Dangerous Shadows

by Whitelaw, Stella

  “I’ve been surfing off the eastern coast several times. Huge Atlantic rollers are great fun. Where are we heading for?”

  “Ragged Point. I think that’s the best bet. It has a lighthouse on the headland. There’s no community of any size nearby. No town or anything.”

  “We ought to be able to find a lighthouse. They are big enough.”

  What else could she burn? The waterproof cushion had burnt well, so had the petrol soaked towel. She scavenged among the bracken for anything that would burn. The paperbacks had gone, words now ashes.

  She been waving Danielle’s rainbow coloured top but she would sacrifice that too if she had to. The next to go would be her jeans.

  Then she found a rucksack. She tipped out the contents, usual stuff, spare clothes, maps, make-up, deodorant spray. She threw everything on the bonfire except the deodorant. She knew the can would explode. It might explode in her face.

  Nearby bracken was drying in the heat of the bonfire and she cut branches off with scissors, doused them with petrol and tossed them onto the bonfire. Flames shot up into the sky.

  She ran in front of the bonfire, some distance away from the heat on her back, waving the cotton top like a flag.

  “Someone see me, please,” she shouted. “Someone help me.”

  A car was coming along the coast road quite slowly. It looked like the usual 4x4 Land Rover. Everyone on Barbados had one. It was the best way to get around. It stopped as if parking to admire the view, then began to turn.

  “No, please. No, don’t go away,” she shouted. She got out the handgun. She had once been shown by a Crimewatch officer how to release the safety catch on a gun. She did that now, pointed the gun into the air and fired two shots, one after the other.

  The Land Rover reversed against the other side of the road so that it was parked sideways across the roadway. Suddenly its powerful headlights came on fully, bathing her in light.

  Holly gasped, hugging herself with the cotton top, staggering across the bracken, not caring about the pain. She stood unsteadily at the top of the twenty foot drop of rocky path. The tidal waves were splashing against the lower rocks. She fired two more shots into the air.

  “I’m here,” she shouted, her voice now hoarse with shouting. “It’s me. Holly. I’m here.”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Jake had the worst night of his life on the drifting boat. It was even worse than the night in HMP Dodds before Barry Armitage bailed him out.

  He couldn’t move. Holly had shackled his ankles with those damned handcuffs and then cuffed his right arm to the table leg. He had one free arm but couldn’t reach anything with that arm because it was pinned tight to the back of the bench with his own weight.

  He ground his teeth, spitting and swearing. He saw the bottle of whiskey on the floor but he couldn’t reach it or open it. The boat was tossing on the waves. Surely the tide wasn’t that high? The anchor was not secure. Those craggy rocks looked pretty lethal. He couldn’t think straight.

  All the struggling and kicking didn’t help. He landed on the floor, knocking his head on a cupboard, his legs tangled round the table leg. His first coherent thought swam like a thin thread into his head. To pull out the double bed fitment required the removal of the day-time table and folding it against the far wall. If he could knock the leg back, he could slide down the cuff and his other arm would be free.

  “You’re a genius, my boy,” he grinned. “Shucks to you. I’m going to get free and then I’ll make sure you don’t get away.”

  He kicked the table leg away and it swung back. The cuff slid easily down the leg. Although the cuffs and chain still hung from his wrist, both arms were free to move.

  He hobbled around the cabin, ankles still shackled, alarmed by the turbulent rocking but soothed by a glass of whiskey from the half-empty bottle. It was very soothing. He rescued the new bottle off the floor and thought how clever he had been to buy a bottle of Jameson’s with what was left of the dollars in the wallet.

  Soon he would have thousands and thousands of dollars from Barry. He had the new phone and the Smith and Wesson, if he could find it. He’d check to see if it was loaded and the safety catch on. He didn’t want to shoot himself in the foot.

  “Gee, that’s funny.” He fell back laughing. “Shoot myself in the foot.”

  Something about the two sets of handcuffs was nagging him. He had bought them at Bridgetown’s only discreet sex shop. He remembered the bright red plastic bag, unnamed, with a heart on it. Where had he put it?

  There was nothing to eat. No Holly cooking anything. Where had she gone? He hadn’t bloodied the fox yet. She couldn’t get off the island.

  He found some cheese biscuits and a pot of strawberry jam. It was hardly a staple diet but he ate all the biscuits with all of the jam. He didn’t use a plate. Washed it down with whiskey, as usual. Fell asleep again. He dreamed of going on another cruise. He liked cruising. All those rich widows waiting to be charmed.

  *

  When he awoke, he remembered that he had stuffed the red plastic bag behind the lavatory. It was another genius thought. He had bought two sets of imitation unplated aluminium detective style handcuffs, chain and lock plates for $13 dollars each. Each set came with a key so there was an extra key still in the bag. The shop assistant thought he was into bed-time games.

  “Enjoy yourself, sir,” the assistant had winked.

  He had winked back. She looked nice. Maybe he’d come back some time. Buy something else.

  His hands were shaking as he unlocked each handcuff from his ankles. His ankles were sore. His feet blistered. Then he freed his wrist. He needed a shower. He needed clean clothes and a decent meal.

  There was nothing in the cabin that fitted him but the baggy khaki shorts and T-shirt were better than nothing. The moron owner had no taste. Jake also needed a shave. The cabin was beginning to smell.

  He staggered up onto deck, buffeted by a strong wind, unable at first to believe what he saw. He must be dreaming. But he wasn’t still asleep, the cold salt spray on his face was real enough. There was nothing but endless sea around him, dark blue rollers, dipping and heaving and splashing over the deck. No island, no craggy rocks, no lighthouse, no Barbados, no Holly. He was somewhere, far out to sea. Where was Holly?

  The end of the anchor rope lay on the deck. He had no anchor.

  He rushed back into the cabin turning on the various instruments, the Vhf, the chart plotter, the CD player. But nothing worked. They had been blocked. He tried the helm but it made no difference without an engine to drive.

  “Think straight,” Jake said to himself. “The Atlantic must go somewhere. I’ll end up somewhere else. Maybe it’ll be on another island where no one will know me. Maybe Trinidad or Tobago. I could start again, win a few games of cards, set myself up with a beach bar. Sell the boat. A nice life. No worries.”

  He had no idea where the North Atlantic ocean would take him. He couldn’t visualise the east coast of Africa or how far away it was, if he lasted that long. His meagre stock of water was nearly gone. There was only dry food and a few packets of sultanas and nuts. He had no fuel. Jake opened the new bottle of Jameson’s. He deserved a treat.

  *

  A helicopter spotted the drifting, rudderless boat, being buffeted by big waves, later in the day. The pilot radioed the position back to base.

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s a SB 770 speedboat, cream and blue. Even if it’s not the stolen boat, the crew are in trouble. No sign of anyone on deck.”

  “We’ll send a naval vessel. I don’t think the coastguard’s motorised rubber dingy would relish going that far out. We can transfer to the coastguards nearer the shore.”

  “I’ll stay overhead and send down some flares to mark the spot. But I can’t hang around here for long. I need refuelling. Roger and out.”

  *

  Jake was not surprised to see naval ratings boarding the boat. He always survived. He was a survivor. The officers had b
een told nothing of the circumstances but were instructed to keep Jake under surveillance, tow the speedboat back for forensic evidence and identification, and on no account to let him slip away.

  He was eating a big plate of sausages and chips in the mess room, congratulating himself on his good fortune, when a plain clothes detective from the Royal Barbados Police Force approached him. The police officer was big, very dark, his sharp eyes without sympathy.

  “Are you Jake Furrows?”

  “Maybe I am. Who wants to know?” Jake scooped up another sausage. His stomach was crawling with hunger. They had given him coffee to drink. The whiskey was wearing off.

  “I am Detective Inspector Thomas Chase. I am here to arrest you on several charges. I will read you your rights.”

  DI Chase knew the Miranda by heart. Then he took out a sheet of paper and began to read:

  “One. I am arresting you for the theft of a SB770 speedboat called Greta. Two. I am arresting you for the theft of a leather wallet belonging to the owner of the speedboat containing several hundred dollars. Three. I am arresting you for the theft of a mobile phone and a J-small frame Smith and Wesson pearl-handled handgun. Four. I am arresting you for the theft of the staff gratuity box from a hostel called Jupiter in old Bridgetown. Five. I am arresting you for putting arsenic into a jug of rum punch at Tiger Bay House which resulted in the garden boy being taken to hospital, seriously ill. Six. I am arresting you for the abduction and assault of Miss Holly Gray of Tiger Bay House. Have you anything to say?”

  Jake yawned. “No comment.. You can’t prove any of it.”

  “We have a written statement from Mrs Maggie Cherry Tree, the old witch woman who sells potions and spells from her chattel. She said she sold you a quantity of arsenic. You said it was to get rid of your wife’s lover and she believed you.”

  “And you believe that rubbish from a half-mad old woman?”

  “She took a photo of you on her mobile phone. Not quite so mad, eh?”

  Jake forked up the last of the chips. Nothing about the lottery so that was a relief.

  “Do you know a local lifeguard called Earl Phillips?”

  “No.”

  “Yet he had your phone number on a piece of Gloriana II headed notepaper in his pocket when he was found dead on derelict ground.”

  “Some kids probably knifed him,” said Jake, swilling down the coffee.

  “I said nothing about him being knifed,” said DI Chase. “You are now under arrest. I shall cuff you, hands behind your back, please. As you are already out on bail for earlier offences, I have to inform you that the bond will be rescinded and you will be transported straight back to prison to await indictment, trial and sentencing. Have you anything to say?”

  Jake could not believe what was being said. He had always got away with everything. Something had gone seriously wrong. He blamed Holly. It was her fault. She’d ratted on him.

  “You’re making a mistake. It wasn’t me. It was that woman, Holly Gray. She did it and fixed it up to make it look like me. You’ll see. I’ve been framed.”

  “Take him below deck,” said DI Chase. “Lock him up.”

  *

  “The firemen have put out the blaze on Culpepper Island,” she said, watching from the window. “I knew it was right to report it.”

  “Did you phone the police?”

  “No. I didn’t know who to phone, really. It wasn’t exactly a 211 police emergency. I just thought somebody ought to know. Sparks get blown on the wind.”

  “So who did you phone?”

  “Remember the Grants, those nice people who own Sun Crest Plantation? They invited us over when you retired. I phoned them. I thought they would know who to phone, the police or the fire brigade. I’ll send them a thank-you note. It never hurts to be polite. Now where did I put my knitting? Jock, for goodness sake, you’re sitting on it.”

  Epilogue

  The Wedding Day

  It rained heavily in the night. Holly listened to the pattering of rain on the palm leaves and on the roof of the house, her thoughts in a turmoil. She wanted to sleep without running dreams. She wanted to look her best for the wedding, not for Danielle’s sake, but for Luke.

  Holly recovered remarkably well from her ordeal. Both Luke and Barry insisted that she was checked over at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. Her sore wrists and ankles needed attention. She had burns on her arms and legs from petrol sparks. She was dehydrated. Her feet were numb and badly cut.

  Luke and Barry had guided her down the rocky path from Culpepper Island, using one of Barry’s surf boards to help her across the rising water. Both men got soaked but only cared that Holly was safe. Both were lost for the right words to say to her.

  “Hardly bridesmaid material now,” she joked as she drank that first cup of coffee from the thermos in the Land Rover. It was nectar. So was the sandwich, the canapés and the coconut cake. Food had never tasted so good.

  “You still look wonderful,” said Luke. He could not hold her or touch her. She was too sore and bleeding to touch. First they dried her carefully then wrapped her in cool sheet and let her sleep on the back seat, towels for a pillow.

  “Didn’t know you could fire a gun,” said Barry

  “Neither did I,” she said, yawning. “I need a shower,” she added as she drifted off to sleep.

  Lily nursed Holly back to health at Tiger Bay House. She insisted, determined for once. The Cook gave in, prepared healing chicken broth.

  “It’s my job,” Lily said. “I’ll put in extra time. No worry.”

  Danielle rushed in and out of Holly’s bedroom with flowers and small gifts. Luke barely left her side. But eventually Holly insisted she was well enough to be up and about, but no shoes. He drove into Bridgetown to get the flight tickets changed to Barry’s name. The travel clerk made no comment but she must have been curious. Luke knew this information would be round Barbados in minutes. News travelled fast in hot weather. The Bajans fanned themselves with words.

  Holly went for her first early morning swim, careful this time to make sure there were no intruders. She was still nervous. Lily went with her, standing like a guard with a towel. The sand was speckled with raindrops, the matting wet, the gold ribbons in the bower dripping. There was time to make some fresh ones. Danielle had bought yards more of the stuff. It was still in a carrier bag.

  She had to phone Zoe first. She was not sure what the time was in London, but Zoe sounded awake and bright enough. Zoe knew nothing about the kidnapping or her ordeal.

  “Are you having a good time?” Zoe wanted to know. “You sound OK. Are all the arrangements going well?”

  “There have been quite a few changes,” said Holly carefully. “I have masses to tell you when I come back. I know this is asking a lot, but do you think you could spare me for a couple of extra days? It’s such a beautiful island, I’d really like to see more of it.”

  “My dear, what a good idea. And the timing is perfect. I’m having the studio redecorated and reinvented! Wait till you see it. The best interior decorator in London is doing the work. I’ve given him a free hand. We’re getting a totally new image.”

  “So you don’t need me around?”

  “Take the whole week off. I’m only popping in occasionally, trying not to get under their feet. It’s going to be terrific.”

  “Thanks a lot, Zoe. A week will be fine. And I’ll have two new faces for you, a handsome boy and a beautiful girl. They are all so good-looking here when they are young.”

  “Keep in touch,” said Zoe. “Bye-bye, wedding girl.”

  Zoe seemed to have forgotten that it was not Holly who was getting married.

  *

  Holly had a simple breakfast on her own on the patio. Her stomach was churning with nerves, hoping that nothing would go wrong this time. Danielle was having her breakfast in bed, bride’s prerogative. The caterers had arrived again with more mountains of food. Nothing threw them. It was Barbados. The kitchen and the pantry and the cold store were s
tacked with cartons and covered dishes. The champagne was in barrels of ice.

  Lily came out carrying an extension of the house phone. “Mr Kenyon is on the phone for you, Miss Holly. I suspect he wanting to check that Miss Danielle all right, not changing her mind about anything.”

  “Thank you, Lily.”

  Holly took the phone. Had Luke decided not to come? Was he going to say that he could not face the public humiliation? Most men would do that. Keep out of the way until the furore had died down.

  “Luke? Are you all right?”

  “Holly? Are you all right? How do you feel?” She heard the teasing in his voice. “Are you well enough to do this wedding? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. A bit nervous,” she said, relieved that he sounded normal. “So much could still go wrong.”

  “Nothing will go wrong. I’ll be there with you. I’ll make sure Barry is there on time, but I am not going to wear that damned gold brocade waistcoat. It’s not my style at all, and it’s far too hot.”

  “You can wear what you like now,” she said. “It’s not your wedding.”

  “This is a quick call to tell you about a certain bit of low life who is currently in custody in HMP Dodds, the new prison out at St Philips. He’s lucky he’s not in the old one, Glendiary, which was built way back in the 1880s. The Detective Inspector who arrested him phoned me this morning. There’s a long list of charges including fraudulent cheques, unpaid bills, theft and robbery. The jewellery has all been identified by passengers on the cruise ship. The Rolex watch belongs to some old chap he pushed down some steep stairs. And there is more.”

  “You mean, abducting me?”

  “Abduction and assault. And he’s connected to the murder of Earl Phillips, the lifeguard. The gold chain he was trying to sell. The list goes on and on.”

  “Will he be sent back to England?”

  “I doubt it. As he committed the crimes in Barbados, he’ll serve his sentence here. I doubt if the prison is air-conditioned. It’ll be very hot. Probably three to a cell. Not a pleasant experience. They had some riot over the food a few years back. Do you want to charge him with stealing your lottery win?”