Kerrin and Dana owed a lot to his sister and her husband. After their accident, they had spent several months at Martin's house in Florida. Their nephew and niece had helped to take their minds off themselves, and Elizabeth had been a tower of strength. Without her, Kerrin didn't know how he would have got through it all.
After the accident Kerrin needed to spend more time with Dana, and it was obvious he couldn't carry on being a cop in Miami: it was too dangerous, the hours were too long, and Dana worried too much. Now she depended upon him, he could no longer take risks with his own life. He needed to be there for her. To look after her. It was Martin who suggested the job at the Washington Post, and he had pulled a few strings on Kerrin's behalf to help get him the interview.
It was tough making the move to Washington, but the job at The Washington Post, in theory, should have been quite interesting. "Being an investigative journalist," he was promised, "is an exciting job. With your background, you'll do great!"
Well, so far, it wasn't working out as exciting as he had hoped for. Too much 'desk' and not enough 'action'.
Still, he owed a lot to Martin and Kerrin was grateful. Unfortunately, he had never really got to know Martin well and now he was dead, Kerrin wished he had made more of an effort to talk to the man his sister had chosen to marry.
Martin was an intellectual. Never really got emotional, or showed that he was upset. A straight talker, independent and strong, he didn't exaggerate, and always called it like it was. If Martin had told Elizabeth that he had needed Kerrin's help, and that 'it was important', then Kerrin knew that it had to be something big.
It was the first time Martin had asked Kerrin for anything, and dead or not, Kerrin still owed it to him to find out what had happened.
He had decided to stay on in Nassau another two days, wanting to spend more time with the authorities and hoping to gain some information, or a few leads to go on.
He had already placed a call to his boss on the newspaper in Washington and had managed to persuade him into financing his trip to the Bahamas. He had been working at the Washington Post for just over five years now, and although he wasn't the best writer or journalist on the newspaper, he was pretty high up there in the ranking of upcoming stars. So far he hadn't come across any Watergate exposés or Iran-Contra affairs, but there had been the Albuquerque Housing Scandal, and the Wright Fund Fraud. They had both been his. It was only a few years, Kerrin reckoned, before he got his own column.
"Listen Paul," he told his boss on the phone earlier. "I can't guarantee anything, but I think I'm onto something. A group of top researchers working for a genetics company, officially lose their jobs and then all commit suicide in the space of one week. And then last night, the last surviving member is trying to escape to the Bahamas, when his plane mysteriously disappears."
"What do you mean 'escape'?" Paul replied. Kerrin could hear the tell-tale sounds of his boss pushing back his chair, and putting his feet up on his office desk. He had taken the bait.
"An inside contact told me he was trying to get abroad as soon as possible before he was found dead just like the others. He didn't want to become another suicide. I was meant to meet him here, then the next thing you know, his plane vanishes."
"Could be coincidence?"
"Could be, but unlikely. With your permission I want to sniff around a bit and see where it takes me?"
There had been a moment’s pause. 'Sniff around' invariably meant 'expense account' and things had become tight at the newspaper recently. Sales were down.
"Okay, Kerrin. Okay. But you're not one of the big time front page guys yet, so go easy on the cash. No five star hotels. Call me in a few days and let me know what you get. In the meantime, I'll give your other work to Ed Harper. Any problem with that?"
"None. Ed's a good guy." Kerrin replied, trying to hide his feelings towards the new man on the paper. Ed was hungry just like Kerrin was, and if he was completely truthful, Kerrin was jealous of him.
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He closed the balcony window and stepped back into the bedroom, pausing to look at himself in the full-length mirror hanging on the wardrobe door.
The job at The Washington Post didn't really give him the chance for much exercise. In the past three years, he had really begun to put on weight, and now he looked in the mirror he realized just how much it had begun to show.
He was no longer the young man he used to be. He was only thirty eight, but he looked it. He was tall, just short of six foot, broad-shouldered and still quite muscular. Last time he had checked he was 178 pounds. When he had been on the force, he had an amazing six pack, was well toned, fit, and the girls loved him. Kerrin knew that it was his looks that had first attracted Dana to him the night they met at the Police Ball. Unfortunately, now that he was stuck behind a desk at The Post most of the time, the extra pounds had begun to roll themselves too easily into what his English friends would call a 'beer-belly', and what Elizabeth called his 'one-pack'.
Thankfully, it wasn't too late to save his figure. A bit of exercise and Kerrin would be able to get back the body he used to have.
"I need to go to the gym!" he promised himself. "…Just as soon as I finish this story."
He had been promising himself that for the past five years, but had never got round to it. Once he had even paid the membership fees and joined a local health club. Although he never went once, the mere act of joining made him feel better for a month, and he told all of his friends how much healthier he was going to become…then the excuse wore off, and he just never seemed to mention it again.
Luckily, while many of his friends had long ago lost most of their hair, Kerrin still had a full head of brown locks, which were perfectly coordinated with his dark brown eyes.
All in all, in spite of his 'beer' belly, Kerrin was a good looking man. But his best feature was his fantastic smile. When Kerrin smiled at someone, the other person had no choice but to smile back. It was unfair, but people couldn't help but like him. He made them feel happy. A useful skill which helped whenever he was chasing a story and Kerrin was trying to befriend people and encourage them to divulge information.
Hopefully the smile would work its magic in the next few days.
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That morning he made no progress in coaxing more information from the airport authorities, so he decided to take a drive up the coast to the north part of the island, and to talk to the captains of the boats that had found the plane wreckage. Maybe there would be a clue there. If nothing else, it would be a pleasant drive, and it would give him the chance to plan what he would do when he returned to the States.
Chapter 4
Wharf Tavern
Paradise Island
Bahamas
By the time he hit the road, it was almost eleven o'clock, and already the heat was becoming uncomfortable. How could anyone live without air conditioning? Pulling out of the hotel and heading west, he crossed the bridge that connected New Providence Island to the smaller Paradise Island.
The road to the north side of the tiny Paradise Island ran along the edge of the sea, through many of the resorts where the tourists flocked to from all over the world. Names like 'Paradise Resort', 'Smugglers Haven' and 'Golden Sands Marina' passed by, large pictures of the complexes inside appearing on enormous billboards beside the road. In between the buildings and tall roadside vegetation, once or twice Kerrin got a quick flash of a beach, palm trees swaying gently over snowy white sands, people drinking cocktails and paddling lazily through the inviting turquoise sea.
In spite of the melancholy that he had woken up with, he began to feel slightly better, and by the time he was nearing his destination, he was in a much sunnier mood.
'The Wharf Tavern' was tucked away at the back of the main harbor that serviced the north side of the island. It was here that the police had told him he would be most likely to find either of the two captains from the boats that had found the wreckage of the Lear jet.
> 'The Sea Dancer' and the 'Highland Glen' were the two ships that had assisted the coast guard in the sea search and, although all the wreckage had been shipped to the main police station in Nassau for closer examination and possible forensics, Kerrin was hoping that chatting to the crew members would throw a little more light on what had happened.
The barmaids were just clearing up from serving lunch when Kerrin walked in the door, finding about twenty people dotted around the interior of the bar.
It took a moment for Kerrin's eyesight to adjust to the dim interior from the bright sunshine outside, and as he stood in the doorway, he could feel the eyes of the locals scanning him up and down, wondering who the new stranger in town was.
It was that sort of bar. Everyone knew each other, and if they didn’t know you, you were either trouble, or not worth knowing.
"Hello, what can I get you?" the barman asked, leaning with two heavy hands against the side of the bar, a white towel hanging over his shoulder like some theatrical prop, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a large colorful tattoo proudly displayed on his right forearm. His big, fluffy grey moustache bristled as he spoke.
"One of your very best cold beers please. And if you have any sandwiches, that would be great too?" Kerrin replied, plopping himself down on one of the tall bar stools running along the edge of the bar.
"New in town?" the barman asked, immediately probing for information. Obviously the local oracle, the man who made everybody's business his own.
"Yeah… I was hoping to find the Captains of the Sea Dancer and the Highland Glen?"
"Ah, anything to do with the airplane that went down the other day?" the barman asked, putting down a large frost covered glass full of blonde beer.
"That's the one. Any idea where I can find them?"
"Sure, about a hundred and fifty miles out on the Dardenal Banks, probably drift netting by now. They left early yesterday."
Kerrin had not reckoned with the fact that they might not be there. It had not occurred to him that the fishermen might actually be out fishing.
"Any idea when they will be back?" he asked, the disappointment showing in his voice.
"Probably sometime next week, depending upon the weather…or their luck, but normally they're away for a week. They're both part of the Dawson Fleet. Big boats. Can stay out for up to a month if they need to."
"Just my luck." Kerrin picked up the large beer, wiping some of the condensation off the side of the cold glass, before taking a long drink. "Ahhh…nothing better on a hot day like this."
The barman left to serve another customer, then returned a few minutes later with a large ham sandwich, garnished with salad and a succulent green pickle.
As Kerrin fought with the sandwich, trying to pick it up with his two hands without the contents spilling out all over the counter, the barman looked him up and down, playing with the edge of his moustache, twirling it back and forth between his fingers, before coming to some sort of decision.
"Of course, you could try talking to Old Ben over there. His ship was out there too. He might be able to tell you something." The barman volunteered, pointing to the far corner of the bar, to a man probably in his early seventies, reading the paper and smoking a pipe.
Kerrin finished his sandwich and ordered two more beers, picking them up and taking them over to the table Old Ben occupied in the corner.
"Mind if I join you?" Kerrin asked, offering the beer to the old mariner. He looked up at Kerrin, his rugged face ridden with lines from years of exposure to the elements and all that the sea could throw at him.
"It's a free world. Do as you please."
Kerrin sat down opposite the man, studying him quickly and noticing that the tips of two fingers on his left hand were missing.
"I hear you were out at sea when the plane went down the other day?"
The old man's eyes brightened slightly, and he reached for the beer in front of him.
"Took your time, didn't you?"
"What do you mean?" Kerrin asked, a little surprised.
"I mean, it's been almost a week since I reported it. That’s what I mean!" he said, a slight cockney English accent detectable in his voice, immediately reminding Kerrin of his earlier childhood. Kerrin had been born to a Scottish father and American mother, and after spending his first seven years in Scotland, they had moved to London, England for three years, before Kerrin’s parents had finally moved back to the US.
"Reported what?" Kerrin asked.
"The explosion. The cop on the phone said they'd send someone out, but it's taken you a whole week to come and ask me questions! Maybe I've forgotten the details by now. I'm an old man, after all," he replied, before puffing on his pipe and turning to look out the window.
Kerrin was confused. What was the man talking about? The police had only mentioned two boats. Neither of which had reported seeing any explosion.
And if Old Ben had seen something, why had they called off the investigation before they had interviewed him?
"I'm sorry. I'm not with the police. To be quite honest, I'm a relative of the man who died in the plane crash. I'm just trying to find out what really happened. The police don't seem to know anything." Kerrin replied.
The old man turned to look at Kerrin again, appraising him afresh.
"Sorry son. That's different then. It's just that nowadays no one is interested in what Old Ben thinks. No sir. People only ever listen to what the big boys from the Dawson fleet have to say. Well, I can tell you, they didn’t see anything. I did!"
"Exactly what did you see Ben?…Would you like another beer?"
Kerrin waved at the barman, who promptly brought over another drink for Old Ben.
"Thanks." The old fisherman took another mouthful of the cold beer, and wiped his forehead with a tattered handkerchief. "See, there I was, out at sea on the Sentinel Reef…the fishing's good out there this time of year…a bit far…but worth it…when we heard this plane flying over, we could even see its tail light flashing…"
"…T'was quite a clear night…only scattered cloud. We were bringing in the nets, but we looked up and watched him fly overhead…it broke up the monotony of the job…been doing the same thing for forty years now…forty years…" The old man started to wander off into his thoughts.
"So what did you see?" Kerrin asked, trying to bring him back from wherever he was going.
"Well…I was watching the plane, see, when suddenly it just blew up. Phuff, bang, and it was gone. A big ball of smoke and fire, and fireworks falling through the air down to the sea. Quite a sight it was. Never forget it, I will. Them pieces of metal started to hit the water hard…one even hit the bloody roof of the boat…cut right through a six inch plank of wood, it did!"
"Have you still got it?"
"Sure have. You can see it if you want…along with the other stuff we picked up!"
"What other stuff?"
"Well, when the sun came up the next day there were bits of flotsam floating on the surface. From the plane like. Wreckage. So we picked it up…'case anybody wanted to see it!"
"Why didn't you hand it over to the police?"
"Tried to. Told them we had stuff, like, but they didn't show any interest. Didn't even come to pick it up! Still got it over at the shed…"
"Are you sure they knew you had it?" Kerrin couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
"Are you mutton jeff?"
"What?"
"Mutton jeff…deaf! Are you deaf? It's like I told you… I made a full report, told them everything I knew over the phone, even told them about the jet that passed back and forth a few minutes afterwards… just in case it was relevant, like."
"What jet?"
"It was very high, probably nothing related, but about five seconds after the explosion there was a loud roar, and a jet passed overhead in the same direction the plane was heading…then about three minutes later it came back much lower in the opposite direction, before disappearing back towards where it came from. Thought it o
dd that it came back upon itself, like it did. Maybe it saw the explosion too and came back to have a look-see…thought the police might think that as well…"
None of this was in the official report Kerrin had read.
"Can you show me some of the wreckage you found?" Kerrin asked, getting up from his chair.
"What? Now?" the old man asked.
"Seems like a good time to me. You can bring your beer with you."
The old man's shed was on the other side of the harbor, at the end of one of the slipways that took boats up into dry dock for maintenance and overhauling. Inside the shed, two men were working hard on an old trawler called 'The English Rose', painting the roof, and replacing one of the rails on the starboard side. It was a big boat, but with one look, Kerrin could tell its days were probably numbered.
The building stank of rotting fish, although there were no fish to be seen. Along the edge of the shed, there was a collection of old nets, winches, buoys, empty fish crates, lobster baskets, paint cans and other bits and bobs, and in the corner, a small pile of metal, wooden and plastic objects, which Old Ben pointed to and said was the flotsam which his boat had retrieved from the plane wreckage.
Kerrin bent down and began to sift through it, while Old Ben stood behind him and puffed contentedly on his pipe.
Most of the wreckage was either melted, or burnt, the edges of the metal and the attached charred plastic padding now turned black and green where the fierce heat of a fire had caught it in the flames. Kerrin felt slightly peculiar while touching it, the only trace of what was left of his brother-in-law's plane.
He spent the next hour examining each piece and photographing them meticulously, just in case it might help at some point in the future. But unless they were analyzed in a lab somewhere, Kerrin knew that they would not be able to tell him anything more.
What more did he need to know anyway? There were eye witnesses to an explosion, and the wreckage showed the clear signs of intense heat and flames. It was obvious now that Martin's plane had blown up. What Kerrin would like to know was whether or not the explosion was deliberate or an accident?
BOX SET of THREE TOP 10 MEDICAL THRILLERS Page 56
