CHAPTER TEN
Ben headed back down south towards George Town, on the road running parallel to Seven Mile Beach with the sweep of white sands and the spectacular view across the West Bay to his right. Watching the sun sink closer towards the sea and bathe the whole island in a shimmering copper haze, he could understand what had brought his old friend to this idyllic place.
A couple of miles from the Cayman Islands Charter office, a black SUV was parked in a lay-by off a long empty straight. Ben sped past, then saw in his mirror that the black car was indicating to pull out behind him.
Its driver wasn’t hanging about. By the time the vehicle was filling his rear-view mirror, Ben had started paying more attention to it. A Chevy Blazer four-wheel-drive, big and bulky, dark-tinted windows, bull bars and extra driving lamps on the front. It was sticking too close to his tail. He eased off on the gas, letting the Jeep slow to just over fifty, expecting the Blazer to pass him.
It didn’t. Instead it matched his speed, still sticking much too close. Ben slowed the Jeep down to a crawl. The Blazer slowed down too. Ben hit the gas and roared the Jeep up to seventy. The Blazer followed suit, making no attempt to hide the fact that it was deliberately tailing him.
Ben remembered what Drummond’s landlady had said about her tenant taking off with some men in a big black car. Interesting, he thought, and hit the brakes and slewed hard over to the dusty verge.
It probably wasn’t what a detective would have done. But then, Ben didn’t pretend to be a detective.
He climbed out of the Jeep. The Blazer had stopped twenty yards behind, just sitting there. Ben walked up the verge towards it. The vehicle’s black bonnet was filmed over with dust. Behind the tinted windscreen he could see two men in the front seats. Their eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, but they were fixed right on him.
‘Can I help you?’ Ben said, in a tone that wasn’t friendly, wasn’t hostile.
The men kept staring at him. Neither moved until he was just a few feet from the front of the Blazer — then the driver slammed it into drive, pulled aggressively back out into the road and went speeding off in a cloud of dust.
Ben watched it go, then started walking back towards the Jeep.
Definitely interesting.
Ben drove back through the falling dusk to the hotel, showered, opened up his holdall and changed into a fresh black T-shirt and black jeans. He never had been too imaginative when it came to his wardrobe. He slipped his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans, then wandered down to the bar and ordered a steak with a green salad and a glass of red wine. He took his meal outside onto the patio and sat watching the colours of the sunset, listened to the breakers crashing in against the rocks.
All his life, he’d loved the sea. The sound relaxed him, helped him think. Taking the folded postcard from his wallet, he spent a while staring at Nick Chapman’s address near Rum Point. It was time to make another visit, one that Ben’s instincts told him was best kept nocturnal. He took his time over a second glass of wine. By now the ocean was dark, just the distant white crests of the waves visible under the moon.
It was sometime after ten when he went up to his room, grabbed his leather jacket and headed out into the night, twirling the Jeep keys thoughtfully around his finger. The warmth of the day was cooling fast in the ocean breeze, and he shrugged on the jacket, wincing a little at the pull on his stitches.
Ben was still a few yards from the Jeep when the group of men appeared out of the shadows and quickly converged on him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There were four of them, all over six feet, all built on a fairly grand scale — somewhere between eleven and twelve hundred pounds of tattooed muscle and lard ambling up towards him. And judging by the lethal assortment of hardware they’d brought along to play with, it wasn’t to ask the time.
The four stopped, forming a semi-circle cutting Ben off from his Jeep. Nobody spoke. The only sound was the rhythmic meaty thwack as one of them slapped the thick of his aluminium baseball bat against his palm. One of his companions was casually swinging a bolo knife. Maybe fourteen inches of black leaf-shaped blade, just this side of a machete, and Ben guessed every one of those inches was shaving sharp. With a rattling chink-chink, another of the men unravelled a length of heavy steel chain from his fist.
The biggest of the men, standing around six-five in denim and biker boots, seemed to be the leader. In the hierarchy of moronic bruisers, size was always the dominant factor. The survival knife stuck crossways in his belt was some cheap mail-order job with a sawback blade and knuckleduster hilt. His head was shaved and gleaming under the moonlight. A line of tattooed teardrops ran down his cheek from his right eye, disappearing into the thick black beard that hung halfway down his chest, fashioned into twin spikes, rigid with hairspray. Going for the demonic look, Ben guessed.
‘You guys look like you’re auditioning for a part,’ he said. ‘Or did you escape from a freak show somewhere?’
The black beard opened in a grin, showing a glint of a gold tooth. ‘We’re the reception committee, motherfucker,’ he said in a voice that was about half an octave lower than was human.
‘I get it,’ Ben said. ‘You’re what they call the frighteners.’ He smiled. ‘Here to intimidate me.’
‘Smart guy.’
‘I catch on fast. So when does the frightening part begin? I have to be somewhere.’
The baseball bat kept on slap-slapping. The bearded guy fingered the hilt of his survival knife. ‘How do you feel about wiping someone else’s ass, little man?’
‘Excuse me?’ Ben said, genuinely intrigued.
‘See, most folks would find the idea of wiping someone else’s ass is pretty fuckin’ repellent, no?’
The guy waited for Ben to comment. When he realised Ben wasn’t going to, he went on in his bass rumble. ‘Say you had to wipe asses for a livin’, like if you was carin’ for old folks or somethin’. Sure, to start with, every time you had to wipe an ass you’d feel like pukin’ afterwards. Or maybe even while you was doin’ it. But after a while, you’d get used to that shit. Then wipin’ some old fucker’s ass wouldn’t seem like nuthin’. You could wipe a hundred asses before breakfast. Now, see the point I’m makin’ …’
Ben had been waiting for the point.
‘The point I’m makin’ is that in my line of work, it ain’t wipin’ asses. It’s spillin’ blood. You get me? And I’ve been doin’ this shit so long I can’t even remember a time when spatterin’ some fucker’s blood all over the sidewalk made me feel one way or the other. This is what I do. You hear what I’m sayin’, motherfucker? Talking about you. You’re gonna get fucked up permanent, right here, right now.’
Ben’s hand went slowly to his jeans pocket. He took out his cigarettes and lighter. Clanged open his Zippo and lit up. Through a cloud of smoke he said, ‘Well, Beard, that was a pretty good speech. You certainly have a gift for metaphor. Out of curiosity, did you have to look up the word “repellent”?’
Beard’s cocky grin twisted into a scowl and he slipped his fingers inside the knuckleduster hilt of his knife. The slap-slapping behind him stopped.
‘Listen to this asshole,’ muttered the one with the chain.
‘I don’t get to hear speeches like that very often,’ Ben said. ‘In my line of work we don’t generally have time for them.’
‘Your line of work,’ Beard repeated, just a little uncertainly. The grin returned, but there was a touch of nervousness to it now.