Deadly Deceit

by Jean Harrod

  Brilliant sunlight reflected off the white-washed walls of the international terminal, dazzling her. She felt her spirits soar for the first time in ages. As she stepped through the door, a steel band struck up in the far corner of the arrivals’ hall to welcome the tourists. Definitely in the Caribbean!

  After clearing passport control, she hauled her suitcase off the single baggage belt, and walked through customs. Now she had to transfer onto a domestic flight to the island of Grand Turk, the capital and seat of Government. She was relieved to discover the domestic terminal was in the same building. Now, she could see the Island Airways check-in for Grand Turk on the other side of the cavernous waiting area.

  She went over. There were two desks, each with a set of weighing scales, and a line of ‘queuing’ suitcases. But no sign of any check-in staff, or passengers. No security officers either to monitor the unattended baggage.

  In the far corner, a café heaved with people. They had to be the owners of these suitcases, she thought. They weren’t all going over to Grand Turk: flights to other islands were up on the departure board too. She had another look at the café and decided to give it a miss. She wasn’t going into that scrum, no matter how desperate she was for coffee. She pulled her suitcase over to a row of plastic seats and sat down to wait for check-in to open.

  She switched on her mobile to call Simon and let him know she’d arrived. She waited for a signal… and waited.

  No signal.

  Other people were on their mobiles in the terminal, so she could only think her US provider didn’t cover the Turks and Caicos. Damn! She’d have to phone Simon on a landline when she got over to Grand Turk.

  Relaxing back into the seat, she watched everyone. Airports were fascinating and gave a real insight into the locals. Flying brought out the worst in people, but this lot didn’t seem at all worried. They were too busy eating and drinking.

  She smiled thinking back to the conversation with her Personnel Officer in London. She told him she’d barely heard of the Turks and Caicos Islands, let alone worked in a Governor’s Office in a British Overseas Territory before. He was upbeat about it, although she detected a note of desperation in his voice. She guessed she was the only person available to drop everything at a moment’s notice and jet off to the Caribbean, and he wasn’t about to let her off the hook. “You’re one of life’s troopers, Jess,” he said with as much honesty as he could muster. “You’ll cope.” And that was that.

  He’d instructed London’s Overseas Territories Department to email her a background brief on the Turks and Caicos overnight. She’d spent the entire journey reading it over and over to get the facts straight in her head.

  The history of these islands made interesting reading. They’d first been claimed by the Spanish, then the French, with the British Empire finally gaining control in 1764. Initially the islands were annexed to Jamaica, and governed from there. When Jamaica became independent, the islands were annexed to the Bahamas. However, when they gained independence, the Turks and Caicos voted to remain British, and finally got their own resident Governor, on Grand Turk. And that’s where Jess was now heading.

  Suddenly, a young woman in red trousers and jacket, with black hair tied back in a ponytail, clambered over some weighing scales and stood behind one of the desks. She wore a huge Island Airways badge on her lapel.

  The stampede from the café that followed was unexpected. The relaxed crowd turned into a crush as people pushed and shoved to check in their bulging suitcases.

  Jess watched fascinated.

  Suddenly the crowds parted as a man swept out of the café and walked straight up to the desk. Must be someone important, Jess thought, as he swaggered along dressed in a smart business suit. His curly hair was rigid with gel, and his black skin, above the collar of his white shirt, glowed with good living.

  The check-in girl gave him a big smile. A baggage attendant appeared from nowhere and lifted his suitcase onto the weighing scales. Jess couldn’t see if the man acknowledged either of them, because he had his back to her. He certainly didn’t stop talking on his mobile for a moment. As he walked away from check-in, a little girl darted in front of him, causing him to stumble and drop his briefcase.

  “Keep that kid under control!” he barked at the child’s mother. His penetrating voice reverberated around the terminal. People stood shocked and hushed.

  The woman pulled the child close, her eyes lowered submissively as he continued his rant.

  Jess stood up.

  He caught the movement, and glared at her. Then he picked up his briefcase and went over to security.

  The crowd closed in again at check-in and the chaos resumed.

  Rude oaf! Jess watched him pass through security. He obviously thought he was some kind of ‘Big Shot’. She sat down again to wait until everyone else had checked in. Huge suitcases, pushchairs, boxes, food hampers, and trunks were all being weighed. Nothing, she noticed, was ever turned away.

  Suddenly an old lady was lifted up onto the baggage scales by two passengers. Were they weighing her?

  Then Jess realised… Oh God! She jumped up and rushed over to the window. Outside a row of propeller planes stood gleaming in the sunshine – not a jet in sight. Now she knew why the weight of the bags and passengers mattered so much. Her stomach turned. She hated propeller planes. Every movement, every turbulent bump, every lash of rain seemed magnified inside them.

  It was at that precise moment she wondered just what she was letting herself in for. Had she been a bit hasty in accepting this assignment? Almost immediately, she dismissed her uneasiness. She’d agreed to do this job for a couple of months, and that’s exactly what she was going to do.

  At the check-in desk, she put her ticket on the counter and her suitcase on the baggage scales. The other passengers had gone through the metal detector arch, and were sitting in a tiny room on the other side.

  “Weight?” The check-in girl barked without looking up.

  Jess looked at her suitcase on the weighing scales.

  “Your weight.” The girl’s eyes never left her computer.

  “Fifty-six kilos.”

  The girl looked up in disbelief, her lips pursed under a single slash of bright red lipstick.

  Jess couldn’t blame her for being sceptical, given the size of the other passengers.

  The girl looked her up and down, and slapped a boarding card on the counter.

  In the tiny departure lounge there were only half a dozen seats, not enough for all the passengers. Big Shot sat by the door leading to the tarmac, and was now deep in conversation with another man. Jess had noticed this other man at check-in, not only because of his blond ponytail, but because he was the only other white person around. With sun-bronzed skin and dressed casually in a black polo shirt and jeans, he had a rugged look about him, as if he spent his life outdoors.

  He must have been aware of her eyes on him, because he looked over and flashed her a smile.

  It was such a warm smile that it deserved one in return.

  As soon as the door opened, Big Shot stood up and pushed through it. A crush to get through after him followed. Jess went out last. She was in no rush. At least the plane had two propellers, she thought, as she climbed the small portable steps and entered the cabin. The pilot and co-pilot sat up front, with no door to shield them from the passengers. Jess couldn’t stand up straight, because there wasn’t enough head room. With only a single seat on either side of the aisle, and a row of three across the back, there couldn’t have been more than 24 seats in all. She looked at the number on her boarding card, then at the seat. Who should be sitting in it, but Big Shot? He averted his eyes. He had no intention of moving.

  “Sit anywhere,” the pilot shouted to her over his shoulder.

  The only spare seat left was in the middle of the back row. Bent over double, she walked to the back and sat down between two burly men. With no arm-rests dividing the seats, their fleshy hips pressed against her. The heat radiating from th
eir bodies made her feel uncomfortable, and she perched on the edge of the seat. No wonder everyone had stampeded to get onto the plane, she thought. And now she knew the ropes, she wouldn’t get the worst seat again either.

  The pilot taxied over to the single runway, swung onto it, and stepped on the gas in a running start. Jess wondered, heart in mouth, if they’d ever get off the ground with all the weight on board. But they were soon rising above stunning, white sandy beaches and aquamarine sea, in brilliant sunshine. She forgot about being squashed in the middle, because it gave her a terrific view out of each side window. She smiled at one of the men sitting next to her.

  He just looked out the window.

  Why were the Islanders so uncommunicative in this Territory, she wondered? No-one had spoken to her, or even looked her in the eye, since she’d arrived, except Blond Ponytail. She could see him now sitting towards the front, reading a newspaper. All the American tourists seemed to have been left behind in Provo.

  She peered out the windows again. Blue sea shimmered all around, and merged on the horizon with crystalline sky. White foam swirled over coral reefs, as waves crashed onto them. She’d never seen anything so beautiful.

  According to the brief London had sent her, the islands were surrounded by the third largest coral reef system in the world. So it wasn’t surprising, over the centuries, that many ships had ended up in a watery grave close to these shores. That’s how the islands had come to be populated by people of African descent. Some had been slaves who survived those shipwrecks. Others had been slaves of American Royalists who had come down to the islands after the American War of Independence to set up cotton and tobacco plantations.

  Jess wondered if the islanders’ demeanour could be a consequence of their ancestors’ grim experience of slavery? Or of the trauma of being ship-wrecked? Could experiences like that be passed genetically through generations? Or maybe living in an isolated society in the middle of the North Atlantic just made them subdued and wary of foreigners? They could hardly like having a British colonial government either, except they had voted to keep it.

  Only then did it occur to her that she hadn’t noticed anything British about the Territory. Had there been a Union Jack flying at Provo airport? She couldn’t remember seeing one. The Oprah Winfrey Show had beamed out of the terminal TV. And people spoke with a slight American accent, rather than a British one.

  All very puzzling.

  As Jess sat there, uncomfortably considering her first impressions of the Turks and Caicos, Big Shot turned round and gave her a penetrating stare. It was as if he knew exactly what was going through her mind. He didn’t smile or acknowledge her, so she didn’t respond either. She was already getting the hang of this.

  At that moment a more sinister thought popped into her head. Maybe there was another reason why people didn’t talk to each other here, let alone to strangers. Maybe they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves? Perhaps they were afraid to?

  4

  There was no steel band to welcome them when they walked into the Grand Turk domestic terminal, and no holiday feel to the place either. Jess’s flying companions stood silently waiting for their luggage at the single baggage carousel. Miraculously, hers came out first. She hauled it off and walked into the main hallway. She wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee, which was just as well, as there wasn’t one. Hadn’t David Evans said he’d meet her?

  After a while, she saw a black limousine draw up outside, and Big Shot get in. She went over to the door and watched the car disappear into the distance with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. He was someone important, and she’d just made a terrible first impression.

  Too bad, she thought, as she looked again in vain for David. Not that she’d met him. There were just no other white faces in the terminal.

  A young man sidled up to her. “Taxi, Miss?” he asked, smiling.

  It was the first time any islander had smiled at her since she’d landed in the Territory. His trousers and shirt looked clean and freshly ironed, which she liked. And he didn’t try and grab her suitcase or herd her towards his taxi. She nodded.

  He smiled again. “Wait there!”

  He crossed the road to the car park in front of the terminal and got into an old Ford, which was covered in fine sand. She was soon to discover that almost everything in the islands was. She started having second thoughts when the old car wouldn’t start. But after the third attempt, it shuddered into life, and he drove over to where she was waiting.

  The battered bonnet, and the front number plate hanging off, didn’t fill her with confidence either. But his friendly smile heartened her, and she decided to take a chance.

  He jumped out, stashed her suitcase in the boot, and held the passenger door open. “Where are you going, Miss?” he asked as she got in.

  “Governor’s Office, please.”

  He nodded and ran round to the driver’s seat. He drove along the airport approach road for about 200 yards. At the T-junction, he turned left. Moments later, he swung through an open iron gate, and pulled up outside a small building. “Governor’s Office, Miss,” he said, switching off the engine.

  Jess looked at him. She could have walked it in five minutes. That’s when she realised he was no taxi driver at all. Just a local, keen to make a quick buck. Oh well, she thought, at least she’d made it in one piece.

  Ahead of her, the building looked more like a white-washed bungalow than an office. The brass plaque, screwed into the wall next to the front door, confirmed it was the Governor’s Office. She tried the handle, but the door was locked. She walked along and peered through one of the windows. Everything was in darkness inside. She looked at her watch: 4.30. Had everyone already gone home?

  Wearily, she sat down on the front door step. She’d been travelling all day and now she’d arrived, not only was there no-one to meet her at the airport, the office was closed. But, as she looked up at the huge orange sun hanging low in the sky, and heard the rhythmic sound of waves lapping onto the shore in the distance, she felt entirely calm.

  Seeing another set of iron gates further along, she rose, brushed off her trousers, and walked towards them, pulling her suitcase behind her. Although the sun was close to setting, it was still hot on her face. The humidity wrapped around her, and little drops of sweat trickled down her back. She stopped to take off her jacket and tuck it under her arm.

  Beyond the gates, a driveway led up to a beautiful old house, standing framed in the late afternoon sunlight. It looked just like one of those old Bermuda-style houses in story books, with a wide verandah and wooden railings on every side. Dotted around the grounds were squat palm trees and low-lying shrubs.

  She grabbed the handle of her suitcase again, and set off along the drive. The going was uncomfortable. Sand squeezed through the open toes of her shoes until the soles of her feet felt like they were getting a sand scrub pedicure.

  When she reached the house, a sign above the door said: Trafalgar House. Beside it stood an old bronze cannon, with its barrel pointing up the drive as if ready to blast any unwanted visitors. Someone had a sense of humour, she thought, as she rang the bell and waited. No reply. She rang again. Where was everyone?

  Leaving her suitcase at the door, she walked along the wooden verandah. It led around the side of the house, to a paved courtyard at the back. Party preparations were underway. A trestle table was set with a white tablecloth, and sparkling china and glass. Several bottles of booze were lined up on the bar in the far corner. Everything looked ready, except there was no-one around.

  She couldn’t see the sea from the courtyard, but she could hear it. Walking across the back garden towards some scrub-like bushes that seemed to border the property, she peered through a gap, and saw a beautiful, white coral beach, and aquamarine sea.

  Mesmerised, she watched the huge sun hover on the horizon before slipping out of sight.

  A cry from behind made her jump.

  She spun round and saw a plump w
oman, wearing a domestic uniform and white pinafore staring at her. The woman nervously pushed some stray curly black hairs behind an old-fashioned comb that was keeping her bun in place. “Miss Jessica?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my goodness.” Tears welled up in the woman’s black eyes and slipped down her cheeks.

  Jess was startled.

  “Th-the Governor…” The woman fanned herself with her hands as if trying to summon up air to breathe. “He had a car accident this morning.”

  “An accident?”

  The woman buried her head in her hands.

  Hearing footsteps running along the verandah, Jess turned to see a man with dishevelled sandy-coloured hair appear. She knew immediately who he was, and held out her hand. “Hello, David?”

  He shook her hand, warmly. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t at the airport, Jess, I was late getting there.” He sounded breathless from running. “I thought you hadn’t come.”

  “I’ve just heard the awful news about the Governor,” she said.

  David went over to the woman, who was dabbing her eyes with the edge of her apron, and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “This is Maggie,” he said. “The Governor’s housekeeper and cook.”

  Jess smiled at Maggie.

  David went on. “The Governor’s car ran into a truck early this morning on his way down from the Ridge. He was badly injured and burned. The police took him to the clinic but there wasn’t much they could do without the right medical equipment. He’s been flown to a hospital in Miami.” He gave a sort of sigh as he stopped talking, as if all the air had been sucked out of him.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Jess asked, anxiously.

  David shrugged. “We don’t know yet.”

  “And your mother?” Jess asked, thinking how weighed down with worry he looked.

  “Not good.” He looked away, to compose himself. “We were organising a welcoming dinner party for you.” He pointed at the table and preparations. “The Governor wanted to introduce you to a few people before I left in the morning. Maggie’s been cooking all afternoon… I suppose we should have cancelled it really.”