Clear Skies

by A. M. Murray

  When Mason had departed for Seattle, Slade had left Deacon’s office and gone directly to Dulles airport. He had reached Tortola by ferry from St. Thomas in the neighboring US Virgin Islands, where his flight had landed one hour and forty minutes earlier. He’d missed a high-speed ferry commuting from St. Thomas directly to Road Town and had to settle for a multi-stop trip to the less convenient destination of Tortola’s West End. At least, it gave him time to chill out and take in the scenic views.

  Slade knew that legendary pirates like Blackbeard, Black Sam Bellamy, and Captain William Kidd had made the profusion of sheltered inlets of the Virgin Islands their operating base. They’d worked the seas and robbed merchantmen transporting wealth to and from sugar plantations and fleets loaded with treasure during the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries.

  Although anxious about time lost given the urgency and purpose of his visit, Slade relished the trip through their former territory. He toyed with the idea of returning one day with Isa to explore the region and delve deeper into its fascinating history.

  When he eventually arrived at Tortola’s West End, he endured more delays in the immigration check, conducted on what appeared to be island time. Even his cab from West End to Road Town traveled at low speed, and Slade felt he’d entered a parallel universe where time was interrupted and life ran its course in ultra-slow motion.

  The feeling was reinforced when his cab reached Road Town. Slade gazed out the window, taking in the carefree residents chatting in front of the city’s pristine buildings and strolling the streets. It was a place of languorous days defined by the leisurely pursuits of the local inhabitants.

  Street vendors plied the sidewalks selling local trinkets to young tourists. He saw plenty of souvenir shops, low-key clubs, and holidaying surfers and beach lovers, but few well-heeled tourists and businessmen notching up the pace of life. He reflected on the city’s reputation as an offshore financial haven with over four hundred thousand international companies registered there. Don’t any of these super-rich folks come to check on their money minders?

  “Is it always this quiet?” he asked the driver.

  “Usually,” the driver said. “Except most Wednesdays.”

  “What happens on Wednesdays?”

  “That’s when cruise ships arrive at this time of year and the island’s crazy for a day,” the driver said. “But it’s when we make most of our money, man.”

  Thankful that today was not Wednesday, Slade arrived at his first stop, the morgue in Peebles Hospital, where he would meet the local police officer in charge of the case and gain access to the body.

  He was embarrassed by his late arrival for the appointment. “Wait for me here. I have a couple more stops after this.” The cab driver put his seat back and stretched out.

  Slade stepped onto the street and gazed at the sea. If one ignored the tropical vegetation and the island’s charismatic architecture, reflecting its Dutch and British rather than France’s Belle Époque heritage, Road Town looked to him like a microcosmic rural version of Monte Carlo. Commercial buildings, hotels, and homes clung to the slope bordering the bay, with its marina and vivid blue water stretching out as far as he could see.

  His phone buzzed, jolting him back to the purpose of his visit. It was Deacon, who brought him up to speed on Mason’s findings.

  “Now it makes sense. Two women with identical DNA, born at different times on opposite sides of the US, and raised in ignorance of the other’s existence,” Slade said. “It explains why Abe didn’t find any traces of plastic surgery on the victim’s face and neck.”

  He ended the call and looked up when the front door of the building swung open. A burly, middle-aged local man in a police uniform strode toward him.

  “Mr. Slade. I am Detective-Inspector Orlando Penn, in charge of the murder you have come all this way to investigate,” he said with the unmistakable accent of the Caribbean. He beamed at Slade and extended his hand for an enthusiastic handshake. “You are late. But not to worry. We locals always allow thirty minutes to an hour after the appointed time for arrivals of our visitors from the US. Most seem to seriously underestimate the time it takes to reach us if you fail to get your connections right.”

  “I do apologize.” Slade responded firmly to Penn’s assertive grip. “You’re right. I should have checked the ferry schedule in more detail before I left Washington. But in my defense, I did leave in a hurry.”

  “Never mind that now. Our medical examiner is expecting you. Let us go and see the body, shall we?”

  CHAPTER 42

  (Tuesday Afternoon— Road Town, BVI)

  Detective-Inspector Penn charged along numerous dimly lit corridors to the morgue, and despite the man’s large size, Slade had difficulty matching his pace.

  The corpse lay on a central slab, and her body told an ugly tale. A quick glance sufficed to tell Slade she’d been severely beaten, probably raped, and left dead or dying.

  A small table stood close to the slab. Two chairs, a two-thirds-empty plate of scones, a pot of tea, three cups—two with traces of tea leaves—and a pack of cards spread over the table were bizarre indications of how Detective-Inspector Penn and the medical examiner passed time beside the corpse while they’d waited for Slade to arrive.

  “My medical examiner, Dr. Neil Stoutt.” Penn nodded at a tall, bespectacled man wearing a white coat. “Can I offer you a cup of tea and one of Mrs. Stoutt’s delicious scones?”

  “Thank you. I would appreciate it.” Slade suspected that refusing their hospitality would add to the disrespect of his late arrival. Penn had forgiven Slade for the inconvenient wait yet drawn attention to it within five seconds of meeting.

  Penn poured tea with his right hand and pointed to the dead woman with his left. “Please observe the victim at close quarters.”

  The body had the same effect on Slade as Carol Palmer’s corpse in Tokyo. Her beauty and porcelain-like skin were astonishing, even allowing for the extensive trauma to her face. He noticed her manicure immediately. Now ragged and torn in the struggle for her life, her nails were still coated with silver polish, and a few remnants of embedded diamond chips had survived the attack. Fortunately, her neck had largely escaped injury, and Slade could see a mole on the left side. He asked the medical examiner to clean away congealed blood and tissue from her left earlobe and saw an unmistakable birth defect, fitting Isa’s description of Chloe’s ear.

  “The victim is without a doubt Chloe Harris, who entered your country using the passport of her dead sister, Mrs. Carol Palmer. I met and interviewed this woman in Monte Carlo just two days ago,” he said.

  Slade had expected the victim to be Harris but was surprised that Ashton had disposed of a key asset in such a callous manner. Apparently, she’d not featured as part of his future plans.

  Slade looked at the medical examiner. “Have you determined the cause of death?”

  “It does not take an expert to know she died from acute head trauma.” Stoutt rolled the body and pointed to the injury. “The shape of the wound sustained at the most sensitive part of her head in this posterodorsal position is consistent with a single targeted blow, delivered with considerable force, I would say, by the butt of a rifle. Her vertebral artery ruptured, and death from internal bleeding would have been instantaneous.”

  Stoutt lay the corpse flat again and pointed at her face. “The assailant struck her here several times, and these wounds suggest he used mirror-image metal objects, perhaps kicking her with steel-toed shoes. The facial damage caused disfiguration, which was probably his intention. It was an especially feral act because the blood splatter fell in perfectly round drops at the crime scene, indicating the victim was lying still, probably already dead. So I would say her face was repeatedly kicked after death caused by the initial posterodorsal head injury.

  “She was also raped brutally before death. You can see severe trauma of her vaginal area, possibly caused by sadistic insertion of a metal object,” he said with the detach
ment of his profession. “If I were a psychologist, I’d be inclined to call this a hate crime.”

  Penn poured himself another cup of tea and looked at Slade, his gaze intense. “We believe she wandered into the less salubrious part of town where her beauty and valuables attracted the attention of a local roughneck, who raped and robbed her, unintentionally killing her in the process. There was no cash in her purse, and you can see bruising on the fingers of both hands possibly caused by the assailant pulling off her rings.”

  “I disagree,” Slade said. “From what we know of her background, this was more likely a deliberate killing made to look like a local attack. We think Harris’s traveling companion wanted her out of the way to avoid sharing a large sum of money, and your island happened to be a convenient place to do it.”

  Slade’s eyes remained focused on the body stretched out on the slab.

  “Do roughnecks in Road Town usually carry a rifle?” he asked Penn. “The head wound tells us the killer carried one and no doubt would have preferred to shoot her but didn’t want anyone to hear the shot and call the police. The single blow that killed her outright was delivered by a trained professional who knew what he was doing. There was nothing unintentional about this. An untrained local roughneck hell-bent on rape and robbery would have hit her several times before he inadvertently killed her. And do your local troublemakers wear steel-toed shoes? From what I’ve seen, most people here wear plastic flip-flops. I can’t see any reason for a local perp to disfigure her face like this. The trauma is extensive but not sufficient to have killed her.”

  Slade paused for effect. “Not unless he wanted to delay her identification and allow enough time for the man who commissioned the hit and the killer he employed to leave your island and avoid questioning. To me, the ruthless efficiency and needless violence of the attack, combined with the savage nature of the rape, bears all the hallmarks of a professional hit, possibly by an Eastern European assassin.”

  “Mr. Slade, while I am delighted to hear you do not believe any of our people committed this heinous crime, I hope you’ll understand that we do not want news of this death leaked to the press. So far, we’ve been able to keep it away from public scrutiny.”

  Penn studied Slade for a moment, trying to assess him. He moved closer and stared at him with a fierce intensity.

  “Tortola and Road Town, in particular, have a remarkably low crime rate, with no more than two or three murders a year. Yes, we have drug smugglers and dealers and a few robberies, but we pride ourselves on a superb level of public safety in our town. This is necessary for our tourist trade and to keep the confidence of overseas investors who depend on our banking system, which, I am perfectly sure you know, are our primary sources of revenue.”

  Penn drew himself even closer to Slade. “If reports of a brutal contract killing are splashed across the newspapers, it could have a devastating effect on our reputation and businesses. On behalf of the good people of Road Town, I rely on your absolute discretion, Mr. Slade.”

  “I have no intention of allowing this crime to become public news,” Slade said. “I can’t tell you why I’m here because this incident is connected to a serious breach of US national security and is highly confidential. But you can rest assured there will be no leak from our side.”

  “That is a relief. Can we dispose of the body and seal the records?”

  “Not just yet. I’ve made a positive identification, but I must ask you to retain the corpse until further notice.”

  “Of course. Anything within reason to cooperate with your authorities, Mr. Slade.”

  “And our law enforcement and security agencies will appreciate that cooperation.” Slade paused for emphasis before changing the subject. “Since we are talking about cooperation, I understand your air traffic management authorities have been trying to determine the destination of a private jet that departed from Beef Island airport early this morning. As you know, it carried a passenger posing as Richard Palmer. I believe that man commissioned the killing of Chloe Harris. Have they had any success?”

  Penn scratched the side of his face and said, “I’m afraid not. Our people have done their best, but unfortunately, the whereabouts of that particular plane remains unknown.”

  Slade reflected that Penn’s people were unlikely to have checked with full diligence once the aircraft left BVI airspace.

  “But we do know the make and model of the aircraft, a G550 Gulfstream, and how much fuel it took on before it departed,” Penn said with a degree of pride. “We estimate it has a maximum flight distance of 7,800 geographic miles, which should help to identify potential destinations if it flew direct.”

  7,800 miles in every direction of the compass. Ashton could have traveled to almost any location, yet the characteristics of Harris’s killing pointed Slade in the direction of certain Eastern European countries, which would fall comfortably within that distance. But Slade would need more than just his insistent sixth sense to direct him to the right one.

  CHAPTER 43

  (Tuesday Afternoon— Road Town, BVI)

  Detective-Inspector Penn strolled with Slade to the waiting cab and opened the passenger door. The driver scrambled to an upright position.

  “Can I assume, Mr. Slade, that you will now leave Road Town and our island?” Penn leaned in with a forceful edge to his tone.

  “Not yet. I’m going from here to get information from the director of the real Richard and Carol Palmer’s company registered here in Road Town. He runs a business services firm called BVI Management Associates. Do you know him?”

  Penn stiffened. “I do. Mr. Peter Woodcock is one of our most respected citizens. In fact, he regularly donates to the charities championed by our police force. Naturally, there will be no problem if the director agrees to divulge the information you want, but if he does not, you will have to request a warrant.”

  He stepped back from the car and drew himself up to full height.

  “And I can assure you the commissioner will not allow any such request to be submitted to our judicial system. We pride ourselves on the discretion of our financial service providers. Anything less would discourage our offshore investors and, at the risk of repeating myself, that is the last thing we want here.”

  “If I need a warrant, I’ll submit a convincing argument for your commissioner,” Slade said, anxious to get moving.

  “I’m afraid he is out of the country at the moment attending a regional conference, and you will have to submit your request to the acting commissioner,” Penn said. “And that would be me, Mr. Slade, and I can promise you I will not issue a warrant. Let us hope Mr. Woodcock is willing to disclose the information you need. Goodbye, Mr. Slade.”

  He saluted Slade when the cab drove off in the direction of BVI Management Associates, whose president served as the nominated local managing director of Palmer’s BVI-registered company, Palmer Consultants. And thanks to Detective Inspector Penn, Slade now knew his name.

  The cab pulled up in front of a three-story timber building squatting on a hilltop with vacant lots on either side in the city’s seedier outskirts. Indifferent construction had given the building a less-than-average jumpstart, and twenty years on, it would not be long before a developer’s bulldozer would knock it down and improve the area by giving it one less eyesore.

  A wooden staircase at the front of the structure led to BVI Management Associates, located on the third floor. A motorbike sales office and showroom occupied the first floor, with ten bikes displayed in the building’s parking area next to a late-model Mercedes-Benz parked at the foot of the stairs.

  The day had slipped into late afternoon, and employees of the sales office were shifting the display bikes back into the building. The cab stopped on the opposite side of the street under the umbrella-like overhang of a large tree as old as the island itself, its roots grasping deep and wide into the rocky soil.

  Before visiting Woodcock’s office, Slade skirted the periphery of the property to familiarize hims
elf with strategic entry and exit points, should the need arise for a rapid departure or a black-bag job to gain access later that night. The building was a small, shallow structure and, in his estimation, the premises of BVI Management Associates consisted of a single room with a toilet. Windows at the back faced a densely forested area. The layout afforded a pleasant view for office workers, unless they looked straight down to a line of dumpsters filled with trash, most of it organic and rotting, between the building and the edge of the natural vegetation.

  Slade returned to the front of the building and climbed the stairs to the third floor. He could not see through the opaque window glass but heard movement inside. He knocked and entered the room before the occupant had time to lock the door and refuse to meet him.

  A tall, balding Caucasian male in his late fifties or early sixties stood behind a desk. His trim, toned physique suggested a punctilious regime of daily exercise. The man’s bespoke suit, top-end watch, gold cufflinks, and manicured fingernails told Slade that despite his low-key office in a shabby building, he fitted Penn’s description of a well-respected, wealthy corporate figure.

  “Mr. Woodcock? Mr. Peter Woodcock?” Slade asked.

  “Yes, I am he. I don’t believe you have an appointment,” Woodcock said with a touch of belligerence and an educated British accent clipped, Slade thought, by years of living in the Caribbean.

  Well-worn linoleum covered the floor of the dingy office, and ten tall steel filing cabinets, labeled with most letters of the alphabet, lined the room’s two side walls. A large metal desk sat in front of two large windows framing the forest he’d seen before entering the office. Its surface was orderly, with a closed old-model laptop computer, a printer that was switched off, and a copy of the Financial Times spread out in front of the chair. Slade did not see any working documents, and the trash basket was empty. He looked at the cabinet drawer labeled “P.” It was not fully shut. Woodcock had filed papers there recently, most likely under Palmer.