I chose the chicken liver pâté, which was spectacular, and then the Jamaican curried shrimp, which was hot as hell but delicious.
‘I love their crab cakes,’ Gay said. ‘They make them fresh from local crab caught right here in Morgan’s Harbour.’
‘Is it named after the pirate, Captain Henry Morgan?’ I asked. ‘As in the rum?’
‘Probably,’ she said. ‘But I suspect it’s more for the American tourists than because he ever came here.’
We laughed.
I liked Gay Smith.
Henri and I were offered a lift back to the Coral Stone Club from the restaurant with the governor and his wife in their official limousine.
‘Are you sure it’s allowed?’ I asked.
‘Positive,’ Peter said. ‘But one of you will have to sit in the front. Neither Annabel nor I are allowed to. Protocol. Strange, I know, but there you are.’
I sat up front with the driver, a Cayman Islands policeman in uniform, while Henri was between the Darwins in the back.
‘Do you fancy a nightcap, Jeff?’ Peter asked during the journey. ‘I seem not to have spoken to you much all evening.’
I turned my head, receiving a nod of agreement from Henri.
‘That would be lovely,’ I said.
‘Take us to Government House, please, Christopher,’ Peter said to the driver.
The driver did as he was asked and he soon stopped the car under the canopy in front of the governor’s residence. He was the first out of the car, opening the rear door for Peter and saluting smartly at attention as the governor stood up.
‘Christopher, here, will wait and take you home,’ Peter said.
‘I’m sure we could get a taxi,’ Henri said.
‘We could even walk,’ I said. ‘It’s less than half a mile.’
‘I will wait for you, sir,’ the driver said firmly, putting a stop to our shilly-shallying.
‘Thank you,’ I said to him. ‘We won’t be long.’
‘Take your time, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll be here.’
Peter and Annabel went into the house, and Henri and I followed.
‘Seems like a nice chap,’ I said to Peter, indicating at his driver over my shoulder.
‘All the police here are,’ he said. ‘They mostly have a good relationship with the community.’
‘I’m told there’s not much crime in the islands.’
He sighed. ‘There’s a lot more than I’d like,’ he said. ‘Opportunist burglary is the real menace, but we’ve also had a minor drugs war going on recently between some rival gangs. We like to think we’re clear of that sort of thing, but we’re not.’
How about attempted murder, I thought.
Henri and Annabel had a brandy each, while Peter and I chatted amicably about racing over a couple of glasses of port.
‘I see that Duncan Johnson trained another King George winner,’ Peter said. ‘He seems to have a knack of winning the big races.’
‘Yes, he does have a remarkable record.’ I’d watched the race on my laptop. Bill McKenzie had finished a creditable fourth. ‘Dave Swinton would have probably ridden the winner if he’d still been with us. He rode the horse last time out when it won at Haydock in November.’
‘His death is a huge loss to the sport,’ Peter said. ‘Personally, I am extremely saddened by it. He was so exciting to watch, even when he rode a raw novice over hurdles. He seemed to have a sensitivity for the horses unlike any other jockey. He could easily have gone on to be the champion for many more years, to become one of the super-greats.’
‘I agree,’ I said.
But did I really?
For me, Dave’s superhero reputation had been tarnished somewhat by his greed in demanding extra payments from the owners and trainers, and then his non-disclosure of such payments to the taxman, while maintaining the pathetic excuse that the payments were merely ‘gifts’.
Not that he deserved to be murdered for it.
I wondered if his almost god-like standing with the racing public might take a hit when all the sordid details came out at his inquest, or at the trial of Leslie Morris and son, as they surely would. But I wasn’t about to burst Peter Darwin’s bubble of admiration just yet.
Henri and I finished our drinks and departed, arriving back at our apartment in the back of the governor’s official car, albeit without the Union Jack pennant flying from its pole on the bonnet, as had been the case earlier.
‘Would Your Excellency like to come to bed with me for some rumpy pumpy?’ Henri said in an ultra-posh voice as we went in.
‘I may not be that excellency tonight,’ I said with a nervous laugh. ‘Not after all that booze.’
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ she giggled.
A little while later, she didn’t complain.
I woke again in the middle of the night — the bedside clock showing me it was three thirty.
It was unlike me to suffer so much from jet lag and I wondered if the hyperbaric treatment was somehow to blame.
Or maybe it was just that my inquisitive mind was running on overdrive.
Something that Gay Smith had said over dinner had struck a chord.
I gently eased myself out of bed and went into one of the other bedrooms and closed the door.
I used my mobile to call Faye and Quentin.
‘I thought you’d call us on Christmas Day,’ Faye said with a degree of reprimand in her voice.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was out all day and carelessly didn’t have my phone with me.’ I had decided not to tell her of my diving adventures for fear of unduly worrying her. ‘Did you have a good day?’
‘Quiet,’ she said. ‘In fact, it was just the two of us. Kenneth made a late decision to go to France with a new friend.’
I don’t think she was actually trying to make me feel guilty, even though she had.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘Are you having a nice time?’ she asked.
‘Lovely, thank you,’ I said. I told her all about the private jet and the fabulous apartment.
‘Don’t get ideas you can’t afford,’ she said, ever concerned about my welfare.
‘Yes, Mother.’ We laughed. ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.
Such a simple question with so many unspoken overtones attached.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘A little tired, as always.’ She laughed again. ‘I’ve been using that as my excuse to get Quentin to do all the washing-up.’
We chatted a bit more about what we had both been doing.
‘How’s it all going with Henrietta?’ she asked.
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Very happy.’
‘Quentin was very taken with her.’
I knew. I’d noticed.
‘Is he there? I’d like to have a word with him.’
I waited while she found him.
‘What the hell time is it with you?’ Quentin said as he came on the line.
‘Half past three,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Got a guilty conscience?’
‘Slightly,’ I said. ‘But that’s not why I rang. Do you remember you told me about the man who sold his printing business and didn’t pay the capital gains tax?’
‘Of course. What about it?’
‘How did he claim to be tax resident in the Channel Islands, and why did you think he wasn’t?’
‘He bought a house in Guernsey, and established his residence there, but he then spent too many days in London. He was a fool to think that no one would bother to count.’
‘What’s the limit on days?’ I asked.
‘They’ve introduced a new system, and I’m not sure of the latest rules, but it used to be if someone spent more than one hundred and eighty-three days in the UK during any one year, or more than an average of ninety days per year over the current and previous three years, then they were considered as a tax resident. Those were the rules that applied in the case.’