Bain nodded. “Bent too.”
“What about this Maclean guy, is he a witchdoctor?”
Bain laughed. “Maclean an Obeah man? No, an Obeah man would not have got himself involved in kidnapping; too many other willing hands to do the work.”
“Like Maclean,” Francesini observed.
“Exactly!” Bain replied. “Just like Maclean.”
“So what will you do now?” he asked.
Bain almost shrugged. “We really have to let him show his hand. Perhaps lead us to where he is hiding Mrs. Walsh. If he has her of course: we’ve no proof yet.”
“Will you let me know once you have something positive, Inspector?”
Bain agreed. “Yes, as soon as we know, I’ll let you know.” He picked up Francesini’s business card and put it into a desk drawer.
“As soon as we can.” Then he picked up the folder he had been given by Mancini’s widow and handed it to Francesini.
“Here, you’d better take this.”
Francesini took it from him. “I’ll be in touch,” he promised. He was about to leave when Bain stopped him. “You haven’t finished your tea.”
Francesini smiled a broad smile. “Thanks Inspector, but no thanks; I never touch the stuff.”
Bain laughed out loud and stood up. He reached over the desk and shook Francesini by the hand. For all the presumption of the American, he decided he couldn’t help liking the man. He waited until Francesini had left his office and then opened the file the young policeman had brought in and began reading about Sweeting Maclean.
When Helen woke up, her mind held back reality for a brief moment and she could not remember where she was. A grey light filtered into the room and washed over the shapes, distorting them and making it difficult for her to recognise anything. Her side ached abominably where she had lain on the hard, concrete floor and she eased herself up in to a sitting position.
Then slowly, the horror of what had happened to her began drifting into her mind, filling in the edges and supplanting the vagaries of her first conscious thoughts. And as Helen recalled those moments of the previous day and night, so she began to feel the timbre of apprehension and fear.
As a result of lying on the hard floor the aches and pains began to surface as consciousness returned. Her side was numb and elsewhere she could feel stiffness and pain. She moved to one side, turning on to her knees and then stood upright. Then she remembered that something in the room had scared the hell out of her the night before, and the awful smell that seemed to seep into every pore of her body.
She scanned the room with her eyes only, not moving her head or the rest of her body, trying to identify the shapes that were beginning to take on a life as the light brightened, seeping in through the cracks in the door and through two very small, dirty windows. There was a table and a couple of chairs in the room, some cages and small boxes. She turned round, looking behind her and saw more cages. Some were hanging precariously from the walls.
She looked round for the door and moved towards it, placing each foot carefully in front of the other, edging towards the door until she could lean her back up against it, and watched the dawn lift the grey curtain and bring light into her strange prison.
It wasn’t long before Helen was able to discern some movement in the cages. There were animals in them but she was unable to see what kind and she continued to watch with a mixture of fascination and fear. Then the truth came to her and she realised she was almost certainly in a place belonging to an Obeah man.
In the normal world outside, Helen had no reason to believe in or fear the witchcraft of the islands, but she understood the mortal dread it could instil into native Bahamians. Helen was Bahamian too, but she was white and considered her European origins to be a sufficient defence against the voodoo magic. But now she was surrounded by it and felt threatened.
The light from outside was brightening through the two small windows which were set high in opposite walls. They were not barred but hanging beneath them were more cages containing rats and lizards. She could hear snuffling noises made by the rats. Helen had thought briefly about pushing the few sticks of furniture up against the wall and trying to get out through the one of the windows. But the thought of those rats and lizards made her flesh crawl.
As the light improved she could see brightly coloured masks hanging from hooks on the walls. Their distorted faces stared at her and seemed to mock her. There were chanting sticks and costumes, vicious looking knobkerries and several animal skins. She could see dead chicken carcasses bloated with maggots and could hear the buzz of flies. One wall was splattered with blood above a wooden butcher’s table and huge cockroaches scurried leisurely over the blood and dead flesh. A meat axe had been driven into the wooden top, its blade stained black with dried blood.
She looked away and saw something scurry along the wall against the floor, its black fur shining wet. She closed her eyes and felt the sting of tears. Her skin began to prickle as if a thousand needles were jabbing at her. The noise of the buzzing flies seemed to grow with an added intensity as they moved over the carcasses and the blood.
Finally the awful smell of decay and animal excreta, violence and death tore into her nostrils until she could stand it no longer. She flung herself at the door, tearing and beating at it, begging to be let out.
Sweeting Maclean could hear Helen’s screams as he ambled across the yard to the hut where he had thrown her the night before. There was no hurry in his leisurely pace; he felt good and he knew he was going to make a lot of money out of this one.
He reached the door, unlocked it and pulled it open. Helen literally fell into his arms screaming and sobbing. She pushed herself away suddenly when she realised whose arms she was in. Maclean smiled and grabbed a handful of Helen’s hair. He twisted it spitefully, bringing her to her knees. Then he back heeled the door shut and brought his face close to Helen’s.
“You be a good girl missy and I won’t hurt you.”
Helen’s face was drawn back in pain. “Oh please, “she cried, “you’re hurting me.”
Maclean pulled her to her feet and loosened his grip on her hair. “We’re going into the house now missy; got to keep you clean and fed.” He pushed her forward, still holding on to her hair and led her over the rough ground to the house.
Sweeting’s place, if indeed it was his, was little more than a single story dwelling, badly in need of a coat of paint and some tender, loving care. But in its location, fairly remote from what Helen could see, it was unlikely to attract more than just a cursory glance from the man who was now propelling her towards it.
Once inside, Helen was allowed to use the bathroom. Maclean told her she had thirty minutes. There was nothing inside the bathroom that Helen could have used to help her escape. As soon as she realised this, she used the time to luxuriate beneath a hot shower and wash the stench and feel of the hut from her body, and tried to forget the pain and torment she had been subjected to.
Maclean gave her breakfast after that. It was cold but Helen was starving and enjoyed every morsel. She noticed that her kidnapper kept looking at her. It troubled Helen because she knew exactly what was going through his mind. She tried, not very successfully to ignore his lustful stares and enjoy the frugal meal he had put before her.
While she ate, she kept wondering in the back of her mind where the other kidnapper was and what they planned to do with her. She decided there was nobody else in the house, so she tried talking to Maclean, but he said very little. What did bother Helen as well was the way in which he kept smiling at her.
When Helen had finished eating, Maclean took her into a bedroom.
“You got a choice missy,” he said, once they were in there. “You be good and you can stay in here. You be bad and you go back there.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Helen knew where he meant; he didn’t have to be specific.