Absolute Money: Part I: An Oliver Holmes Caribbean Thriller

by C B Wilson

  The cops were in the villa now, kicking open doors, yelling. Holmes left by the French windows into the garden, through the shrubs at the rear, over the fence and out into the side street.

  He heard shouts behind him. They’d seen him, seen his bloody footprints. Holmes started running uphill. He didn’t stop until he was physically sick on the pavement. All he could think of was Nikki and how he’d let her down.

  33

  The bureaucrats in Washington wanted to control everything that their investigators did out in the field, from interview procedure, to the weight of paper used in printers, to the type of water purification tablets “that should only be used in water.” They sent out handbooks full of instructions and email amendments and updates about anything and everything.

  Mostly, Oliver did the same as experienced field hands the world over. He ignored head office. But there was one instruction he did pay attention to. It was the one about packing and maintaining the emergency escape packs that nobody called “Eeps”.

  Ever since he’d got caught out during the civil war in Ivory Coast, Holmes had kept a few escape packs scattered around places he had easy access to. Each one had a bundle of US dollars and a phone. The one in his office had his passport. Holmes never got round to adding a first aid kit like he was supposed to.

  The pack that Holmes had picked up in his kitchen had cash and a fully charged mobile phone. The money had a paper band around it with a handwritten message that said “Receipts. PLEASE!” Holmes didn’t know if the accounts people wrote that for everyone, or just him, but he kind of knew they had singled him out.

  Holmes was almost a mile from his villa. He thought that was far enough away from the police for the moment. He sat on a low wall and tried and failed to spit the taste of vomit out of his mouth; then Holmes dialled the emergency number that was programmed into the phone.

  The number was staffed twenty-four hours a day in Washington, and the call was picked up within a couple of rings by a former investigator. Holmes didn’t know her name, or why she had quit. He just knew that field work was particularly tough on young women. He identified himself and asked that they organise a meeting with a lawyer. Holmes gave the name of a hotel in Kingston and said he would be there for an hour between 6 and 7 a.m.

  Holmes ended the call quickly. He knew that calling the emergency number would trigger all kinds of procedures back in Washington. There was nothing more for him to say.

  Out of his trouser pocket, Holmes pulled a couple of taxi drivers’ cards and kept calling until he found someone who was awake. They arranged the pick-up on the other side of the hill. Holmes pushed his way through the undergrowth, skirted a few houses and sat down to wait.

  34

  Under the lights that illuminated the hotel car park, Holmes could see that there was a bloodstain on the front of his shirt. It was a big one, clearly visible even when he was wearing his jacket. He couldn’t figure out how it had got on there, but it wasn’t the world’s biggest mystery. At least the blood wasn’t his.

  Holmes gave forty US dollars to the taxi driver and asked him to get a new shirt and bring it back to the hotel by 7 a.m.

  “Where am I going to get a shirt from at this time of the morning?”

  Holmes was tired but he still had enough fire in him to snap at the taxi driver. “You can’t do it, give me the money back.”

  Grumbling, the driver promised to have a shirt there by 7 a.m. if Holmes would give him another twenty when he returned. Holmes agreed and held his jacket in front of his chest as he walked through reception.

  The hotel was a smart, modern chain favoured by businessmen and tourists overnighting from the airport. Holmes often arranged meetings there, and he smiled at the receptionist on his way through to the restaurant. He was muddy, crumpled and tired. He looked exactly like he had crawled through a murder scene and slept in a hedge.

  The receptionist waved back without even a raised eyebrow.

  Breakfast was from 6.30, but in Jamaica that meant the staff arrived at 6.30, so Holmes waited in a dark corner of the dining room and watched the video from his villa again and again.

  The lawyer showed up close enough to 7.00 for Holmes to be getting worried. Holmes was drinking weak coffee out of small cups and kept having to get the waitress to come over and give him refills, which seemed to annoy her as much as it did him.

  The lawyer didn’t want coffee. He said, “You must be important to get my boss on the phone this early in the morning.”

  Holmes said, “And you must be junior to be sent out to see me.”

  He was a smart young man, hair still damp from the shower, businesslike and professional. He introduced himself as James “call me James” Brooke, from White, Wilson and Walker, Attorneys at Law.

  “What do you want from me?”

  Holmes told him about Justice Unlimited, Omar Hall, Cecil King and the triple murder at his house, plus the neighbour.

  James didn’t ask any questions. He made notes on a small pad, flipping the pages quickly as Holmes talked. It was an efficient, lawyer-to-lawyer conversation, and when Holmes finished, James said, “We have to go to the police.”

  Holmes agreed. “But I need some protection first. What I’m afraid of is that the police will try and pin the murders on me.”

  “What kind of protection were you thinking of?”

  “I want an independent expert to swab me for GSR – gunshot residue – before I go to the police.”

  “I know what GSR is. Anything else?”

  “I want a judge notified of my presence in the system and I want this video copied.”

  James said he wanted to see the video. Holmes pushed it across the table to him. “Keep the volume down.”

  The breakfast room was filling up with German tourists. A couple of them were sat at the table next to Holmes.

  James switched on the camera but kept the screen angled away from the Germans. Holmes shuffled his chair round the table to give the lawyer a commentary of who and what he was seeing.

  “The first man you see is Floyd Powers, the private detective I hired to find Omar Hall.”

  As the video came on, a dark shape loomed over the camera. “That’s Floyd there, switching on the camera. I think he must have done it with his nose or his chin because if you look, his hands are tied behind him.”

  Holmes started to shake. His hands were the first to go. He put his head in his hands. He was sweating.

  James said, “Are you OK?”

  Holmes’ whole body was shaking. He wanted to be sick again. “It’s the shock,” he said. None of James’ clients had ever reacted like this before. He didn’t know what to do. He stopped the tape.

  “Sorry about this,” said Holmes. “I was nearly killed and I guess it’s just catching up with me. You’ve got to get me out of this mess.”

  James said, “I will.”

  It took a couple of minutes of shaking and sweating before Holmes pulled himself together and said, “I’ll be OK. Watch the video.”

  James pressed “Play”, watched Floyd push the door shut with his shoulder and then kneel down, jamming the door closed with his bulk. The camera wasn’t positioned to get a good view of the doorway but enough of Floyd was visible to get an idea of what was going on.

  Holmes had got his trembling under control. “If you listen to the soundtrack, you can hear some shouting from the rest of the villa, then a couple of gunshots which ties in with what I heard. Then, you see this.”

  Floyd’s body jerked as though someone was pushing the door from the other side. He pushed back and managed to hold the door shut. Even with the sound down low, the noise of the gunshots through the door was loud.

  The Germans seemed annoyed at the noise and looked over at them. James turned the volume on the camera right down.

  The gunman must have aimed high at first but then guessed that Floyd was on the floor. Two bullets hit him and Floyd fell away from the door.

  The gunman pushed the door o
pen, pushing Floyd’s body as he did so to allow him to get in the room. He fired again, hitting Floyd in the head, but it seemed like Floyd was already dead.

  The gunman stood half in the room, checking that there was no-one else there and that Floyd was definitely dead. He didn’t pay any attention to the camera.

  Holmes said, “There’s nothing more until I come into the room and switch off the camera.”

  James studied Holmes and then looked at the section of the video where Holmes entered the room and turned off the camera. He said, “The gunman was much slimmer and shorter than you. I don’t think anyone could allege that you shot Mr Powers, but this doesn’t show that you weren’t involved in the other shootings.”

  Holmes agreed. “But if they were all killed with the same gun and we see the shooter here, it seems unlikely that I would have staged all this.”

  James thought about that for a while. Holmes said, “And what motive could I have possibly had to shoot the detective and my own witness?”

  James said, “We can figure that stuff out later. What we need to do is to get this video copied in front of a notary public, or maybe a judge, and as you say, we need to get you tested for gunshot residue.”

  “How soon can you do this?”

  James said, “I’ll call my boss now. We can arrange for the police to interview you at our offices. Wait here.”

  James left the restaurant, pulling out his phone. Holmes was jittery from too much adrenaline and coffee and no sleep. He wondered when he was going to get some rest. But the fact that the young lawyer seemed competent was the first reassurance Holmes had felt for some time.

  35

  Breakfast for Nikki was at a table by the pool in a small, boutique hotel with a view of Kingston and the sea from the terrace. Sophisticated middle-aged couples whispered their conversations over tables laden with odd fruit. Classical music wafted. Everything was nice.

  Nikki kept calling Holmes but got no answer.

  The waitress brought her a small omelette with a pretty garnish and tea that wasn’t quite hot enough. Behind her stood Jerry. He asked the waitress for coffee and he sat at Nikki’s table with a grin that made her think of vampires and dark, damp places. He had a sheen of sweat on him that he dabbed at with a napkin.

  “So, how’s it going?” he said cheerily as though they were chatting at a cocktail party.

  “My friend is still missing, so, not good.”

  Jerry made some noises that might have been platitudes.

  “How did you find me?”

  Jerry said, “Total coincidence. This is the hotel I normally stay in when I’m in Kingston so…”

  Nikki’s heart sank. If Jerry was staying here, she would definitely have to check out.

  “Shame the media appeal thing didn’t work out,” he said.

  Nikki didn’t have anything to add to that statement so she sipped at her tea, looked at the view and hoped Jerry would leave, but he didn’t take the hint.

  “I’ve got an idea for you,” he said. “I made some calls and got us a meeting with a navy guy here in Kingston. He’s going to tell us all about the currents and tides off Montego Bay.”

  “Why would we need to do that?”

  “I wanted to put your mind at rest about what happened.”

  Nikki said, “I know if Nadia stayed in the water then…then she’s gone. I don’t need an admiral to tell me that.”

  Jerry didn’t acknowledge the waitress when she brought his coffee. His eyes never left Nikki’s face.

  Nikki went on, “She must have come ashore. That’s why I want you and the police to keep looking inland, not at sea.”

  Jerry said, “Fine. You pack and then we can fly back to Montego Bay this morning and keep the troops motivated. But if you ask me, we’re wasting our time.”

  Nikki’s voice was starting to crack. She could feel the tears brimming in her eyes. She took a deep breath and said, “I’m not going back to Montego Bay yet. I’m meeting Superintendent Roberts this morning to make sure the police are doing everything they can.”

  Jerry snaked his hand across the table to try and hold Nikki’s. She pulled her hand away quickly.

  He said, “I understand, you’re upset. We want to hold a memorial service. We can fly out her friends and family and what have you. I just need some names.”

  Nikki dropped her head in her hands. She didn’t want to cry in front of Jerry, but a couple of fat tears fell on to the crisp white linen tablecloth.

  Instead of looking away, Jerry stared at her intently, like a strange child, head on one side, eyes wide.

  Nikki wiped tears from her face. She stood up and said, “We don’t need a memorial service. Nadia is still alive somewhere and she needs our help. Please do what you can to find Nadia, but leave me alone.”

  Nikki walked away from the table. Jerry watched her go. When she was out of sight, he stabbed a fork hard on the table and swore as he gouged huge ruts into the table. The crockery rattled. A middle-aged couple at a nearby table stared at him.

  Jerry said, “What are you looking at?”

  The woman looked away. Her husband wasn’t intimidated by Jerry. He said, “I think the lady wants you to leave her alone. Sir.”

  In a few paces, Jerry was at their table. He tipped the fruit bowl into the woman’s lap. She screamed. Her husband was on his feet. He was bigger than Jerry. He said, “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  Jerry didn’t even need to wave his finger. One of his security people was already strolling over to the table. The sight of the big man was enough to calm things right down.

  Jerry ignored the man and spoke directly to his wife. “Sit down. Eat your breakfast and mind your own business and there’ll be no trouble.”

  At reception, Jerry asked for a room. The young man on the desk told him they were fully booked. Jerry pointed at the couple whose breakfast he had just ruined. They were leaving their table, the wife visibly upset.

  “They’re checking out. I’ll take their room.”

  The receptionist tapped at his computer. “Sorry sir, they’re booked in until Thursday.”

  Jerry leaned against the desk casually and slapped the receptionist hard across the face. “Get them out of the hotel. Get the room cleaned and do it now.”

  The young man was shocked and terrified. He couldn’t speak. He spluttered.

  Jerry said, “Get your boss. Remind him who owns this hotel. Then do what I told you. I’ll be out by the pool with my coffee. You’ve got twenty minutes.”

  36

  While Oliver waited for the lawyer to do his business on the phone, he rang Washington to update Shelly. The call went straight through to her secretary, Liz.

  It was early for Liz to be at work.

  She had a high-pitched voice that made it difficult for her to sound serious, no matter how important the subject. “Shelly can’t speak to you,” Liz squeaked. “She’s on a plane on her way down to see you right now.”

  Oliver said, “That’s quick. But thank you. It’ll be great to have some help down here.”

  “You’re to meet her at the Nova at one o’clock.”

  “I might be with the lawyers,” Oliver said. “I’ll let you know where and when,” but he could tell that Liz had more to say to him.

  He wasn’t getting any clues from her silence. He asked, “Is everything OK?”

  It was no secret that Liz didn’t like Oliver. She never had. He couldn’t work out what he had done to offend her but then he didn’t spend that much time worrying about it. Liz wasn’t that important in his life.

  She said, “You know we never got along…”

  “Come on, I always liked you,” lied Oliver.

  “But you don’t deserve this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know I can’t say anything.”

  Oliver said, “About what?”

  Liz said, “Just be careful,” and ended the call.

  Oliver wanted some time to th
ink about what Liz was trying to tell him but James was back before he could figure much out. The lawyer slid into the seat opposite him. He pushed the salt and sugar on the table in front of him while he worked out how to say it.

  “We can’t represent you.”

  Holmes fired back an angry “What?” Then, “What kind of bullshit is this?”

  James might have been made out of brushed steel for all the good Holmes’ outburst did. He said, “We have a conflict of interest.”

  “With who? What? You don’t represent the police.”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  Holmes said, “So you’ve wasted my time.”

  James put both his hands together like he was praying and then rested his nose on his steepled fingers. He said, “It’s worse than that.”

  It took Holmes a couple more minutes to vent his anger. Then the lawyer got enough space to tell his story.

  “Seems like you have annoyed some powerful people. My boss told me to call the police and tell them that you are illegally evading justice. Then I should tell them where you are.”

  “But you can’t. That was a privileged conversation.”

  The young man shook his head. “Not if I’m not your lawyer. Which I’m not. All we had was a conversation. Technically there was no contract, no payment…”

  Holmes was furious. He started to get to his feet but he was trapped by the table.

  “Wait a minute. I’m not going to do that. Yet,” said the lawyer. “I have some sympathy with what you’re trying to do.”

  He told Holmes that a friend of his family’s had been shot by the police years ago and no-one was ever punished. “It’s kind of what made me want to go into the law.”

  Looking across the table at the shiny, well-fed lawyer, Holmes didn’t get the impression of someone who was on the side of the poor people against state oppression and he said so.