by Jacob Ross
Through the curtain of rain, I noticed the first trace of morning in the direction where I imagined Camaho would be. Then a hint of colour on the water below us.
I’d probably got it wrong. Maybe the boat was going somewhere else. We should have handed this job over to the US coast guard fellas as the Commissioner suggested. Chilman! Stubborn ole goat – full of fuckin demons, making a fool of himself. And us!
I looked at my watch. 4.30.
At 4.36, I felt the throbbing in the air.
I raised a hand at Caran and Toya, heard the thack of metal, saw Caran settling the big gun against his shoulder, his cheek fused against the barrel. Toya sat between a fork in the rock, legs folded under her, the stock of the rifle jammed against her shoulders. I released the catch of the AK47 and took a breath.
It emerged out of the dawn sky, wraithlike in the mist. I felt a quiver of disbelief and awe as the thing took shape. Black, sleek, creating its own tide behind it – a high white arch of spume, bristling silver against the pale sky. The sound that came from the speeding boat shredded the morning air.
And then it was upon us. Caran’s shoulders were convulsing with the kick of the PKM. I’d braced myself against the rock and leaned on the trigger. Toya sat calm as a Buddha, her rifle dipping and swerving as she tried to follow the trajectory of the boat. We might as well have pointed the gun at the sky and hoped to hit it.
I glimpsed four figures. Black puffer jackets. Cowled. The curved windscreen angled over them. A black-gloved hand shot out, aimed at the stretch of water west of Kara Island.
We’d decided to shoot at the engines in case they got past us. A boiling plume of water hid them.
And I thought, To hell with it, I might as well allow myself to marvel at the fuckin thing. Watch it run – something to talk about to the fellas afterward: a demon boat with hydraheaded engines that moved on water like a plane.
It had finished the turn and was straightening out for the big sprint to the ocean, the thunder of the engines upping several octaves, the bow of the craft tilting further upward.
I stood up, wiped the sweat from my face, saw the extended arm jerk sideways, and then what sounded like a scream – pitched high and bright and terrible.
The owner of the outstretched arm stumbled back as if pulled by some abrupt invisible hand. Then the driver’s head switched back, and it became all white water and confusion. The craft banked on a wave, bucked sharply upwards and for a couple of seconds took flight in a backward somersault. The engines wound down like a landing aircraft. The crosstides began a heaving, spitting dogfight over it. The catamaran dipped and tossed until it canted over, washed by great hillocks of water. Then it began the fast southward drift on the tide.
Caran was on his feet. ‘Digger, what happen deh? You score?’
I shook my head.
He turned querying eyes on Toya. She too shook her head. ‘Could’ve been you, Chief.’ She pointed at the big gun.
He pulled in his lips, blinked at the dipping carcass of the boat. ‘Not me!’
‘Pilot make a mistake, then. Mebbe,’ I said. It was all I felt like saying.
‘Venezuela,’ Toya muttered. ‘Tide take it right back there. If coast guard don’t long-stop it.’
She jerked her head at the rocks overhead.
We packed up and followed her.
There was a small crowd on the jetty – people who looked more interested in the guns in our hands than in us.
Miss Stanislaus was smiling at me as if to say, ‘Missa Digger, we done good.’
‘We done good,’ I said.
A chuckle burst out of her. ‘How you know what I was finkin?’
‘Your face,’ I said. ‘But I not satisfied, Miss Stanislaus.’
She went still as if she were listening to me with her body. Then she dropped a hand on my arm and squeezed.
65
The Justice Minister lined us up behind him, with our hands behind our backs like we were schoolkids in his choir, while Camaho’s press corps aimed their cameras at the man. It was because of his policy, his vision, his efforts to create a police force to rival any in the region that the nation was celebrating this victory today – which was why, on 13 March next year, citizens of Camaho could not jeopardise the nation’s security by voting for the opposition.
A foolish person would have thought the MJ had been out there on Blackwater himself, chasing after the boat.
I wouldn’t have turned up for the press meeting had Chilman not accused me of threatening the future of the Department again.
At the end, the minister summoned us to his office. A yellow hunk of a man, more fat than muscle, who had to squeeze himself sideways through his office door in order to get through it. The air condition was on full blast as usual, his poor secretary sat padded in layers.
Chilman pushed himself past me and poked my hip. ‘Digson, watch yourself!’
The MJ mopped his brow, rested jaundiced, fat-cushioned eyes on us and asked us what happened. We assumed the question was rhetorical. We said nothing.
Who the hell did we think we were?
Rhetorical again.
Had we forgotten that we were supposed to inform him through the appropriate channels . . .
For a fuckin change.
. . . of any important exercise such as the one we’d so recklessly embarked on? All the more, because we were ignorant of the bigger picture. Weren’t we aware that the war on drugs was a regional concern? American funding came with it, which Camaho could not do without. And – a fat finger in our faces – the last thing anyone wanted was to let our friends in North America even think that we could do this on our own. We couldn’t!
‘We just did,’ I said.
Miss Stanislaus, who had chosen to sit directly behind me, kicked my leg.
So, by those parameters, the MJ said, San Andrews CID would be foolish to call the operation a success.
‘It was, Sir.’
Miss Stanislaus kicked me again.
Chilman cleared his throat. ‘Mister Minister, the fact is we stop them. I don’t even want to think what that would’ve meant for your personal reputation and your ministry if we didn’t. I don’t even want to imagine how the opposition was going to twist the facts and make it look like the Minister of Justice himself was hampering the investigation by getting in the way of justice.’ Chilman coughed, pulled out a wrinkled handkerchief and patted his cheek. ‘With aaall the respect I should owe you, Sir, I feel the Justice Minister is cussin San Andrews CID for doing cardinal work.’ Chilman coughed again. ‘What worrying me now, Sir, is what the Prime Minister will think when he get to hear—’
‘DS Chilman!’ The MJ stuck a finger in the air. ‘I was referring to third-party perceptions. Not the commendable job you people did. Didn’t I make that sufficiently clear to the press out there?’
I shook my head. ‘Nuh, Sir, you didn’t. How, if I may ask, Sir, do third-party perceptions invalidate the fact that San Andrews CID verifiably and effectively implemented the job that we have been employed to do in accordance with Camaho’s policing and government objectives? And why, if I may ask again, Sir, you already using it to promote your electioneering goals when you label it as a failure?’
He stiffened at my words, swung his head towards Chilman. ‘That’s the quality of staff you see fit to employ in your department? What does he know about government objectives? Was he listening to what I just said? Did he understand anything? And is he still in my office?’
I took his cue, got up, excused myself and walked out.
I hung around till they came out. Chilman marched over, manoeuvred me out on the grass and stuck a finger in my face. I took the cussing, even the manhandling, as he backed me against his car, his finger now under my nose. He threw a quick glance up at the window on the third floor, dropped himself in his car and banged the door.
I glanced up at the window too. The MJ was no longer there. ‘He gone now,’ I said.
The old DS had his he
ad on the steering wheel, his body heaving with laughter.
Miss Stanislaus was tinkling like a Christmas tree.
Chilman poked out his head. ‘Digson, where you get them words from? You went to England for one blaastid year, and they send you back to colonise we arse again. Meet me at the office!’
‘Missa Digger, I ever tell you, you not a bad fella at all?’
‘Once or twice, Miss Stanislaus, with caveats.’
‘Well, you not. Shall we persevere?’
‘Persevere we shall, Miss Stanislaus.’
‘Missa Digger, somefing on your mind, not so?’
‘Mebbe.’
‘I sure.’
66
Chilman chose to have us unpack the case at San Andrews Central police station. He invited the area chiefs from around the island, the fellas from the coast guard and a couple of big-wigs from our tiny army. A long, low-ceilinged room, no windows, fluorescent lights. The low-level hum of the air-conditioning.
‘Is of national importance,’ Chilman told us.
‘Is to show off,’ Miss Stanislaus mumbled in my ear.
As if to confirm her point, DS Chilman sidled up to me. ‘Digson, I want you to go technical on their arse, but don’t lose them. No politics either. Okay?’ He covered his grin with a cough and sat in front.
I detailed the incidents of the case. Then pulled the narrative together. Pet sat in the aisle, a notepad on her lap.
‘For the purposes of this case we got nine deaths – three murders, two deaths by police, and the presumed drowning of four people – three males and a female.
‘Let’s start with Lazar Wilkinson. Lazar used to pick up the marijuana that Juba brought from Vincen Island on a boat named Retribution. Lazar Wilkinson ferried the weed back to Camaho. That was his relationship with Juba Hurst until, three months ago, Juba Hurst moved his cocainecooking operation from Kara Island to Camaho for reasons that I’ll go into later.
‘To help with the processing, Lazar Wilkinson put forward Jonathon Rayburn – I’ll refer to him as Jana Ray from now on. Jana Ray was a gifted eighteen-year-old schoolboy, useful to them for his knowledge of chemistry. Purifying cocaine paste involves the use of sulphuric acid, ammonia and potassium permanganate and the extraction of a range of impurities. Jana Ray learned the process quickly.
‘I have strong reasons to believe that Lazar Wilkinson died at the hands of the man in Camaho who ran the whole operation. Lazar Wilkinson recruited the boys who cooked and purified the paste that came with the boat from Venezuela. He also recruited Jonathon Rayburn. Lazar Wilkinson was offered a fee for his part of the job but he rejected it on the grounds that Beau Séjour was his village, his territory and rather than be paid a fee they should give him a percentage of the worth of the cocaine. That would’ve meant a lot more money, of course. He threatened to report the operation to the police in the middle of the refining process if they didn’t agree to his demands. The man who oversaw the operation wanted to plant the fear of God in anybody who thought of dictating those kinda terms or spilling to the police. That, I think, accounts for the slit throat and the pulled-out tongue.’
‘Who’s the man in question?’ That was the coast guard.
‘Luther Caine.’
I waited through the silence and quick exchange of looks.
‘You sure is Luther Caine?’
‘I have the evidence.’
‘Where’s he right now?’ South Region sounded uneasy.
‘Presumed dead. He was one of the four on the boat.’
‘Not that Luther Caine from—’
‘Camaho got only one Luther Caine.’ I enjoyed their consternation; waited for the mumbles to subside.
‘You find out who the woman was?’
‘One Sandra Fernandez, she called herself Sarona. Venezuelan, I believe. Lazar Wilkinson’s weakness was women. I believe the manner in which he was killed came from the Venezuelan woman who used her body as bait to catch him off guard. Her job was to keep an eye on things, including the police, and ensure that the shipment got to its destination.’
‘Where Juba Hurst fit into all of this?’ Manus Maine – from what he claimed – was the original CID of Camaho until we stole their jobs. They wished us dead.
‘Up to three months ago, Juba had his own cocainecooking operation on the east side of Kara Island. He murdered an old man named Koku Stanislaus to acquire his property for his operations. When the cocaine base arrived, Juba refined it and sent it on. That’s been going on for some time. Three months ago, some senior citizens of Kara Island – all females over sixty – started a guerilla campaign against him by burning down his operation every time he left for Vincen Island.
The room rumbled with chuckles.
‘Is funny till y’all experience them,’ I said. ‘We could even say that it was the old wimmen of Kara Island who drove the operation to Camaho. Operation was already set up when Juba met his, erm, demise.
‘It also looks to me that Luther Caine and the woman were running against some sort of deadline, the boat wasn’t meant to be in Camaho that long. Two broken engines held them back.
‘I sure of one thing: if the shipment didn’t come from Venezuela – keep in mind that Colombia, Peru and Bolivia produce the stuff, and Colombia just next door to Venezuela – it came through Venezuela and was handled by Venezuelan nationals. Right now, Venezuela is a jumping-off point for smuggling through the Caribbean to the east coast of the USA and across the Atlantic to West Africa and Europe.
‘Miss Tamara, who did some part-time work for the drivers, confirmed the two fellas who controlled the boat spoke Spanish. Besides, I picked up four condom wrappers, branded Manana, at Hellon House. The sticker on the packet was from a store in Caracas named Dia Dia.’
‘How you know that?’ somebody asked.
‘Google,’ I said.
‘Wozzat?’ another voice asked.
‘Google it and find out,’ I said.
Pet laughed out loud.
‘The boat,’ Chilman coughed.
‘What didn’t make sense to me was the destination. A forty-foot catamaran with no more than a windshield to protect the occupants from the weather can’t reach Europe.’
Manus Maine raised a hand. I ignored it.
The Head of the Drugs Squad looked confused. ‘So you work out where they going?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it wasn’t Europe, so . . . ’
I decided to confuse him even more. ‘It was, Sir.’
‘Then they had a ship waiting?’
‘No, Sir.’
I left him with that and went to fetch a cup of water. Chilman looked relaxed and blissful; Pet, as if she wanted to kill me.
‘DC Digson, you going stop the head-game and explain what you saying?’ Manus Maine was jutting a chin at me.
‘Technically, if you dunno it yet, Missa Manus, Martinique is part of Europe. Once you in Martinique or Guadeloupe, you in France. Don’t ask me about the logic, but is so. Martinique is a hundred and fifty miles from Camaho. Why Europe? As a matter of interest they got around five million people across there using up thirty per cent of all the cocaine in the world. And they willing to pay more than twice the price that Americans pay.’
‘Back to the woman, Digger.’ Manus Maine again. ‘You say the boat capsize in Blackwater, foreday morning, so was not bright outside. You say it was raining and it got a lotta rough water all about. How you so sure was a woman you see?’
‘I saw her arm, outstretched, and I made a calculation.’
Manus Maine laughed. Chilman raised a brow at me.
‘Is called osteometry.’
‘Wozzat?’ he said.
‘Google it,’ I said.
‘That’s all?’ Gill wanted to know.
‘Yessir, till we find the bodies. I mean, if we lucky. Anything else? Because I tired.’
Malan left the back of the room, came up to me and dropped a hand on my shoulder. ‘Nice one, Digger.’
‘Same to you,’ I said, and drifted over to Caran’s unit.
‘You two not bad,’ Toya said, nodding at Miss Stanislaus and I.
‘You amazing,’ I said.
‘I know,’ Toya replied, and the fellas beside her nodded as if they were the only true words they’d heard all day.
‘Missa Digger, where you off to now?’ Miss Stanislaus was at my elbow.
Caran’s group stood at ease, looking down at Miss Stanislaus with something close to adoration. She offered a hand to each. The fellas leaned forward with tiny bows and took it. Toya opened her arms, Miss Stanislaus stepped into them and they hugged like they’d been living in the same house for centuries.
Miss Stanislaus nudged me away from the group. ‘We take some breeze this evenin?’
‘I need sleep, Miss Stanislaus. I going home.’
‘So early?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You sure?’
I pretended I didn’t hear her.
67
Like I told Miss Stanislaus, I wasn’t satisfied.
I let myself into the office at midnight and went to the storeroom. I switched on the light and hung there a while, studying the shelf of cartridges and the floor. The last time I came in here at some odd hour in the morning was when Miss Stanislaus had armed herself to shoot down the man who’d usurped her as a child. She had good reason, I decided. I relaid the SWS rifle exactly as I met it – in its usual place. I went to the kitchen area, dried my hands and left.
By 1am I was two-thirds of the way up the western coast. I swerved into the rough dirt road that led to Maran Bay. The sea glittered under a flat white moon. The leaves of the dead seagrape trees that bordered the beach were chattering in a high wind. I approached the little building from the beach – more hut than house, built with rough sea wood. A canvas tarpaulin for a roof, anchored by heavy stones to keep the wind from tearing it off. A row of oil drums along one side of the shack, the curved stem of a standpipe above a galvanised enclosure. On the right side of the construction, partly covered with tarpaulin, the sanded hull of the cigarette boat that Spiderface had been building for as long as I had known him.