by Greg Coppin
‘Thank you.’
Special Branch had finished with Lucia and me for the time being and I had taken a shaken Lucia to Audrey’s blue-fronted cafe. I felt she could do with some decent food inside of her. I don’t think she’d eaten much since the shooting.
I’d ordered the shrimp and conch ceviche. The aromas of the seafood dish were tantalisingly good. Lucia had gone for beans and rice with pigtail. That’s beans and rice. Not rice and beans. Apparently there’s a difference. I had much still to learn, and finding out what Ernesto Giuttieri was truly up to was only the half of it.
‘It was terrible,’ Lucia said as she picked at her food. ‘So many questions. And I know what you’re going to say, I shouldn’t have gone back to the boat. It was my fault.’
‘Well, let’s not look back.’
‘It is my boat, my grandfather’s boat. I have a right to go there.’
‘Yes.’
‘So why am I taken in by the police? As if I’m the criminal.’ Lucia’s blonde hair was tied in a scrunchie at the back. She wore a white lacy top and pink shorts.
‘It was Special Branch who brought you in,’ I said. ‘They would’ve been investigating the bomb. The bodies near the boat. Yes, they’re going to bring in anybody who goes back to that boat.’
‘I’m not responsible. I’m not the criminal.’
‘I know. They know.’
‘Question after question.’
I nodded. ‘Did they, um, take you to the roof?’
Lucia frowned hard. ‘Take me to the roof? We weren’t sightseeing, Luc. They were grilling me. Like I was a terrorist or something.’
‘They don’t think you’re a terrorist.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure. I suppose you blame me for them taking you in too?’
‘No.’
‘You said to phone that number if I was in trouble.’
‘Lucia, you did the right thing.’
She sighed.
A large, imposing woman in a very colourful dress had appeared behind the bar and was talking to the barman. I imagined this must be Audrey. When she’d finished the chat she looked around the room, her empire. It was fairly full and the noise was boisterous.
‘Do you think those Special Branch people will want to speak to us again?’ Lucia asked.
‘Well, they might do. But they’ll be more pleasant next time. Now that they know we’re not involved in the bomb.’
‘What more can we tell them? They should be out looking for the people responsible for killing my grandfather.’
‘I’m sure they are, Lucia.’
My phone vibrated. It was Charlie.
‘Luc. Are you out of the clutches of the Special Branch?’
‘We are. Good to be back on terra firma.’
‘Right. Not quite sure what that means, but we did lend some weight, hope it worked.’
‘Thank you. It seems to have done.’
‘Something else, before you go. Mike Haskins sent us a mobile phone with a lock code. The one you took from Hector Fernandez in the Jeep.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Did you manage to break it?’
‘We did. The pass code was 71729. And on the Contacts list one phone number keeps appearing.’
‘Go on.’
‘It belongs to a man named Dondero,’ she said. ‘Local guy. Lives on the outskirts of Belize City. I’ll email you his details.’
‘Excellent. Good work, Charlie.’
The large woman waddled heavily over to our table, as I placed the phone back on the tablecloth next to my drink.
I looked up. ‘Hello. You must be Audrey,’ I said.
‘Aff-ternoon. You are his girl?’ Audrey asked Lucia.
‘No,’ I said. ‘This is - .’
‘I not speak to you.’
‘Right. But - .’
‘This your man?’
‘No,’ Lucia said.
‘I think this is Audrey,’ I said to Lucia. ‘She owns this place.’
‘Okay.’
‘You like the food?’ Audrey asked.
‘The food’s great,’ I said.
‘You two should eat up, build reserves energy - then go do naughty things. By naughty I mean nice.’
‘Blimey,’ I said.
‘He not make a pass?’
‘Seriously…?’ I said.
‘English are all the same.’
‘I’m partly French too.’
‘Choh. Which part? Your feet? French know about love. Romance. They don’t ignore beautiful woman sitting in front of them.’
‘I wasn’t ignoring - .’
‘English all the same.’
‘You know a lot of English people?’ I asked.
‘I married English person,’ Audrey said. I raised my eyebrows. ‘He had round glasses and small beard. I thought he was poet. He said he was poet.’ She shook her head. ‘He had soul of a stone.’
‘Well…’
‘What about bomb, huh?’
I nodded. ‘I know. Terrible.’
‘They say it’s slightly improved roads round there.’
‘Audrey…’
‘I joke. Can’t I joke? It’s how we survive.’
‘The men responsible for the bomb,’ Lucia said, looking up at Audrey, ‘also killed my grandfather.’
‘Guatemalan Territory,’ she said dismissively. ‘Now they kidnap hostages.’ She tutted. ‘Shoot them.’
‘The hostages?’ I said.
She looked at me blankly. Then turned to Lucia.
‘Sorry about your granddad.’
Lucia nodded.
‘I have other customers to see.’ Audrey looked back at me. ‘You, make pass at this woman.’ She turned to Lucia. ‘You, accept pass. I go now. Bub-bye.’
She waddled off across the room and went to speak to a group of three by the door.
I looked at Lucia and tried a smile.
‘So, that was Audrey.’
‘Yes.’
I leaned forward and clasped my hands together.
‘I’m going to take you back to the safe house.’
‘Are you making a pass?’
‘No, Lucia,’ I said. ‘I want to get you back to a safe place.’
‘And you? What are you going to do?’
Charlie’s email had come through and I flicked it open to get the details.
‘I’m going to see a man named Jimmy Dondero.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
We stepped out into the street and the sun burned down on us once more. We crossed under the tangled lattice of telephone wires that stretched out across the road and headed north. The Toyota was parked two streets away.
‘I’ve been thinking about those poor people,’ Lucia said. She looked sexy in her suede pixie boots. ‘Those hostages. The people behind that are the same people who carried out the bombing?’ she asked.
A street vendor tried to interest us in some gloriously colourful fruit, but having just eaten we smiled and shook our heads.
‘Yes,’ I said to Lucia. ‘We’re starting to get evidence that a man named Ernesto Giuttieri may be behind this Guatemalan Territories Brigade. So yes, he’s responsible for the bomb, the hostages, the murder of my people and your granddad.’
‘He had my granddad murdered because he thinks Belize belongs to Guatemala?’
‘I’m not convinced he cares one way or another about Belize’s sovereignty,’ I said. ‘He’s certainly not one to take sides with Guatemala.’
‘So why all this brutality?’
‘I don’t know.’
We could hear some noise, some shouting, and when we turned right into Hazel Leaf Street we saw a crowd of about fifteen people massing about halfway up.
Hazel Leaf Street was a straight narrow road with houses and shops on both sides. Two or three cars were parked along both kerbs.
At first I thought there had been an accident or something. As we continued up the street I began to sense the anger of the crowd and I thought there ma
y be some sort of punch-up going on. Then somebody threw something and Lucia flinched as we heard glass smashing and there were cheers and angry shouts. I took Lucia’s hand. I wondered whether to go back and take the long way round.
‘What’s going on?’ Lucia asked, her left arm hugging her stomach.
We crossed to the other side of the street and kept walking. There was more things being thrown now, bricks, stones, more glass shattering. The shouting was getting more voluble. More people seemed to be massing.
‘It’s a Guatemalan food shop,’ Lucia said as we got nearer.
I could hear what some of the chants were now. ‘Down with Guatemala’ was one, and was fairly representative.
‘They’ve got the wrong people.’ I said.
‘It’s certainly not the owners of this food shop,’ Lucia said.
‘It’s not Guatemala. It’s Giuttieri. And I wouldn’t be surprised if this is exactly what he wants.’
We could hear sirens in the distance. More people were arriving all the time. The street was now filling up with protesters. This was a volatile situation and I needed to get Lucia out.
Police vans screamed to a halt at the end of the street and officers with shields filed out. A senior officer looked down the street at the mob. He turned and directed his men to take up position in two lines.
The seething mob now split in two with one part turning their attention to the arriving police. They began chanting and pointing at the two lines. Seemingly from nowhere I could see some protesters lighting up Molotov cocktails. Three or four were thrown at the police, who had to raise their shields and brace themselves as the bottles smashed against the armour, sending a ball of fire spurting out across the lines.
I saw one officer stagger back and drop to the ground. Some of his colleagues rushed over and tried to put the fire out that had taken hold on his uniform.
We couldn’t stand and watch. It had been the wrong decision to come up this way. I gripped Lucia’s hand tighter.
‘We have to go back,’ I said, the smell of smoke and sulphur now reaching us. ‘We can’t get out this way.’
We turned and started heading back down the street.
‘Where have all these people come from?’ I asked. The street was now seething with angry protesters. We were being jostled, and Lucia held tightly to me, gripping my arm. I shielded her as best as I could, while still manoeuvring us down the street. The mob had got into the food shop now and we began to see an orange glow from inside and another cheer went up. They were setting the place on fire.
‘What if there are people upstairs?’ Lucia asked.
If there were, this was not going to be good. What was their choice? Stay hiding upstairs with the fire coming to get them, or come down and face the mob?
‘We have to help them,’ Lucia said.
She was right, of course, but a couple of the protesters heard her and turned.
‘You sticking up for these scum?’ one of them demanded, advancing aggressively towards her. ‘You want to help them?’
‘You can’t murder them,’ Lucia shouted at him. ‘They just own a shop.’
I held a hand up to placate the two of them. ‘We’re good. We’re good. Let’s go, Lucia.’
Lucia tried to stand her ground. ‘We have to help them,’ she said.
‘We can’t help them by getting ourselves killed.’ I pushed her forwards.
‘Hey, yo,’ the protester shouted. ‘Don’t walk away.’
I could tell by the tone of his voice that this man wanted to make something of it.
‘Keep walking, Lucia,’ I said.
‘Hey. Hey.’ He wasn’t giving up. This could turn very nasty, very quickly.
‘Keep going,’ I said. ‘Don’t look back.’
I briefly let go of Lucia’s hand. I swung round and drove a single punch into the protester’s stomach. He doubled up and let out an almost silent cry as his knees began to buckle. I turned back, side stepping people, jostling the crowd. I barged my way through and grabbed Lucia’s hand again and she held me tighter. ‘Keep going,’ I told her. We pushed our way through the crowd. There was the sound of more vehicles. Now screeching to a halt. Riot police swarmed out and took up position in two lines, blocking the exit this end too.
The crowd had now seen the arriving police and surged forward. We kept pushing through the crowd and were one of the first to confront the two lines.
A policeman with helmet and shield and dark, staring eyes blocked our way, standing shoulder to shoulder with his colleagues.
‘We’re not part of this,’ I shouted out to him. ‘Let us through.’
I stepped forward and tried to gently push Lucia through the line of police. The policeman pushed her back with his hand. Then he pushed me back with his shield, the reinforced plastic slamming into my chest and face, sending me sprawling back into the oncoming crowd. Thankfully, somehow I managed to stay on my feet. If I’d fallen to the ground with all these stamping feet, I might never have got up again. It sent a chill through me just thinking about it.
‘What are you doing?’ I shouted to the policeman. ‘We’re not part of this. We got caught up in it.’ He made a motion with his hand as if to say, ‘Stay back.’
I took Lucia’s hand.
‘What are we going to do?’ Her eyes were wide and her voice was urgent.
‘I don’t know. They’re kettling us.’
I pulled Lucia along the front of the line, to the side of the street, where the buildings were. There seemed to be slightly more room there.
The mob were taunting the lines of police. Shouting stuff, hurling abuse.
The noise was incredible now. So was the animosity. The smell of uncontrolled violence was in the air. You could almost taste it.
I could see two men trying to break a slab of concrete. Presumably to use as missiles. A flash of orange to my left and I looked around and saw a Molotov cocktail explode into the police lines. A guttural roar went up from the mob.
Then I saw her.
As I turned back to Lucia I glimpsed a figure at the first floor window of the burning shop. I stopped and focused amid the maelstrom all around us. I could see her clearly now. See her elderly face, tight with fear. It was as if she was too scared to open the window and call for help for fear of the mob. But the fire would be creeping inexorably closer.
Lucia had now seen her too.
‘We have to help her,’ she insisted. And this time I knew she was right.
I swung round and shouted to the nearest policeman. ‘There’s a woman trapped in that - .’
‘Get back,’ he shouted, punching his shield into my face.
‘Philip,’ Lucia shouted, as I was hurled backwards. I tried to catch myself, but it was a sickening feeling as I lost all balance and sunk backwards, nothing to hold on to, and landed on my back with a thump on the chalky limestone of the road.
Immediately someone had stepped back and toppled over me, swearing, and sending a cloud of chalk into my face. Vicious boots and shoes stamped all around me, inches from my head and body.
‘Philip, get up,’ Lucia shouted.
The man who had toppled and fallen over me was not happy either as he was lashing out at me with his feet. This was not at all good. People were turning, seeing me, kicking me now, telling me to get out of the way. My hands were up, shielding my head. Someone else toppled over me and I took a kick in the face.
I put my left palm onto the ground. It immediately got stamped on and I had to ignore that and I used my hand and my heels to twist round. My head was smacked and bumped and barged but I was now on my knees and I got onto one knee and grabbed up at someone above me and pulled myself up using his shirt. Someone grabbed my right hand and I was pulled backwards. I turned and Lucia pulled me towards her. We pushed through the crowd to the side, up onto the pavement, away from the yobs who had kicked at me. They were now shouting abuse at the police, they’d forgotten all about me. We made it to the side, where the buildings were.
‘Thank you, Lucia,’ I said, meaning it.
‘The woman,’ Lucia said.
I nodded. The police weren’t going to help, or maybe they just hadn’t heard me. But time was leaking away. We had to act now. We couldn’t get into the woman’s apartment from the shop below her because the fire had now taken hold.
The mob were not vandalising the other buildings. They were interested only, it seemed, in the Guatemalan food shop and the police.
I looked up.
Maybe it could work.
The handle of the door nearest to us was locked.
‘Lucia. When I open this door, get inside straight away. I have to relock it as quick as I can.’ She knew what I meant: the mob. She nodded.
I pulled out my set of keys, my fingers chalky because of the limestone road, and, as far as I could tell, unobserved, I picked the lock and pushed the door open.
Lucia hurried inside and I swiftly followed her. I swung round and shut the door again. I double locked it.
We were okay. We hadn’t been seen.
A fist hammered on the door. I was wrong.
‘We have to hurry,’ I said, as the hammering intensified. ‘Up the stairs.’
We bolted up the staircase. We were in somebody’s house. I was sorry about that, but I hoped they would understand, would in fact want to help the stricken woman. I called out, but nobody answered. There was the smell of recent cooking, so maybe they’d gone out after having lunch.
‘What are we going to do?’ Lucia called out as we continued up the second flight of stairs.
‘We’re going to get on the roof.’
Lucia’s pounding footsteps stopped. I almost ploughed into the back of her.
‘Lucia. Come on.’
‘The roof,’ she said. ‘I don’t like heights.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I looked around. ‘I can’t leave you in here. That mob will break down that door eventually.’
‘Oh god.’
We continued up the staircase and reached the top floor, a small crucifix hung over the bannister post. There was a single small window at the back. I pushed open the wooden window and took the framed family photograph off the sill and placed it behind me on the lino floor. I looked out of the window and back up at the roof. It didn’t look overly difficult.
