Murder in Montego Bay

by Paula Lennon

  The detective pressed the bell, listening to the loud chimes reverberating behind the huge mahogany door. A closed door separating pain on one side and apprehension on the other. He enjoyed the intellectual challenge of his job, gathering of evidence, investigating, teamwork and the satisfaction that came with solving a troubling case. But the dark moments were many. They came when faced with gun-toting criminals equipped with better fire power, when a jury gave an astounding “not guilty” verdict, when sentences handed down to the guilty were ludicrously light. And then there was this, discussing the deceased with distraught relatives.

  The door was opened by the patriarch, Terence Chin Ellis, who greeted him with a scant glance through glazed eyes and a handshake. As he entered, Preddy looked around the grand entrance, admiring the exquisite interior, professionally laid-out minimalist furniture and decorative floral arrangements. The few sculptures in the hall were clearly artist-commissioned statement pieces. He recognised the engraved names of some of the artists from exhibitions he had attended at the art gallery in the city centre.

  There were plenty of family photographs throughout the hallway, some of the whole family, some featuring just the two sons. Photographs of them as young children, teenagers and, eventually, as adults. Plaques of awards won by the family business were on prominent display in the sitting room.

  “Take a seat, Detective,” murmured Terence. “Ida is just getting some drinks. I’ll just go and help her.”

  Preddy preferred to study the surroundings instead. It was unusual for any business to successfully serve the rich as well as the less well-off, but Chinchillerz catered for those with money to burn as well as those without bank accounts. Visiting ambassadors, dignitaries and politicians all received the elite food service. The company supplied five-star hotels with luxury ice creams and any type of frozen dessert required, made from local cows’ milk, fresh fruits, pure cane sugar, herbs, nuts and vegetables. For the standard products sold in the lower budget range, the company substituted powdered milk for fresh milk and used imitation flavourings instead of the real thing. They supplied products for grand openings as well as for national sporting events, school fairs and church cookouts.

  All this from the fine fruits of an abundant land, Preddy thought. His children were doing reasonably well academically, although Roman had a tendency to stray from homework and concentrate on sports too much. They had not yet set any real career goals for themselves and, as most teens, they were mainly focused on the present. Already, he was beginning to think he should encourage them to become entrepreneurs rather than to work for other people. Then again, modern day empire-building in Jamaica took a great deal of money and he would no doubt be expected to provide it.

  The detective pulled out a chair from under the dining room table and turned it to face the sofa on which now sat the gilded home owners. He was not one for sitting on a sofa to interview people as it made him feel more relaxed than he should be. Reclining or sampling home comforts did not square well with the need to be alert and it always raised concerns when interviewees offered him beer or rum punch, even if they were just being hospitable. Luckily, Ida Chin Ellis had only placed a long glass of ice-cold orange juice in front of him.

  She must be in her late fifties, he mused, looking at her unlined face, and still an attractive woman. Her eyes were hooded, which he put down to a lack of sleep and crying. Her natural, greying black hair was held together with a single plait, which was tied up in a bun at the nape of her neck. She sat kneading her hands in her lap.

  “I know dis is very hard for you, but dere are a few questions I need to ask,” started Preddy. “Anything you can tell me to help wid de investigation will be good.”

  “We have both spoken about it, Detective,” Terence said wearily, glancing at his wife. “Sometimes I feel like my head is going to burst. We don’t know who would want to kill Carter.”

  Preddy nodded sympathetically in his direction. Terence had strong Oriental features with thinning grey hair, pale brown, almost-white skin, very narrow eyes and extremely thin lips. The detective could only recall seeing photographs of Terence in the business pages, never in the social pages.

  Indeed, Terence Chin had been happy to promote Ida Ellis as chief spokesperson for the business empire, while encouraging his sons to enjoy the social limelight. It was common knowledge that his parents had not welcomed his choice of bride at first, preferring for him to choose “one of his own,” but with her strong work ethic and keen belief in family, Ida had gradually won them around. The merger of surnames was for sound social as well as business reasons and Terence liked to introduce himself as Mr Ellis, as there were more than enough Chins on the island. This did not deter the locals from addressing him as “Misser Chin” and his wife as “Miss Chin,” but he had long accepted that this was inevitable. Even if his surname had been Lee, Sang or Yin, they would still have called him “Misser Chin.”

  The photographs of Terence around the house allowed Preddy to see a man with a cheerful and approachable disposition. At this particular point in time he understandably looked strained and totally disconnected. The detective flipped open his well-worn notebook.

  “We have also considered whether anyone had issues wid Lester. As you know, Carter was driving Lester’s car and it could be dat de gunman thought he was Lester,” said Preddy.

  The couple looked at each other briefly before turning their attention back to the detective.

  “No, sir.” Ida looked taken aback. Her voice was very soft. “Those boys will have their secrets like everybody else, but I never saw or heard about any of them at war with anybody.”

  “They don’t keep bad company,” Terence agreed.

  “How often did dey come here to visit you?” asked Preddy.

  “They come most weekends, you know,” said Ida, breaking into a weak smile. “Sunday morning they go to church then eat a big dinner with us. Later in the evening, they and their friends usually go down by the beach house and play music and do young people things.”

  “So dere is nobody you can think of dat might have a grudge against either of your sons? Any friend dey might have fallen out wid recently?”

  Ida shook her head and lowered her eyes, lost in thought. Her husband kept his focus on the detective. “There was that racing driver he was competing with. What’s his name again? Oh yes, Kirk Grantham.”

  “Can you tell me more about him?”

  “Carter and Kirk were rival members of the Race Drivers Club for motor car drivers, you know? There had been fierce competition between the two of them for years. Both wanted to be champion driver of the year and there were only a few more races to go in this season.” Terence shook his head as he spoke and Ida took his hand, rubbing it gently. “Carter won the championship two years ago, and Kirk got it last year. Carter was just ahead of Kirk on points this season and I saw that bad blood was developing between them.”

  “Did dey ever fight?” asked Preddy.

  “Not a fist fight. A brief sort of scuffle did break out between them after the last race a month ago, when Kirk followed Carter underneath the sponsors’ marquee to curse him. Kirk said Carter tried to cut him up on the track in a dangerous move that could have ended his life.” Terence stared ahead as if picturing the scene. “Carter brushed him off. Carter said it was a fair move and that there would not have been any danger if Kirk was able to handle his car like a real man. That really riled Kirk! I’m not too sure who started the fuss, but it was just pushing, shoving and shouting.”

  “Have dere been any other incidents since den?” asked Preddy.

  “They’ve met only one time since then, at a party, although they didn’t acknowledge each other.” Terence dabbed his eyes. “I told him to shake hands with Kirk and let bygones be bygones, but he refused. He said that when he won the championship he would shake Kirk’s hand and wave the trophy in his face.”

  Ida looked at her husband. “You didn’t tell me any of this,” she said in an accu
satory tone. “You didn’t remember to?”

  “I remembered, yes,” he replied quietly. “But I would have never told you anything. I didn’t want to worry you and anyway, boys will be boys.”

  “Do you think he could have killed my son, Detective?” Ida asked tentatively.

  “We will certainly look into all leads, ma’am.”

  The couple could think of nothing else to tell Preddy despite his gentle coaxing. The detective closed his notebook and stood. The matriarch walked him back through the long reception hall towards the front door. He moved to shake her hand and she clutched his with both of hers. Her hands felt surprisingly strong, although her small frame suggested she was not that powerful.

  “Please find whoever did this to my son, Detective. Please.”

  “We will do our very best to get justice for Carter. You can trust me on dat,” Preddy promised. He glanced up the stairs. “Would you mind if I take a quick look around your son’s bedroom?”

  “Yes, you can look.” Ida turned her head over her shoulder and shouted, “Miss Janie, where are you?”

  A short, plump lady entered the room and looked in the direction of her employer. “Yes, Miss Ida?”

  “Show the gentleman to Carter’s room.”

  Preddy started to follow the maid upstairs before turning around briefly. “Oh, do either of your sons have life insurance policies?”

  “No, Detective, that was something we all discussed years ago but didn’t bother with. Not even Terence or I have any.” Her eyes darkened suddenly. “We’re not going to kill each other over money, Detective Preddy.”

  Even millionaires kill each other over money, he thought, but he just nodded and continued up the stairs. Carter’s bedroom was extremely spacious and had an en-suite bathroom. Preddy’s own bedroom was reasonably large, but this was more than twice its size. The king-size bed looked strangely small in the vast expanse of whiteness surrounding it. The room was extremely neat and Preddy suspected that the maid was tasked with giving it a thorough cleaning before Carter’s return each weekend. At the bedside table, Preddy bent and retrieved a photograph that had been set face down with a paperweight on top of it. The photograph was of Carter and a pretty black female laughing with their heads close together.

  “Who is dis?” he asked.

  The maid craned her neck and peered around Preddy’s broad shoulders. “A Zadie dem call her. Me call her Miss Merton. Is Carter girlfriend.”

  Preddy straightened up, holding the picture. He had not heard from Zadie Merton, and usually girlfriends try to find out what the police are doing about the murder of their other halves. She had not appeared at the family press conference either. He held onto the photo and continued to browse through the room, his every move watched by the hovering woman. Eventually, he closed the door and glanced at the open door opposite.

  “Is dis Lester’s room?”

  “Yes, is Misser Lester room.”

  Preddy put his head around the door. It looked quite similar to that of his younger brother, oversized and very white. There were photographs of Lester and Carter, and Lester and friends, both male and female. Lester posing happily with a smiling Terence beside classic cars, on the steps of a small plane and in front of a super yacht. Preddy stepped inside to take a closer look. A large model glider sat on a long shelf, surrounded by aviation books and maps. On a coffee table sat aviation glasses, a few recipe cards, religious tracts and personal finance books. The detective thumbed through one book and replaced it.

  The maid looked on uneasily. “Misser Lester don’t love when anybody trouble him things, you know.”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Preddy, retreating from the room. “Oh, and don’t worry, I will ask Miss Ida about keeping de photograph.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Monday, 20 July, 11:00 a.m.

  “We’ve got a possible lead on the suspect’s vehicle, sir. Look at this guy, Marcus Darnay,” said Harris, swivelling round in his brand new chair, oblivious to the jealous stares of the detectives across the open-plan floor. “Lives right here in Mo Bay. Seems tae have quite a criminal record.”

  “Dat name is familiar,” said Preddy, as he walked towards the Scotsman.

  “Looks like a right dodgy so and so,” added Harris.

  “Well, we won’t judge him on whether he can enter Mr Universe, Detective,” replied Preddy with a tight smile.

  Preddy stood over Harris’s shoulder looking at the heavy set, insolent face that filled the computer monitor. The tiny dreadlocks, the wide eyes set far apart over a broad nose bridge, the square stubble jaw. Marcus Darnay was a drug dealer who had once referred to himself on customs documents as a pharmaceutical entrepreneur. Here was a man who was intimately acquainted with the criminal justice system and known to all the local judges. Incarcerated more than once for drug-related offences and a few times for theft, he always seemed to spend little time in jail.

  It was deeply frustrating to Preddy that the police force went to great lengths to apprehend criminals like Darnay only for the courts to fail to give them the sentences they deserved. Sometimes it was the prosecution who blundered and the defence would scupper what should have been a straightforward cruise to conviction. Past experience taught the detective that there was no point insisting on a prosecution with purely circumstantial evidence as the jury would rarely, if ever, bite. Their demand for real evidence was based partly on mistrust of the police and Preddy knew that the JCF had no-one to blame but themselves.

  There had been no suggestion of Darnay being involved in a murder before, but this was the natural progression for some criminals, particularly where drugs were involved.

  “Darnay owns a silver Subaru Outback matching the description with a licence plate starting six four seven one,” said Harris.

  “Do we know where he is?”

  Harris smiled. “Aye. Invited him in for a chat and he agreed tae come.”

  Preddy looked surprised. “Dat should be something, Darnay turning up voluntarily to speak to de police.”

  “Well, we won’t judge him, will we, sir,” said Harris.

  Preddy was not sure if he detected a tone in the man’s voice and decided to ignore it. With that strong accent anything could be misconstrued.

  “Maybe he has turned over a new leaf, sir?” suggested Harris after a short moment of silence.

  “Not Darnay, he is a career criminal,” replied Preddy, shaking his head. “He will just have moved on to de next type of profitable crime.”

  “I told him tae ask for Detective Spence when he comes in.”

  “Och, did ye now?” Spence turned to face the man who had taken to delegating interviewees to her.

  Harris gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry, I forgot tae tell ye.”

  “What time are we expecting him?” asked Preddy.

  “In about an hour, sir,” said Harris. “I’ll be down at the lab though, if that’s okay with ye?”

  *

  Preddy was on the lookout for Darnay and was disappointed to see the suspect turn up in a taxi and not in his own vehicle. It would have been too good to be true. He would need to work much harder than that to get Darnay. He retreated to the sparse interview room to wait for the new arrival. Spence was already seated and drumming her fingers on the off-white plastic table. Preddy sat in the empty matching chair beside her and positioned another one on the opposite side of the table.

  “Me ’fraid to come to dis place, you know,” Darnay announced sarcastically, staring at Preddy as he sidled through the door and took up a seat. “Me never bring a bodyguard and me know dat you will beat me, kill me.”

  “You are perfectly safe here, Mr Darnay. You have my word,” Preddy replied.

  “I don’t want your word, Misser Police Officer, ’cause I know what it good fah,” Darnay retorted. “Everybody know say you a Dirty Harry!”

  Preddy was used to this and did not flinch. He held the interviewee’s gaze and said nothing. Darnay leaned forward aggressively and
Preddy noted two prominent tattoos on his arm. Names and birth dates of children, he guessed.

  “Turn on de TV camera! A dat me want!”

  “Dere is a CCTV camera right over your head, Mr Darnay.” Spence pointed and Darnay’s eyes followed her direction. He was not to know that despite their best efforts it rarely recorded properly. “Thank you for coming in to see us. We are glad you could make it.”

  “I heard dat you want talk to me and I have nothing to hide.” Darnay settled back in his chair, jeans-clad legs spread apart, one arm slung over the backrest and the other hovering around his crotch. He leered openly at Spence. “Ask me what you want ask me, natural lady, me well glad fi see you, too.”

  “We are grateful, Mr Darnay,” she smiled at him. Marcus Darnay, God’s gift to women because He just couldn’t be asked. “Where were you on Saturday night?”

  The conversation was largely disappointing. Darnay was at the Orchid Bar all night on Saturday until dawn on Sunday morning. He did not know Carter or Lester personally and denied owning any type of gun. The car, he said, was stolen a few days ago and he had not yet got around to reporting it. Neither of the detectives believed this for a minute, but as it was not a crime to fail to report a stolen vehicle, there was nothing they could do. Preddy wished there was such a crime. If a victim did not have a valid excuse, such as being in hospital or off the island, they should be charged with the crime of failure to report. Too many people were using the convenient excuse of being robbed when asked about their vehicle’s involvement in a crime.

  According to Darnay, he could always find transportation to get around if he needed to. There were plenty of cars in his garage workshop that were either already fixed or in the process of being fixed when their impoverished owners conceded that they could not pay for the service. Reporting the theft of the car had been the last thing on his mind and he expressed his gratitude to the detectives for reminding him about it.