Murder in Montego Bay

by Paula Lennon

  “You get anything interesting?”

  “She heard the gunshots, but stayed in her bed, petrified by the sound of it,” Harris replied. His deep voice carried a strong Glaswegian accent and Preddy wondered whether the interviewee had been able to fully understand him.

  “We need to get a statement from Lester Chin Ellis,” said Preddy. “Find out where dey were before de arrest and whether dey had any trouble.”

  “Aye, sir. I’m told that he’s being held pending bail.”

  “Him don’t post bail yet?”

  Harris shrugged. “I was thinking the same thing maself. I was told he’s from a very wealthy family. He’s probably been in lock-up a few hours now.”

  “Okay, what else we know?” Preddy asked, making a mental note to find out why Carter’s brother had not been given station bail.

  “Another witness heard the gates squeaking as they were being opened,” Harris reported. “Then there was a dog barking, screech of tyres, explosions. The witness ran tae the window. He couldnae see what the shooter was doing, but thinks he might have been checking tae see if Carter was dead.”

  Preddy nodded. “Dem rob Carter?”

  “We cannae tell if anything is missing because Carter wasnae booked in when he was taken tae the station. He and the officers who arrested him settled their differences and he was let go without charges. His valuables appear tae be on him: wallet with ID and credit cards, Rolex watch, gold charm ring and a smartphone.” Harris waved the various evidence bags as he spoke.

  The phone in Preddy’s pocket vibrated against his chest as if awakened by Harris’ words. He took it out and glanced at the screen before replacing it, seemingly irritated. Harris noted the movement, but said nothing, being already of the view that Preddy never shared more information than he considered necessary.

  Preddy pulled on a pair of white latex gloves and opened one of the packages. He took out the expensive-looking ring and held it up in the air, admiring the dazzling glint of the sun’s rays on solid gold metal.

  “What does dis tell you?” he asked.

  “That robbery wasnae the likely motive?” Harris ventured.

  “Dat’s what I was thinking,” said Preddy.

  “Or dat de gunman get frighten and run away before he could steal anything,” suggested Spence, joining the detectives with Rabino at her side.

  “Possibly,” murmured Preddy, as he replaced the jewellery in the bag.

  “I’ll get the shell casings to ballistics,” Rabino offered. “You were right, sir. The witness believes he hit the gunman’s car more than once. I took a Beretta and some 9mm bullets from him.”

  A crime scene officer tapped Preddy on the shoulder. The detective spun around and looked at the officer expectantly.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, Detective. De superintendent wants to speak to you.”

  “I know he does,” Preddy frowned. “I’ll call him back in a minute. Dis time of day he’ll still be on line two.”

  “Not anymore, sir. He’s at Pelican Walk, in de conference room on de second floor.” The officer looked around cautiously, making sure that the reporters were out of earshot and then leaned in closer towards the detective’s shoulder, whispering in his ear, “Me hear say Lester Chin Ellis get beat up right dere at de station dis morning. Him face black and blue and Super sound super mad!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Sunday, 19 July, 1:58 a.m.

  Lester Chin Ellis was feeling the night heat and failed to catch the car keys flung in his general direction. He shook his head at his younger brother while bending wobbly knees and fumbling in the dim light to retrieve them. Carter grinned and hauled his agile body into the passenger seat of his white sports utility vehicle, reclining immediately. Lester closed the door and put the key in the ignition, welcoming the rush of cool air that flooded in. The engine hummed quietly as he reversed from the parking lot of Reingold’s Sports Bar, negotiating through the mass of badly-parked expensive cars.

  The sports bar was a popular weekend venue for the monied types—black, brown and white alike. Some had genuine foreign accents, others affected ones. There was a choice of English Premier League football or NFL games on the various giant screens. Once the credit cards went down on the bar the clientele would feast on alcohol-rich cocktails and finger buffets of festival, jerk chicken, roast breadfruit, escoveitched fish and sweet potatoes. Young wealthy revellers danced energetically to the latest Billboard Hot 100 tunes with bottles and glasses held aloft. At one point earlier that night, the brothers had wrapped their arms around each other’s shoulders while each tried simultaneously to swig beer from a bottle held by the other. Most of the content was spilled down their chests in the process, although neither appeared to notice, let alone care.

  “Drive up, boss,” urged Carter. It was relatively early to be leaving the bar, but duty called. He closed his eyes and nestled more comfortably into the plush seat. “Home time.”

  Aged twenty, he was the younger by two years and considered himself the more handsome of the two brothers, although this was always roundly disputed by Lester. They were both slim men with the same caramel brown skin, and slender eyes that spoke of mixed heritage. Carter was more solidly proportioned than his older brother as he favoured an hour of push-ups every morning, otherwise it was easy to mistake one for the other.

  “You can always drive, you know?” Lester suggested.

  “No, man, it’s alright... go on.”

  The brothers were part-educated in Jamaica, part in the United States and like most Jamaicans who had been directly exposed to American ways or watched too much American television, they had adopted an American drawl which could not be attributed to any particular state. Carter would be returning to university in Miami once the summer was over, which was still quite some time away. He was majoring in finance and marketing and was enjoying the opportunity to study abroad and learn on the job at home. Nothing beat being able to put the visionary theories learnt elsewhere into practice. He relished sitting in on board meetings and learning how the family business ran. Lester had just completed his studies in nutrition and food science in New York. He, too, enjoyed the benefits of having a growing empire to practice his initiatives on. He believed that so much could be done with the bountiful fruits of the land, yet very few people were capable of grasping this idea.

  The heirs to the Chinchillerz empire were rich beyond most Jamaicans’ wildest dreams. Both sons had been well-aware of their privileged backgrounds from a young age, knowing that they would never have to work for another person if they did not want to. With lifestyles begrudged by many, they had been given everything that they had asked for from childhood and plenty that they hadn’t. Bicycles, motorbikes, dune buggies, jet skis and cars—anything new and hot off the conveyor belt was theirs. As soon as they hit eighteen, each son had been allowed to buy his own expensive and spacious house as befitted youngsters of their social stature. Lester’s was a waterfront villa with a sweeping panoramic vista at Sandy Bay in the adjoining parish of Hanover. Carter chose to make his home on a high elevation in Red Hills which granted a spectacular 180-degree view of the Caribbean Sea and the western hills.

  Lester glanced across at his brother, watching the hint of a smile that flickered across Carter’s face from time to time. As youngsters, he had always doted on his baby brother; he taught him how to fly a kite, ride a bicycle and use a catapult. As teenagers, Carter had done his bit in return, accepting payment to do his brother’s homework, lending him anything he needed and helping his rebellious self sneak back indoors after parental curfew. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard, which revealed that it was nearly 2:00am.

  Friday night was for staying out all night if they chose to, Saturday night was not. The brothers stayed at the family home most Saturday nights and accompanied their parents to church on Sunday mornings. Neither Carter nor Lester was particularly religious, but the display of unity was good for the family and those who were always watching them. People
needed to see that they remained humble and grounded, regardless of the trappings of wealth. They would dress in their finest Italian-made suits and engage in banter with their father as to whether earrings were appropriate attire for young men at all, much less young men attending church services.

  “What are we going to do about the old people’s twenty-eighth anniversary?” asked Lester.

  Carter groaned, eyes still firmly closed. “It’s next month, isn’t it?”

  “Eeh-eeh. A few weeks from now.”

  “They don’t need a thing,” Carter mumbled with some pride.

  The Chin Ellis elders certainly needed nothing, and their standing, particularly in Western Jamaica, was second to none. They owned a huge villa on the Doubloons at one of the most prestigious spots in the Freeport area of Montego Bay, as well as classic cars, a yacht, a helicopter, a small plane and plenty of other toys. This was not an unknown status for Jamaicans of European, Asian or Oriental heritage, although it was much less common for descendants of black Africans. The black element of their blended family put them on just about the right side to avoid the much-repeated accusations of foreigners taking over Jamaica. The Chinese element would always attract the suspicion of those who contended that the Chinese and the whites owned everything of worth on the island and benefited from preferential treatment.

  Their powerful vehicle suddenly swerved violently. Carter’s eyes flew open as his body lurched forward, the seatbelt holding him firmly in position. He tried to focus on his surroundings on the poorly-lit highway. As a driver screamed obscenities at them, Carter noticed that Lester had just blown through a red stop light.

  “Wow! Take time drive!”

  “You just told me to drive up!” Lester glanced into the rearview mirror and spotted a set of rapidly approaching flashing blue lights. “Oh shit!” He stepped on the accelerator.

  Carter glared at his brother. “You mad, bro? Stop the car.”

  “I don’t have time for them. Make them go and find something to do.”

  “Stop! Just give them some money and they’ll let us go on.”

  “I didn’t walk with cash money tonight, youth. And they won’t take credit cards.”

  Lester slowed down and pulled the vehicle over while the blue lights followed him into a narrow side road. Lowering both front windows, he waited, watching keenly through the mirror as the shadows moved around behind him. The police officers eventually emerged from their vehicle. One was carrying a breath analyser kit, the other appeared to have his hands free. They ambled towards the brothers’ SUV as if they had all the time in the world. The shorter officer with the kit moved towards the driver’s door and the other man took up a position outside of the passenger door.

  “Good night, sir,” said the officer closest to Lester. “Have you been drinking?”

  Lester’s eyes gave the lawman a split second of disdain and then stared ahead through the windshield. The officer moved closer, taking in the alcohol stains on Lester’s shirt. He reached for the keys, turning off the ignition.

  Lester frowned and slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “What’s your problem? You see us doing anything?”

  “Have you been drinking, sir?

  Lester kissed his teeth loudly, a long drawn out screech guaranteed to cause annoyance to the target. It achieved the desired result.

  “Step out of de vehicle, please, sir.”

  There was no movement from inside the vehicle for a few seconds. Carter wiped a small bead of sweat from his brow as he glanced from his brother to the officer. He pressed the button for the internal light and the interior of the car lit up.

  “Look, all of us know what’s going on, you know,” said Carter.

  The second officer put one hand on the passenger door, the other on his gun belt and leaned into the vehicle. His eyes were flat and fixed and his jaw rigid as he stared into Carter’s face.

  “What did you say? What do we know? Talk, no?”

  Carter held up both palms in a conciliatory gesture and smiled ruefully at the officer who continued to stare him down. “Sorry, Officer. My mistake.”

  Lester twisted his body and lowered his head to peer at Carter’s officer. “Leave my brother alone, man! We cannot help you tonight.”

  “I’ll ask you again to step out of de vehicle, sir.”

  Lester turned and studied the smaller officer this time, taking in the bursting uniform and stern face. There was no doubt in his mind that the officers knew exactly who they had detained. “Who knows what will happen to me if I get outta this car, officer? It would be better if you tell me to follow you to a safe place.”

  The policeman reached into the vehicle again and snatched the keys. He opened the driver’s door as far as it would go and pulled forcefully on Lester’s arm. Carter leaned over and managed to grab onto his brother’s shirt, but the officer had already secured a firm grip and Carter collapsed sideways over the empty driver’s seat. He soon found himself being dragged out of his own door by the taller officer, who by now had removed his gun from its holster and was pointing it towards the ground.

  “Come on, man! What are you doing?” exclaimed Lester, trying to wriggle out of the officer’s grasp.

  “Stop that, man!” shouted Carter, eyes blazing. “I want your name... and yours, too!”

  “Name? Dat is de least of your worries, I’m telling you,” said the taller officer, who spun Carter around and handcuffed his wrists despite his protests.

  “Both of you are under arrest for reckless driving, assaulting a police officer and for being drunk and disorderly.” The officer holding Lester cuffed him too and proceeded to read each brother his rights while marching them towards the police car.

  CHAPTER 3

  Sunday, 19 July, 8:00 a.m.

  The Pelican Walk conference room could hold meetings of up to thirty officers and Preddy could only assume that Superintendent Brownlow chose this room because it was furthest away from the heart of the station. Less foot traffic, less prying eyes. Dark wood tables were pressed together to form one gigantic unit, surrounded by matching heavy chairs. The thick red curtains were drawn, which reduced the natural lighting considerably. With only two occupants, the room felt particularly imposing. If the superintendent put a dividing screen between them, it would pass as a confessional. Forgive me, Super, for I have sinned.

  Preddy looked at the photo the superintendent pushed across the table and silently cursed the officers who had allowed this to happen on his territory. The ugly weal stood out on Lester’s swollen cheek, a wide purple mark that looked completely out of place on his pale brown features. His top lip was cut and his open mouth revealed the loss of part of one tooth.

  The detective had seen pictures of Lester before, at functions and grand openings, cutting ribbons and shaking hands with dignitaries, a good-looking young man with a confident smile and smart appearance. The two brothers lurked week after week in the colourful social pages of the national media. There was always something to laugh or smile about in Chin Ellis world, until now.

  “An inmate attacks Chin Ellis and everyone is oblivious. Nobody heard a disturbance. Nobody saw anything,” the superintendent huffed. He was an extremely overweight man whose suit used up a whole lot of khaki and whose voice never needed artificial amplification. “What am I supposed to tell Commissioner Davis?”

  He sat forward in his chair, hands clasped together, elbows lodged firmly on the table. The superintendent would have achieved the dramatic pose he had planned but for the fact that the table legs were uneven and rocked under pressure, despite his valiant attempts to disguise his efforts to hold it firm.

  “You think I can tell the commissioner that no-one knows anything about it? Somebody must know something!”

  “Sir, I can assure you dat I am going to get to de bottom of it,” said Preddy. “We only had a few officers on duty in here at de time.”

  “And when are you going to do that?” The superintendent fixed Preddy with a dark glare. “
The parents are already talking to the media. They only found out we were holding one son when they were told that the other son was dead.”

  Preddy winced. “I understand, sir.” He was mortified that the officers had made such a spectacular mess of what sounded like a minor traffic case, but he would ask the hard questions of them later.

  “I cannot believe we had Lester Chin Ellis in a cell with God-knows-who. Why wasn’t he bailed immediately? We suddenly have room for people like him?”

  Preddy maintained a straight face. “We can find room for anybody who deserves it, sir.”

  The superintendent bristled and studied the detective’s demeanour. “Oh, really? You know more about our facilities and resources than I do?”

  “No, sir.” Preddy cleared his throat. “I understand dat a large quantity of hard drugs—cocaine—was found in de car, so we can make dat known to de public in due course. Lester is not some innocent, misjudged young man.”

  Preddy had no time for drug dealers of any complexion. He had served on various anti-crime task forces, including a short and useful stint at the Criminal Investigations Bureau. The anti-narcotics campaign was a source of particular pride, leading as it did to the successful prosecution and extradition of a number of major cocaine traffickers who had established bases on the island and in the United States.

  When it came to marijuana though, he experienced mixed feelings. Destroying whole fields was a nonsense when it could be reaped and used for medicinal purposes. As usual, North America had got in on the act first and growers were making millions, while Jamaica was content with setting fire to what could become its most lucrative export and borrowing money from the IMF. The small time ganja dealers were still around and always would be, particularly with the recent decriminalisation of ganja for those found with up to two ounces. That infraction was now a minor ticketable offence. This would save a lot of wasted manpower spent prosecuting the smokers of herbs that custom, tradition and even religion deemed relatively harmless. Tourists wanted to be able to smoke the weed in peace, too. If only everybody would just drink the tea, the problem would be solved.