‘Just a friend,’ Ben said.
Her look softened a little. ‘Listen, son. Don’t waste your time on that jackass. Bob Drummond’s a gambler and a low-life. He ain’t no-one’s friend.’
CHAPTER NINE
It was already late afternoon, and the sun was beginning its long, slow dive towards the shimmering blue ocean horizon, by the time Ben arrived at the Cayman Islands Charter complex on the far side of the island, an area called West End, near Seven Mile Beach.
Seeing his friend’s place of business brought back the sadness as he parked up in the near-empty car park and walked towards the buildings, following a sign that said VISITOR RECEPTION.
The CIC offices were housed in a long, low, glass-fronted modern building. The little stretch of lawn in front was golf-course perfect. Two palm trees flanked the entrance, waving gently in the breeze.
Behind the office buildings, next to the check-in and boarding areas for charter and inter-island shuttle passengers, stood a cluster of aircraft hangars — not the type that Ben was used to, the massive brutish military hangars capable of swallowing a Hercules troop transport. CIC ran a more modest kind of fleet. A white Britten-Norman Trislander sat parked on the concrete, identical to the one Nick Chapman had been piloting the day of the crash, with CAYMAN ISLAND CHARTER in bold black script across its fuselage. A slightly odd-looking design of aircraft, Ben observed, with the lumpy third engine protruding from the tail-fin housing and overhanging the rear of the fuselage like a scorpion’s tail. Renowned for its practicality as a short-range civilian utility aircraft: quiet, manoeuvrable, economical to run.
But not much fun to die in. Ben ran his eye along its fifty-foot length and tried not to imagine what it must have felt like to be trapped inside it as it plummeted towards the sea.
Parked a few yards behind the Trislander, sitting low off the concrete on its clumsy-looking fixed undercarriage, was an aeroplane that Ben doubted very much had ever been used for CIC operations. He’d seen photographs of the old wartime Sea Otter, but never a real example before. The single-engined flying boat had been manufactured by Supermarine, the makers of the legendary Spitfire fighter, and had been the last biplane ever commissioned by the Royal Air Force. Fewer than three hundred had ever been built. The thing was a relic from a bygone era, still sporting the mounting brackets for its three Vickers machine guns and payload of four 250-pound bombs — and yet it looked completely pristine, repainted in gleaming bright golden yellow. Ben stood admiring it for a moment or two, then turned and walked into the main office building.
The reception area was as deserted as the visitors’ car park. Ben guessed that business couldn’t have been exactly thriving in the last week or so. To the left of the reception desk was a door that said STAFF ONLY. He figured that staff only areas were much better places to learn valuable details than public areas. He pushed it open and found himself in a large, neatly-ordered office. There was nobody here either, but he could sense a familiar presence nonetheless.
The instant he walked in, three things told him this had been Nick Chapman’s office. The first was the neatness. Ben hadn’t met an ex-soldier yet whose daily habits hadn’t been permanently imbued by the discipline of military life. Especially SAS life. The second was the framed photograph of Hilary Chapman sitting on the empty desk surrounded by papers, files, tubs full of pens.
The third was the print that hung on the wall above the empty desk chair. Ben even knew the name of the artist: M.C. Escher, famous for the mind-bending optical illusions that he’d designed into his artwork back in the mid twentieth century. Nick had always been into that kind of stuff, sticking postcards up by his bunk wherever they’d happened to be stationed that wasn’t in the middle of some desert or jungle: a flight of stairs that climbed in an infinite loop without ever getting anywhere; paradoxical structures and impossible realities that seemed to defy logic and tricked the eye into seeing what couldn’t be.
The picture hanging on the wall had been one of Nick’s favourites. It showed a symmetrical circular mosaic-like web of interlocked patterns. If you looked at them one way, what you saw were legions of heavenly white winged angels on a dark background. Cock your head a little to the side, narrow your eyes, change your perspective, and the angels suddenly melted away and the background leapt into focus to become a horde of sinister, bat-like black demons against a field of white. Nick had used to say it helped him remember the line between good and evil. Ben had always remembered that.
Another door swung open at the far end of the office and a woman walked in. She was maybe thirty-six, thirty-seven. Tall and straight, tanned, dark-haired, wearing it in a loose ponytail. She was halfway to the desk and reaching out to pick up a file from a stack when she suddenly registered Ben’s presence in the room and froze, looking at him with wide eyes. ‘Who are you?’
‘I was looking for the manager,’ Ben said.
‘I’m Mrs Martínez, Mr Chapman’s personal assistant. I’m acting manager in his … his absence.’ Her voice was strong but the tightness in her throat threatened to overwhelm it at the mention of his name. She covered her emotion, cleared her throat and added firmly, ‘And you can’t come in here. Maybe you didn’t see the sign that says “staff only”?’
‘There’s nobody in reception.’
She rolled her eyes and tutted. ‘Jennifer. That damn temp’s always on a coffee break. I’ll buzz Rachel. She’ll take your booking.’
‘I’m not interested in making a booking.’
‘Right. You want flying lessons? Then you need to see Phil in the blue building behind the hangar area.’
Ben shook his head. ‘I didn’t come here for lessons either.’
She cocked her head to one side and put her hands on her hips. ‘Then may I ask what it is you do want?’
‘I have some questions about your late employer, Nick Chapman. I won’t take up much of your time.’
The PA let out a sigh. ‘I thought you media people were all gone now. Haven’t you had enough?’
Ben was already tired of playing games. He came straight out with the truth, as simple as he could make it. ‘I’m not a reporter. My name’s Ben Hope. I was a friend of Nick’s and I’ve come here to find out what really happened to him.’
Mrs Martínez flinched noticeably at his words. She narrowed her eyes, looking hard at him, seeming to scrutinise every detail of his face. After a long beat she replied slowly and carefully, ‘If you’d been watching the news, you’d know what happened.’
‘I don’t always believe the news,’ Ben said.
‘Listen, everyone here is very upset. We really don’t want to be pestered right now. The press have been flocking around here like goddamned vultures every day.’
‘Just a couple of questions and I’ll be gone.’
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Nobody here wants to answer any questions. Just go away. Leave me alone, okay?’ She considered a moment, then added, ‘I mean, leave us all alone.’ Before she could stop it, tears had welled up in her eyes and were rolling down her face. She wiped them away.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Ben said. ‘I’m very sorry.’ There was a stack of headed compliment slips on a little stand on the desk next to a computer terminal. He grabbed one and picked up a pen that was lying nearby. ‘This is my number,’ he said, writing. ‘Call me if you change your mind.’
Back out in the reception area was a young blonde in a short skirt whom Ben took to be Jennifer, the temp. She was pretty, with blue eyes and an elfin quality about her. She threw Ben a glance, smiled coyly and busied herself arranging some flowers in a vase as he headed for the exit. He didn’t make a big deal of noticing it, but he was aware of the way she watched him through the glass all the way back to his Jeep, the elfin look gone, replaced with an inscrutable expression that Ben couldn’t quite fathom.