Deep Blue Sea

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Do you still have them?’

  Dot shook her head sadly. ‘Not really. Well, he had a little notebook where he’d scribble down his experiments, but I can’t make head nor tail of them.’

  ‘Do you still have it? The notebook, I mean?’ asked Rachel.

  Dot rummaged in a cupboard. ‘Here it is,’ she said, handing over a pale blue pocketbook.

  Rachel flipped it open but could only frown when she saw the text. She’d had visions of being able to revive the bakery using Ron’s old recipes, but Dot was right, it made no sense at all. Instead of the clear step-by-step instructions you got in cookbooks, it was a lot of scrawled letters and numbers – ‘S1Y BHF BS 2pch’ – with no relation to each other.

  Diana peered over Rachel’s shoulder. ‘Do you think they might be ingredients?’

  Dot shrugged. ‘What on earth can “MHFP” mean?’

  ‘Look, there’s a gap between the letters, I think it’s “M HF P”,’ said Diana, trying to make sense of it. ‘Could it be “milk half pint”? Look at the next one: “B 3 O”? I think that might be “butter three ounces”.’

  Rachel started to laugh. ‘I think you’re right, Mary Berry. Check this out: “4e”. That’s got to be four eggs, surely?’

  Dot snatched the book back, her eyes skimming over her late husband’s script as though he was coming back to life with each deciphered message.

  ‘Girls, you’re right!’

  ‘We should try and make something,’ said Rachel mischievously.

  ‘What, now?’ asked Dot, bug-eyed.

  ‘We’re not doing anything for the rest of the afternoon, are we, Di?’

  ‘You know, Ron’s courgette cake was legendary.’

  ‘Is it in the recipe book?’

  Dot nodded. ‘And now that you clever clogs have cracked the code, we know how to make it.’

  She beckoned them to follow her into the kitchen, which was surprisingly clean and modern. She started opening cupboards, checking best-before dates on packets, and eventually declared that they had every ingredient they needed except courgettes.

  ‘There’s the village stores,’ offered Diana.

  Dot snorted. ‘You’ll have as much luck finding courgettes there as you would a designer handbag.’

  ‘Where’s the nearest supermarket?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘In Henley. About a twenty-minute drive away.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll have to try something else, then.’

  ‘There is one place we could get courgettes . . .’ said Dot.

  ‘Go on. Over you go.’

  Diana looked at the wall dubiously. It was only about four feet high, but there were spiky-looking bushes on the other side and her pretty Moschino dress wasn’t exactly designed for mountaineering.

  ‘Are you sure she’s not in?’

  ‘Dot says she’s in Bournemouth with her grandchildren.’

  ‘This is trespassing.’

  ‘I’m the family law-breaker. I’ll take all responsibility.’ Rachel pushed the toe of her Converse into a gap in the wall, hoisting herself up. She pulled Diana up behind her, then dropped into the garden, taking a moment to savour the smells: flowers, leaves, even the grass smelled wonderfully damp from last night’s rain.

  Diana looked like a demure terrified doll on the top of the wall.

  ‘Come on,’ hissed Rachel.

  ‘I don’t even know what a courgette plant looks like,’ Diana moaned.

  ‘I thought you lived in the organic greengrocer’s.’ She pointed to the vegetable patch – easy to spot from the cane wigwams with runner beans twisting around them. ‘Spiky leaves, yellow flowers, over there, go, go, go.’

  Diana’s eyes opened wide, as if she’d had an adrenalin shot. She scuttled across the garden and scooped up the contraband vegetables. When she returned to Rachel, her face was pink and radiant.

  By the time they got back to the café, Dot had already assembled pots, pan and scales around her. It was Ron’s old equipment, she told them as she followed his code, mixing flour, eggs, sugar and butter together. Diana got stuck in too, and Rachel took a moment to watch them. It was as if the two women were coming back to life, like watching a photo develop in front of her.

  Within an hour, it was ready, a perfect slab of loaf, flecked with courgette and ginger.

  ‘You do the honours,’ said Dot. ‘My hands are shaking.’

  Diana divided the loaf into generous slices and they took one each on a plate.

  ‘Go on, try it,’ urged Dot.

  Tentatively, Diana took a mouthful. ‘It’s delicious,’ she said. ‘I mean, really, really good. What do you think? Is it as good as Ron’s?’

  But Dot couldn’t speak; there were tears running down her face.

  ‘What’s the matter? Is it that bad?’

  Dot shook her head. ‘It’s perfect. It’s just like Ron was here, like he’d just baked it and stepped through to the other room.’

  Rachel had switched into business mode.

  ‘You shouldn’t be selling factory-made cakes, Dot. You should make your own, with Ron’s recipes. Diana can get to work on the interiors and organisation and I might even have a few old press contacts to get word out about the place . . .’ She could feel energy and anticipation pulsating not just within her but around the whole room.

  ‘We could reopen on the day of the village fair,’ said Diana, beaming. Rachel could feel her own smile stretching from ear to ear.

  She could hear a loud buzzing noise. At first she thought it was one of Dot’s kitchen appliances, before she realised it was her own phone. She stopped laughing to answer it.

  At first there was silence on the other end, then a gentle snivel. Rachel realised instantly that it was someone crying.

  ‘Who is this?’ she asked softly.

  ‘It’s Kath Jensen.’ For a second Rachel couldn’t place the name. ‘Ross’s ex-wife.’

  She was immediately on alert. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Ross. He’s been attacked in Jamaica. He was on a job. The job he was working on with you, I think. Rachel, he’s in a coma and they don’t know if he is going to pull through.’

  32

  Rachel had expected it to be hot, of course she had: it was the Caribbean. But it was one thing to imagine it and another to feel the almost physical thump as you stepped from the air-conditioned plane and into the furnace of Montego Bay. Her body shivered as it fought to cope with the sudden shift, and her breathing increased, like it was hard to drag oxygen from the humid air. Now I know how gingerbread men feel, she thought. Perhaps she had been away from Thailand too long. Or perhaps she was still in shock from the news about Ross – she was torn between being desperate to get to her friend’s side and dreading seeing him. No, that wasn’t shock, it was guilt. There were no two ways about it: if Rachel hadn’t turned up on his doorstep a few weeks ago, Ross would still have been walking around happily. Well, perhaps not happily; he was never exactly a ray of sunshine, she thought with a grim smile as she was waved through customs. A tall man in a suit was holding up a sign with her name on it.

  ‘Miss Rachel? I am Yohan,’ he said, holding out a huge hand and showing her his teeth – perfect except for one missing at the side. ‘How long are you staying with us?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Irie,’ he said, taking her bag. ‘I was sorry to hear about your friend.’

  ‘Really?’ said Rachel. ‘Was it on the news?’

  The man let out a chuckle. ‘Nah, I spoke to your sister, Miss Diana? She told me that whatever you want to do while you’re in Jamaica, I should take you. So I will be your driver, your guide. And . . .’ he gave her another wide smile, ‘I was in the Jamaican army, so you will be safe.’

  A bodyguard? Rachel felt her e
motions pulled in two directions at once. The hardened hack in her bristled at the idea that she might need protection; she had faced worse things than Jamaica could throw at her. But at the same time, so had Ross; in fact, he had also been in the army, and what good had it done him? She looked at Yohan’s broad back as he led her to a large black Mercedes. No, on balance she was rather glad her driver was on hand, because she was starting to think that perhaps Diana’s worries about her safety weren’t entirely unjustified.

  Yohan put Rachel’s bag in the boot and opened the car door for her.

  ‘You want to go straight to the hospital?’

  Rachel pulled a face, then nodded. ‘Yes, okay. You know the way?’

  He laughed again. ‘Miss Rachel, I know everything and everyone on this island. I told you, you’re in good hands.’

  Rachel sat in the back seat, glad to be once more sealed inside a climate-controlled environment, and watched as the airport gave way to fields. Sometimes new places surprised you: Naples had been like that. Rachel had once taken a train to the city from Rome, expecting a glamorous seaside town; instead she had been confronted by endless run-down concrete tenements, covered in grime and graffiti. But Jamaica was exactly as she had imagined: banana groves and sun-blasted fields interspersed with tiny settlements seemingly thrown together from planks and corrugated iron, people literally sitting on the kerb in shorts drinking Red Stripe and Tang. And then suddenly you’d glimpse the sea and the high gates of a luxury resort, the razor wire at the top designed to keep the wealthy holidaymakers inside and on their sunloungers and the real Jamaicans out. No wonder so many of those places were all-inclusive, thought Rachel.

  By contrast, Montego Bay was raw. Yes, the poverty was everywhere – dirt roads, lean-to shacks selling dusty car parts and coconuts – but it pulsated with noise and life. Even though the car’s windows were firmly closed, she could hear the music: reggae and dub pumping from every opening along with the horns, the shouts, the laughter. Rachel had been to some poor parts of the world, but the mood in Jamaica was defiantly upbeat.

  The Cornwall Hospital also refused to conform: a high-rise building in lush grounds high on a hill looking out over the sea. Apart from the ambulances parked outside, it could have been a holiday resort. Inside, Rachel was directed to the surgical unit, where she approached a nurse.

  ‘I’m looking for Ross McKiney?’

  ‘And you are?’ She turned at the sound of a deep male voice behind her. The Jamaican man was mid forties, stocky, with that unmistakable world-weary yet tuned-in look of policemen the world over.

  ‘Are you Detective Henry, by any chance?’ she said.

  The man nodded warily. ‘I am.’

  Rachel stepped forward and offered her hand. ‘Rachel Miller, we spoke on the phone yesterday?’

  ‘Ah yes. I have just been visiting Mr McKiney.’ He glanced towards the door to the ward. ‘I imagine you are thirsty after your journey, Miss Miller. Perhaps I could buy you a coffee before you go in to see your friend?’

  Rachel didn’t really think she had much choice, so she nodded. Besides, she needed to speak to the policeman. He led her to a lift, then down to a café with a view of the bay.

  ‘So how is he?’ asked Rachel when they were sitting at a table with their drinks.

  ‘As well as can be expected, isn’t that the phrase? You should prepare yourself, Miss Miller, he’s not a pretty sight – he took quite a beating.’

  He registered the dismay on Rachel’s face and held up a finger.

  ‘However, I spoke to his doctor earlier; he is expected to make a full recovery. I think he was lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’ said Rachel angrily. ‘My friend has almost been killed and you think that’s lucky?’

  She sipped her coffee, feeling a swell of dread at seeing Ross.

  ‘So what happened? A tourist in the wrong place at the wrong time? I should have reminded him that this was the murder capital of the world.’ She knew she was being rude about someone else’s country, but she was angry and frustrated,

  ‘Contrary to what you might have heard, Jamaica is generally a safe country,’ Henry said patiently. ‘We work hard to protect our people and the people who come to visit us. Most of the violence you hear about in the media is by the criminal community directed at the criminal community. It is not the Wild West, Miss Miller.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’ she pressed.

  ‘Mr McKiney was walking in what might be termed a bad area. Shack housing, a few run-down businesses, the sort of place you wouldn’t want to be walking alone, even as a Jamaican. He was seen asking directions, then taking photographs with expensive camera equipment, and he was white, well-dressed . . .’ He shrugged. ‘He looked exactly like a lost tourist.’ Henry swirled his coffee around the cheap plastic cup.

  ‘I assume his possessions were taken.’

  Henry nodded. ‘Unfortunately, we have a few of these cases each year. But this one seemed different. The ferocity of the attack was unusual for a simple mugging.’

  Rachel felt a sinking in her stomach. Oh God, Ross, what have I done to you? she thought miserably.

  ‘Muggers, are, how do you say, opportunists: whack someone over the head, grab the stuff and run. They don’t want to risk anyone seeing them, especially in a small community where they might be recognised. In this case there was more than one assailant, definitely armed. Clearly Mr McKiney fought back, but even so, if they hadn’t been disturbed – a pastor visiting a sick parishioner happened to come by – I think we would be looking at a murder.’

  The word seemed to hang in the air.

  ‘Why was Mr McKiney in Jamaica, Miss Miller? I have checked out his hotel. It isn’t a tourist resort.’

  Rachel looked out at the view and wondered how much she should tell him.

  ‘It does not do your friend any favours to keep secrets,’ said the policeman in his thick Caribbean accent.

  Rachel’s mouth felt dry. ‘He was tracing the movements of a friend,’ she said finally. ‘A friend who had come to the island with his mistress.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Henry, nodding as things became clear. ‘That makes sense,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Perhaps someone didn’t want him to find anything out.’

  ‘You mean he got scared off.’

  ‘He was warned.’

  Henry finished his coffee and threw the cup into the bin with a direct hit.

  ‘You should go and see your friend. Call me from your hotel and perhaps we can talk more later.’

  Before Detective Henry’s warning, Rachel wasn’t sure how she had expected Ross to look. Perhaps she would find him lying peacefully, a drip in his arm, a plaster on his cheek. Instead, she wanted to cry, he looked so beaten and broken. He was lying on his back, his arm in plaster held at a right angle, bandages around his head. His face was swollen and bruised, one eye almost closed.

  She was allowed to take a seat by his bedside. She wasn’t sure how long she had been there when she felt another presence enter the room.

  Turning to the door, she didn’t recognise the couple who had come in until they introduced themselves as Kath and Phillip Jensen.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ said Rachel, feeling suddenly less alone.

  ‘Can he be flown home?’ asked Kath.

  ‘Not until he regains consciousness. And then, who knows.’

  ‘We’ll stay until it gets sorted,’ said Phillip. ‘The kids are at my mother’s. Thank you for the flights over here,’ he added, stepping forward with a grateful handshake.

  Rachel smiled. As soon as she had come off the phone with Kath Jensen, Diana had forgotten her own troubles and sorted out immediate travel for both Rachel and Ross’s family to fly to Jamaica, paying for every single expense.

  Standing at
Ross’s bedside, Kath Jensen looked ready to cry. Rachel watched as her husband put a concerned arm around her shoulders, and remembered what Ross had said about him. He had every reason to dislike Phillip Jensen, and yet he had called him a nice guy. He had been able to see through the betrayal to the man beneath.

  Rachel stayed until the nurse indicated that visiting hours were over. Yohan was waiting for her, a reassuring presence standing by his Mercedes outside the hospital.

  ‘How is your friend?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said, not wanting to think about it too hard. She looked at the man quizzically. ‘Yohan, you said you know everyone on the island, right?’

  He grinned. ‘Maybe not everyone, but most people, sure.’

  ‘So would you have any idea who did this to my friend?’

  Yohan’s face clouded over. ‘I have already started to ask around, Miss Rachel. My job is to look after you; look what happened to Mr Ross.’

  ‘And what have you found out?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but I will,’ he said with determination. He opened the car door. ‘I should take you to your hotel,’ he said quietly.

  They drove out of the city past coconut and banana plantations. Deeper into the island, Rachel could see a backdrop of thick jungle that reminded her of Thailand. She wanted to ask Yohan more questions, but her body was tired, eyelids drooping. She had been on the go for over a week, with barely time for a change of clothes. She wound down the window to let the breeze on to her face, breathing in the warm air infused with salt and the smell of tropical flowers. She must have nodded off, because when she opened her eyes, Yohan was standing outside the car, grinning at her through the window.

  ‘We’re here, Miss Rachel.’

  She had read about Round Hill in a magazine when she had been waiting in Virgin’s Upper Class lounge at Heathrow – a delicious colonial estate just outside the city, the feature had said, aglow with a glamorous heritage that included guests of the calibre of John and Jackie Kennedy and Elizabeth Taylor, before being revamped by Ralph Lauren in recent years. The green and white awning over the entrance suggested a small house, but it opened out on to a verandah with spectacular views across a jutting headland and down to white beaches and blue sea.