Bain nodded and opened a file that lay on the desk in front of him. “We do know that the boat Sweeting Maclean used belonged to Romulus Swain. We’ve sent a sergeant down to the marina, but Swain may be out on charter work. He does a lot of fishing trips for the tourists,” he added unnecessarily. “I’ll check, see if he’s back.”
He picked up the phone and asked for Sergeant Deakin. Francesini watched him speak in short, stabbing sentences to someone.
“Tell him I would like to see him now,” he said and put the phone down.
A couple of minutes later, the sergeant was in his office.
“I spoke to Swain,” Deakin said when asked about the man, “but he wasn’t very cooperative. He said he charters boats out all the time. He’d have to check. He said that often he has clients who just turn up, hand over the cash and take the boat out, no questions asked.”
Francesini curled up inside at the lackadaisical attitude of the police sergeant. But this was the Bahamas and being laid back was almost an act of faith here.
“So what did you do then?” Bain asked.
“Well sir, we left a couple of men there on surveillance. This afternoon two men turned up and took a hired a boat from Swain.”
“And?”
“My men figured they weren’t the usual tourists. Swain went with them. It was late this afternoon and most tourists want their boats early morning. Spot of fishing,” he added unnecessarily.
Francesini wondered if the sergeant was not as dumb as he first thought. “Were your men able to tail them?”
Deakin turned towards him with a surprised look on his face. “They were in a patrol car, so there was no chance. But they contacted Inspector Eustace; he’s the captain of our Freeport gunboat, and asked him to follow Swain, see if he could make contact. They gave the Inspector an estimate of Swain’s heading.” He shrugged and turned back to Bain. “That’s it I’m afraid, sir.”
Bain thanked him and dismissed him. “I’ll contact Inspector Eustace and ask him to get in touch with me immediately he has anything,” he told Francesini.
In the circumstances, it was all they could do, apart from continuing to scour the countryside for Sweeting Maclean and Helen Walsh.
Maclean heard the boat before he saw it. He was sitting in the cockpit of the boat he had hired from Swain giving a lot of thought to how best he could turn the present situation to his own advantage. He knew that the woman was valuable to whoever his employers were, but being a man who always had his eye on the chance to improve his situation financially, he could see no reason why he shouldn’t assume control of the whole operation. Maclean’s biggest problem, not that he realised it, was that he was contemplating suicide.
He lifted his head and picked up the Uzi machine gun in one movement, peering over the side of the boat. Seeing nothing yet, he stood up and clambered over the side, jumping on to the small, makeshift landing stage. He kept his shoulders hunched and ran through the undergrowth with his head bowed until he reached a vantage point. From there he could see across the small creek that flowed into the sea.
As the boat came into view he could see Swain at the wheel. The sight of his friend immediately made him relax and he straightened up. He then sauntered down to the small jetty and waited for the boat to nose its way up the creek. He had no idea why Swain had come out to the island, but he had no reason to be concerned. He stood there quite casually, the Uzi hanging comfortably in his hand.
As it drew closer, he could see two other men on board. He frowned and automatically tightened his grip on the Uzi. One of the men was a colossus of a man. He wore a shirt that almost didn’t fit him and three quarter length boat pants. He dwarfed Swain and the other man with them. He recognised neither of them.
Swain put up his hand in a natural gesture and Maclean could see the grin on his face, his white teeth showing clearly in the evening light. He caught the rope that Swain threw over to him and with his free hand, looped it over a wooden stump. He held it fast as Swain jumped ashore with the aft painter.
When the boat was secure, the two strangers stepped ashore. Swain introduced them to Maclean as Mister Malik and Mister Batista.
“You come to see the girl?” he asked the smaller of the two men who appeared to be the spokesman although he had said nothing yet.
But it was Malik who answered. “How is she?” He had seen the machine gun in Maclean’s hand and his stance was not that of a man who was simply carrying it about as an accessory. Malik decided to show caution. “May we see her?”
Maclean glanced at Swain as if to seek an answer to his unasked question, but whatever it was, he thought better of it and pointed the barrel of the Uzi towards a small path.
“This way,” he said and turned round, letting them go by.
Swain took the lead followed by Batista and Malik. Maclean brought up the rear, his senses still on alert. Eventually the path brought them to a small hut in a clearing, another one of the many retreats that dotted the archipelago; each small island as secluded as the next.
Swain paused by the door, ready to open it. Malik and Batista came up behind him and all of them turned to Maclean. He stood away from them, guardedly and nodded to Swain who opened the door. The sun was low in the evening sky and shadows were beginning to lengthen. They chose not to walk in but to peer inside instead. It was Batista who recoiled in horror. Malik merely turned away with a look of disgust on his face.
Helen was sitting on the dirt floor with her back to the wall. She was covered in grime and dried blood from a patchwork of scratches and bruises that could be clearly seen on her exposed skin. There was a dog’s bowl on the floor beside her which had the remains of something in it. There was no sign of water. Against the far wall of the hut was a bed frame but no mattress on which to sleep. The hut was windowless and, although the evening air was cooling, it was still hot and stifling inside. Helen looked up from where she was sitting but didn’t seem to be aware of them; probably because she could only see Swain, and his presence was unlikely to bring her hope of release. She turned her head away and her chin dropped to her chest.
A smile hovered on Malik’s lips, but in his heart he wanted to tear Maclean apart with his bare hands.
“She is still alive,” he said. “That is good.” He stepped away from the hut and beckoned Maclean to follow. When Maclean drew a little closer to Malik, the big man brought his head closer and dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper.
“She has been good sport for you?” he asked, feigning interest.
Maclean shrugged dismissively. “She’s no good for me. She’s woman of Obeah man.”
Malik arched his eyebrows. “You mean she will tell her man. But she is here. What can she say?”
Maclean tapped his head. “They talk with their minds. They know.”
“But she is a white girl,” Malik pointed out.
Maclean shook his head. “She is Bahamian. That is enough.”
As he said it, Maclean looked in the direction of the hut. It was the moment that Malik had been waiting for. He drove his fist into the side of Maclean’s ribs with such a force that the big, black man’s breath locked in his throat as his rib cage literally folded in on him. He dropped to his knees and the Uzi fell from his grasp.
Malik scooped up the machine gun, pointed the barrel at Maclean’s head and pulled the trigger. Maclean’s head burst open like an exploding melon and he pitched forward without a sound.
Swain came running from the hut the moment he heard the crackling burst of machine gun fire. Malik lifted the barrel aimed it towards him. The bullets flew from the snout of the stuttering gun and tore his chest away. The force of the blast flung him back against the flimsy wooden shack. It collapsed inwards beneath his dead weight and long fingers of rotting roof thatch slipped down and covered his twisted, bloody body.