Deadly Deceit (27 page)

“Of course I checked them!” Brad said, defensively. “I don’t understand it.”

“Well, everyone’s safe and sound,” Carrie said, evenly. “So let’s get back before the wind gets any worse.”

“Sorry, Carrie,” Brad said, quietly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She smiled, brightly. “And so is Tom.”

Carrie was the voice of reason, Tom thought. He’d been so glad to see her when she surfaced beside him. “Thanks for coming to my rescue,” he said. “I owe you.”

She touched his arm. “You’d have done the same for me.”

The group was silent on the way back, but Tom’s head was reeling. Had someone deliberately tampered with his tank? He tried to remember the sequence of events back at the Dive Centre. Brad had checked all the tanks. So had Carrie. He’d even checked his own tank before leaving. He was sure there was nothing wrong with it then.

So who else could have had access to it? A couple of local lads at the Centre had loaded the tanks and equipment onto the boat. It was always possible one of them had tampered with it. On the boat, of course, they’d all had access, except for Brad’s local employee who was steering the boat the whole time.

Had it been an attempt on his life, Tom wondered? Why would anyone want to harm him? Maybe it was intended as a warning, to stop him digging into the Governor’s accident and Mrs Pearson’s murder? Whatever the intention, it only made him more determined to dig harder. Most of all, he wanted to help Jess and keep her safe. He was worried though. It was already Friday, and he was supposed to be flying out to Miami on Sunday afternoon.

Why were the British authorities so slow to react? If this were an Australian Territory, the Australian police would be all over it by now. He just hoped to God that when he got back, Jess would tell him the UK police were on their way.

Halfway up the road to the lighthouse, Chuck eased off the accelerator and pointed through his pick-up truck’s windscreen. “That’s Clement’s place.”

Tom screwed up his eyes against the sun’s glare. The first thing he noticed about the house were the two dormer windows jutting out of the tiled roof, like look-outs. They seemed to be a feature of these island houses. Next was the upstairs verandah that circled the house. Its balustrades were painted blue, as were the plantation shutters at each window. The blue stood out against the white-wash on the rest of the house, and resembled the colour of the deep ocean. He shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t want to be reminded of his encounter with the deep. He’d still be down there with that turtle, if he hadn’t been an experienced diver.

He forced himself to concentrate.

This was only the second time Tom had met Chuck, who was a man of few words. Tom didn’t feel the need to chat either, so they got along fine. He checked his watch; the sun was still strong for 4.30. He opened his passenger window wide to let air blow straight through his and Chuck’s windows. It was the only air conditioning on offer.

Tom noticed that Chuck kept checking his driver’s mirror. Was someone following, he wondered? He pulled down his passenger sun visor in the hope of finding a vanity mirror to see the road behind, but there wasn’t one. He said nothing.

He was surprised to see there were no security guards or electronic gates at the front of the house. Apart from a black railing running around its perimeter, the driveway was accessible to everyone. “Why no security for a Government Minister?” he asked.

“Guess Clement thought he didn’t need any.” Chuck checked his mirror again, and drove through a stone archway, into the drive. He pulled up outside a large double garage that was integral to the house, like a basement. He leant over, opened the glove box and pulled out a bunch of keys. “Let’s be quick, Tom. My truck’s recognisable.”

Tom looked at him. “Didn’t you get permission to access the crime scene?”

Chuck shrugged. “Yes and no.” He paused. “
Yes
, in that I said I’d left my sunglasses up here when I attended the crime scene on Wednesday. And
no
in that I didn’t say I was bringin’ you up here to take a look.”

Tom followed Chuck out of the truck, and up some stone steps to the front porch. This time they came across a black metal gate that filled another archway, and barred their way. It was secured with a padlock.

Chuck found the right key from the bunch, and opened it. The gate swung open, and they stepped through onto a patio made of decking. A sudden gust of wind caught the gate, and it clanged shut behind them.

Chuck looked up at the sky. “The wind’s changing direction,” he said, calmly.

Tom looked down at the dead leaves and petals, from the pots of pink bougainvillea, swirling around his feet. No-one had tended the plants for a couple of days. In fact, the house stood neglected and silent, as if waiting for them to unlock its secrets. He felt a strange sense of unease.

Even Chuck tensed up at the front door. Did he expect some invisible force to attack him as he entered? He pushed the door open, and stood back to let Tom go in first.

The house had been shut up, with no air conditioning for a couple of days. The claustrophobic heat was overpowering. So was the unmistakable smell of death.

Once he’d adjusted to it, Tom walked through the hallway and into the main living area. It was a large, open plan, lounge diner. From every direction, the windows looked out over an amazing panoramic view of the island and ocean. “Awesome,” he said.

Chuck nodded and led the way down some steps. Unlocking another door at the bottom, they went through into a dark basement and garage. The smell down here was stronger.

“Lingers, doesn’t it?” Chuck switched on the lights.

The basement and garage formed one huge room that was filled with two cars, gardening equipment, a couple of old tyres, and a small boat already loaded on a trailer with wheels. A fishing net covered the far wall, with a row of fishing rods lined up underneath. A long wooden beam ran the length of the ceiling. It had fish hooks screwed in at certain spots, no doubt for hanging big game fish. “Can we open the garage doors?” Tom asked.

Chuck shook his head. “Might attract attention.”

Tom understood. “Can you tell me what actually happened to Mrs Pearson down here?”

“We’re still waiting for the autopsy report,” Chuck replied. “But it looks like she was killed around midnight on Tuesday. She was found by her daughter the next day, around midday. She’d been phonin’ her mother all mornin’, but couldn’t get a reply. She picked up her young kid from kindergarten at lunchtime, and came straight up here.”

Tom nodded. “So what do forensics think happened? Was it a break-in?”

Chuck shook his head. “There were no signs of forced entry. These garage doors were shut, along with the front door, when her daughter got here. She let herself in with her key.”

“So Mrs Pearson must have let her killer in,” Tom said. “That means she either knew that person, or didn’t see them as a threat.” He paused. “Were any domestic staff working here on Tuesday, or on Wednesday when she was found?”

Chuck shook his head. “The cleaner was off sick. The gardener was off too, his wife’s just had a baby.”

“So someone knew Mrs Pearson was alone?”

Chuck nodded. “Looks like it.”

Tom walked to the far end where the fishing net hung over the wall. He could see a large area close by where the floor had been scrubbed clean. He looked up at the wooden beam above the spot. “Is this where she was strung up?”

Chuck nodded. “Exactly the same spot as poor old Clement.” He swallowed. “He hung himself, you know.”

The
same
spot. That interested Tom. It must be significant in some way. “Was it the slash to her throat that killed Mrs Pearson?” he asked.

Chuck nodded.

“So there’d have been a lot of blood.”

“It wasn’t a pretty sight.” Chuck’s face paled at the memory. “I was sergeant on duty at the station when the first officers on the scene phoned in. I came straight out.” His face looked pained, remembering the scene.

“She was wearing white pyjamas. Her bare feet were tied with rope, and she was strung upside down from the beam up there.”

They both looked up.

“Could one person do that?” Tom asked.

Chuck looked thoughtful. “She was small, but plump. Must have weighed over 60 kilos. So whoever strung her up must have been strong.”

“Or had some help?” Tom added. “Did they leave anything behind? Footprints in the blood, or tyre marks outside the house?”

“Well…” Chuck hesitated. “There was one thing.” He looked up. “A voodoo poppet doll was pinned to the beam up there… next to Mrs Pearson. It had a knife through its throat.”

“A voodoo doll?”

Chuck nodded. “These dolls are a way of castin’ spells on people. A sort of black magic.”

“Was that voodoo doll meant as a curse on Mrs Pearson, and the house?”

“Exactly.”

Tom gave him a sceptical look. “I noticed the mirror in the hallway was turned to the wall. Is that voodoo too?”

“Yep. Mirrors represent doorways to the world of the dead. I guess this means Mrs Pearson was refused entry, and is doomed to wander the earth like a ghost or zombie throughout time.”

“You don’t believe all that mumbo jumbo, do you?” Tom asked.

Chuck looked serious. “Doesn’t matter what I believe or not. Those who practise it do.” He paused. “I’ve been out to the Haitian settlement to interview the cleaner and gardener. They’re both Haitians, and both terrified. Couldn’t get a word out of either of them.” He shrugged. “We get a wall of silence whenever we want to talk about voodoo.”

“Is it still practised much on this island?”

“Yeah, in secret. None of us locals get to see it.”

Tom couldn’t understand why the police didn’t deal with it on a small island like this. “Why don’t you stop it?” he asked. “Ban it altogether?”

Chuck looked at him. “Can you ever ban anything, Tom? It’ll go even deeper underground.”

Tom took the point. As he looked at the beam again in the claustrophobic silence, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He didn’t know Mrs Pearson, hadn’t even seen her. But he’d seen enough murder victims to be able to conjure up the fear on her face, the disbelief as the knife cut into her throat, the pain. He could even hear her cries for help, her screams…

Suddenly, the garage doors rattled in a violent gust of wind.

They both jumped.

Chuck shivered despite the heat. “Let’s get out of here.”

But Tom wasn’t going to be spooked. “This boat,” he said, going over to it. “Can you tell if it’s been out to sea lately?”

Chuck went over and inspected the sides and the trailer. “Hasn’t been out for some time, I’d say.”

Tom pulled the tarpaulin off that covered the open part of the boat. He climbed in and sat down. “Who benefits from Clement and his wife’s deaths?”

“The daughter is their only child now. She inherits everything. But she won’t talk to us, or come up here. Too scared. She thinks she’ll be cursed if she does, and end up like her mother.”

Tom pulled a face. “Not Haitian, is she?”

“Nah. But the whole island’s scared shitless.”

Tom looked around the garage and basement again. The whole place spoke of the sea, of life
on
the sea, of life
from
the sea. The sea was crucial to all this. He was sure of it. He glanced over at Chuck. “I heard Clement Pearson gave evidence to a British Government Inquiry into the sinking of Haitian sloops on the day he… died,” he said. “What can you tell me about that?”

Chuck stepped back. “We need to get out of here now. Let’s talk in the truck on the way to the Government Garage.”

Tom frowned. “Why are we going there?”

“Seems the Governor’s Land Rover was there all along.”

Tom stared at him. “Impossible!”

Chuck nodded. “Come on, let’s go.” He turned on his heels and walked over to the door. He couldn’t wait to get out of the place.

Tom was just getting out of the boat, when he noticed something glittering under the seat in front. He bent forward and picked it up. A little, brass key. It looked identical to the one Jess had found in the Governor’s desk. “Chuck,” he called, excitedly.

But Chuck had already gone.

Tom slipped the key into his trouser pocket, and had a last look around the room before he left. They’ll probably end up bulldozing the place, he thought. No-one on a small island like this would ever want to live here again.

*

Chuck drove at a steady pace back down Lighthouse Road towards town.

Tom could feel his tension. He felt guilty for putting him in the awkward position of helping him. But his detective’s instincts were on overdrive. He needed to get as much information as he could from him while he had the chance.

“Can we talk about that British Government Inquiry into the two Haitian sloops now, Chuck?” He paused. “I understand Clement was the Immigration Minister when they sank. Was he held responsible for what happened in some way? Did that drive him to take his own life?”

Chuck gripped the steering wheel tight. “The Haitians are the problem. They just keep comin’. Waves of ’em. There’s eight million of ’em over there.” He pointed out to sea. “We can’t take ’em all.”

Tom understood. He knew all about illegal immigration. That was the reason he was travelling the globe, to find out how other countries dealt with it. “It’s a big problem everywhere, Chuck.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you process the illegals when they get here?”

“We take ’em over to the detention centre in Provo, then we fly them straight back to Haiti. They’re all economic migrants, looking for a better life. Can’t blame ’em. They’re dirt poor over there.” He paused for breath. “But look at us. We’re just small islands. There are no jobs for ’em, apart from buildin’ hotels and houses. We can’t support thousands of Haitians. No,” he said, firmly. “Straight back, and that’s that.”

That was the frankest exchange Tom had had with anyone on the subject of illegal immigration on all his travels. “So what happened to these two sloops?” he asked.

“Terrible… terrible.” Chuck’s whole frame seemed to tremble. “Grown men weeping as they pulled bodies from the sea. All dead.” He wiped his brow on his arm. “The sharks got some of ’em. Legs missin’, arms. Some even their heads.” He shuddered. “Never seen anythin’ like it.”