be kept upright by a claw-footed hospital walking stick that she was gripping firmly in her right hand.

  She lifted up her head, and Richard could see that her eyes were cloudy.

  ‘Are you the Police?’ the woman asked.

  ‘We are,’ Camille said. ‘We just wanted to ask you a few questions about your neighbour.’

  ‘What neighbour?’

  ‘The man who moved into the house next door three days ago,’ Richard said. ‘I’m sure you saw him.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ the woman said before retreating from the door and trying to shut it. ‘I can’t help you.’

  Richard put his hand out to stop the door from closing.

  ‘But you see everything around here, don’t you? I saw you checking us over when we arrived.’

  ‘And there’s been quite a serious crime committed,’ Camille said, far more kindly. ‘If you could give us any help, we’d be so very grateful.’

  The old woman considered her answer for a moment, and then she sighed.

  ‘Alright. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Did you see the man who moved into the house three days ago?’

  The woman laughed with a wet cackle.

  ‘I don’t see anything. Can’t you tell?’

  The woman made an extra effort to lift her head, and indicated her cloudy eyes.

  ‘Is it your cataracts?’ Camille asked.

  ‘Everything’s a blur to me now.’

  ‘But you were spying on us,’ Richard said, unable to keep the note of disapproval from his voice.

  ‘I was robbed last year. I have to be careful.’

  ‘So you can see some things.’

  ‘I can’t see much, but I know where you are.’

  ‘Then did you see someone move in three days ago?’

  ‘I did. A taxi arrived in the morning. I could tell it was a taxi from the colour. It was deep red. And a man got out. I heard him thank the taxi driver. It was a man’s voice.’

  ‘And he went into the house next door?’

  ‘You know, the prison use it for people who are just released from jail?’

  ‘They do?’ Camille asked innocently.

  ‘So you get all kinds of goings on. I don’t like it. But I’m old, no-one cares what I think.’

  ‘Do you remember what time this was?’ Richard asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It was in the morning. Maybe after eleven? It was before I’d had lunch, and I always have
lunch at midday.’

  ‘And what did this man do once he’d arrived?’

  ‘Well, nothing that I know of.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘He went into his house, and I didn’t think about him again until that afternoon.’

  ‘Well, that’s very helpful, thank you,’ Camille said. ‘Although, why did you think about him that afternoon?’

  ‘Because of the men who came to see him.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Well, I was sitting on the porch in the afternoon when I saw a car arrive. I don’t know what sort it was, before you ask, it parked too far away. It was just a blur. But I saw three men come from it and then go into the house next door.’

  ‘And you’re sure there were three of them?’

  ‘Oh yes. I could see the shapes of three people.’

  ‘And they were all men?’

  ‘I heard three voices. They were all male. In fact, they were arguing as they approached.’

  ‘Do you know what they were arguing about?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening too closely.’

  ‘Then do you perhaps remember anything they said? Any phrase, or even just a single word?’

  ‘I’m sorry, all I can tell you is they were three men, and they were arguing about something. Mind you, that was nothing compared to what happened next.’

  Richard was about to ask the old woman to explain, but Camille put her hand on his elbow, indicating that he should keep quiet. She’d recognised that their witness had finally warmed up and was enjoying the sound of her own voice.

  ‘The man who’d arrived first – he was wearing a blue jacket – was happy to see them to start off with because he greeted the three men like old friends. But after a few minutes I heard the man in the blue jacket start to get angry.’

  ‘Did you hear what was said?’

  The woman thought hard.

  ‘It was something about him wanting his share, I think. That’s right, he kept saying “where’s my share?” over and over. And then the three men who’d arrived together started arguing among themselves as well. It got quite heated, and it ended with the man in the blue jacket telling them he wanted them all to leave. And a few minutes later, that’s what they did. But I got the feeling the three men left with their tails between their legs. They weren’t so chatty on the way out as they’d been on the way in.’

  ‘And it was the same three men who left as who’d arrived?’

  ‘I think so. The man in the blue jacket was still in his doorway after the others had left.’

  ‘I appreciate you don’t see too well,’ Camille said, ‘but can you describe any of these men at all to us?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I think one of them had a red top. Like a T-shirt. But I couldn’t tell you anything else.’

  ‘Did you maybe see what colour their skin was?’

  ‘They were dark-skinned.’

  ‘And did they speak with local accents?’

  ‘Oh yes, very definitely. They were all from Saint-Marie. Or from an island nearby.’

  ‘So they were three dark-skinned men who you think were from the island?’

  ‘That’s right,’ the old woman said with another chuckle. ‘Which isn’t bad for someone who can’t see, is it?’

  ‘It sure isn’t,’ Camille agreed.

  ‘Then what happened?’ Richard asked.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, we’ve just looked around your neighbour’s house, and it looks like he left somewhat suddenly at some point.’

  ‘Oh, that was later that day.’

  ‘It was?’

  ‘I was in my kitchen when I heard a car pull up outside. I didn’t think much of it, and I didn’t even see which of the men had come back, but I saw the first man who’d arrived that day – the man in the blue jacket – step out of his house. I could see that from my window. He said something and then I saw him leave. A few seconds later, I heard a car start up and drive off.’

  ‘Did you hear what he said?’

  ‘I think he said something like, “I thought I’d never see you again.”’

  ‘“I thought I’d never see you again”?’

  ‘And I’m sure he said something else, but I didn’t catch it. But he then walked from the house, and you know what? Now you mention it, I’ve not seen him since. Or any of the other three men, either, for that matter. Not that I’d recognise them, of course.’

  ‘Have there been any other visitors since then?’

  ‘No. No-one.’

  Richard looked back over the notes he’d taken, trying to make sense of what he’d just learned. Who were the three men who’d visited Pierre on the day he left prison? Where had Pierre then gone off to when one of them returned later on? And, seeing as Pierre very obviously hadn’t been back to his halfway house since then, where was he now?

  As for the identity of the three men who’d visited that day, Richard had a theory he wanted to test, especially considering how Pierre had apparently been overheard demanding to know where ‘his share’ was.

  Richard asked Camille to take the old woman’s formal statement, and while she was doing that, he drove back to the Police station.

  As he entered the main office, Fidel stood up excitedly.

  ‘Sir, I’ve got something.’

  ‘You have?’ Richard said.

  ‘I sure have, because I’ve been processing the evidence Camille bagged from Conrad’s office. And you know that chunk of concrete that was used to smash in the window? I’ve been checking it for fingerprints, and guess what? It’s borderline admissible, but I was able to lift half a thumbprint from a pebble that was buried in its side.’

  As he spoke, Fidel led Richard over to his desk and showed him the chunk of concrete. Bending down to inspect it more closely, Richard could see that it was rough–there’d be no way to lift any kind of usable fingerprints from it – but Richard could also see that a few smooth pebbles were embedded in the block, and Fidel had dusted each of them with graphite powder.

  ‘And?’ Richard asked.

  ‘The fingerprint also belongs to Pierre Charpentier, sir.’

  ‘It was Pierre who threw the rock through the window?’ ‘It was.’

  ‘Then that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.’

  ‘It is?’ Fidel asked, surprised.

  ‘Oh yes, because I think Pierre killed Conrad for a very specific reason and then left that fake ruby behind for the exact same reason.’

  As Richard went and sat down at his desk, he told Fidel that a taxi had taken Pierre to his halfway house on the morning he was released from prison.

  ‘So contact the prison, would you? Find out what taxi firm picks up prisoners, and see if you can talk to the driver who drove Pierre that day. In particular, I want to know what sort of mood Pierre was in on the journey.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As Fidel started making calls, Richard logged on to the Saint-Marie Police Computer Network and called up the case file for Pierre Charpentier’s original crime. And what Richard read held him spellbound. Because, as he’d already guessed, Pierre hadn’t robbed the jewellery shop in London twenty years before alone. He’d been part of a gang of four. The men had driven up to the store on motorbikes just as a consignment of jewellery was being delivered. They’d then smashed up the shop with baseball bats until the manager handed over the delivery. Then, as they were leaving, one of the men pulled a handgun and shot a member of staff dead.

  Richard read that the man who was killed that day was called André Morgan. He’d only been with the shop for three months, but what Richard noticed at once was that André was originally from Saint-Marie.

  That would have to be followed up.

  As for the men in the gang, they’d fled on their motorbikes just before the Police arrived at the scene.

  However, the robber who’d fired the gun made one mistake. As he jumped onto the back of his partner’s bike to make his escape, his gun fe
ll from his grasp and he wasn’t able to pick it up before the bike had driven off. This meant that although the bank robbers got away with their loot, the murder weapon was left behind at the scene, and was later retrieved by the Metropolitan Police. They were then able to lift a couple of fingerprints from the barrel of the gun. But the fingerprints didn’t match anyone on the UK Police database. Nor did they match anyone on Interpol’s database. In fact, the Police weren’t able to match the fingerprints with anyone. Even worse, although the motorbikes were later found dumped in a back street, the men had vanished into thin air. And the bikes had been stolen from Brick Lane the night before, so that was a dead end as well.

  All told, over two million pounds’ worth of jewels had been stolen that day, and the Police didn’t have a single credible lead.

  Then, a week after the jewellery heist, the Police received an anonymous phonecall. The message was left by a woman who, according to the notes Richard was reading, ‘had a thick Caribbean accent’. She told the Duty Officer that the jewel heist had been carried out by men from Saint-Marie. The woman hung up before she could be quizzed any further. The anonymous phonecall was later traced to a phone booth near Willesden Green Tube station, but the Police were never able to identify who the caller had been.

  However, the tip-off meant that the Police in London sent copies of the fingerprints they’d retrieved from the murder weapon to the Police in Saint-Marie. It took quite a few days for the answer to come back to London, but it was worth the wait.

  The Saint-Marie Police had a match for the fingerprints. They belonged to a well-known local hoodlum called Pierre Charpentier. And, even better than that, their records showed that Pierre had left Saint-Marie three weeks before the jewel heist, and had returned to Saint-Marie two days after it had been carried out.

  The Saint-Marie Police swooped on Pierre and charged him with theft and murder. He was then extradited to the UK where he stood trial at the Old Bailey. When he was cross-examined, Pierre claimed that he’d had nothing to do with the jewel heist, and he was being set up for the murder as well. His defence was that he may have been in the UK, but he was nowhere near Bond Street at the time. As for the fingerprints that were found on the murder weapon, Pierre just kept saying that he was being set up.