‘Are you feeling better this morning, Sarge?’
‘Yes, Doctor, but I have a pain just here.’ She pointed to her backside.
‘I was only asking.’
‘And how are you feeling?’
‘I feel fine.’
‘Did you get a good night’s sleep?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Did Jennifer sleep well?’
His lip curled up. ‘Jennifer who?’
‘Right, let’s go.’
‘What about briefing the Chief?’
Xena started off towards the stairs. ‘Some of us have been here since seven-thirty.’
Stick hurried to catch her up. ‘I didn’t know you were coming in early.’
‘Are we married?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then I don’t have to tell you what I’m doing or where I’m going.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. Does Jennifer tell you everything?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Who?’
‘We’re going to talk to Julia Cook at “In the Buff”. Is that all right with you?’
‘What did the Chief say?’
‘About what?’
‘About the progress we made yesterday?’
‘What do you think he said?’
‘I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.’
‘He was quite pleased with the progress I’d made, but he wanted to know what you’d been doing all day.’
‘I see, and what did you tell him?’
‘Put it this way, if I’d told him the truth, you’d be queuing up outside the job centre right now asking people for loose change as they passed.’
‘So, you lied to the Chief?’
‘Of course. What else could I do? You’re my partner, aren’t you?’
‘I’m very grateful.’
‘Which you’ll demonstrate when it gets to lunch time.’
‘The least I can do.’
‘The very least. I might have a pudding today.’
‘You’re sweet enough as it is, Sarge.’
‘I know, but I still might have a pudding.’
‘I’ve had some ideas?’
‘Don’t tell me. You think we should ask in the newsagents about who takes the Jewish Chronicle, that we find a tattoo parlour and see if those bits of the tattoo make any sense to them, and then we should go back to the station and pop into missing persons?’
‘That’s really spooky how you can read my mind like that.’
‘It wasn’t difficult, especially when they were the only ideas in there.’
The bell tinkled as they entered the nail shop. They stood at the counter and waited, but nobody came to see what they wanted.
Xena raised her voice. ‘Is that a marijuana plant in the corner, Stick? I think we should get the drug squad to raid this place. Maybe the fraud squad should interrogate the accounts, as well.’
Staff and clients turned to stare at them.
A thin woman in her mid-thirties with bright red bobbed hair approached them. She wore a white t-shirt with, “Nail Artists add polish to life” stencilled on the front in pink and silver. ‘I’m sorry, we’re rather busy this morning.’
Xena thrust her head forward like a bulldog. ‘And we’re not?’
Startled, the woman jerked backwards. ‘I don’t know whether you are or not. All I can say is that we are. I’m the owner – Julia Cook. What do you want?’
Stick nudged Xena to one side and showed his warrant card. ‘We’d be very grateful if you could take a look at this photograph and let us know whether the artwork was done here.’ He held the picture out towards her.
‘Possibly. Do you know when?’
‘Last Thursday or Friday.’
‘Ah! I wasn’t here last Thursday. Just a minute.’
‘Another min . . .’
Stick elbowed her.
Julia Cook returned with a slightly younger but plumper woman who had a droopy left eyelid. ‘The is Margaret Kemp. She was in charge last Thursday. Show her the picture.’
Stick passed it to the new woman.
‘Yes, I painted those,’ she said.
‘We need to ask you some questions,’ Stick said. ‘Is there somewhere more private we can go?’
Julia Cook shook her head. ‘No, there’s nowhere in here. Why don’t you take them to the Blue Moose Cafe, Maggie?’
Maggie nodded. ‘Yeah, that’d be better. We can relax in there.’
‘Who’s paying?’ Xena asked.
‘Don’t worry,’ Stick said. ‘I’ll pay.’
On the way out of the shop Maggie Kemp wrote down the woman’s details from the appointment book and passed it to Stick.
‘Ethel le Neve,’ he read. ‘That doesn’t sound very Jewish.’
‘Is she Jewish?’ Kemp asked.
‘Was,’ Xena corrected her. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Oh!’
In the cafe they sat at a table and ordered coffee. Xena asked for toast as well.
‘No breakfast, Sarge?’
‘What do you think the toast is?’ She pulled the paper out of her jacket pocket. ‘Is this a mobile number on here?’
Kemp nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘And you saw her at four-fifteen on Thursday?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long does a nail session take?’
Kemp scrutinised Xena’s nails.
Xena curled her hands into fists, and then put them on her lap under the table. ‘You people are psychotic about my nails.’
‘We like to see a well-cared for hand. You don’t spend much time looking after your nails, do you?’
‘We’re not here to talk about my nails.’
‘A session normally takes about fifty minutes. If you were to come to me I’d say about three hours for your first session.’
‘Three hours! You’re crazy. Who the hell’s got three hours to lie around while someone fiddles with their finger nails?’
‘Toe nails as well. Women like to be pampered.’
‘Are you suggesting I’m not a woman?’
‘I wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort, but . . . you’d feel more of a woman with lovely nails.’
The waitress brought their coffees and Xena’s toast.
‘Saved by the bell,’ Stick said. He glanced at Kemp. ‘Can you tell us what this woman was like?’
‘After a long day they all blur into one.’
‘It’s a murder investigation,’ Xena said, spitting crumbs across the table.
‘What did she talk about?’ Stick coaxed her.
Kemp thought for a moment. ‘Yes, that was it. She was going to a do at the town hall on Saturday night, that was why she was having her nails done.’
‘Did she say what type of do?’
Kemp shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, but she mentioned she’d be sitting at the top table with the Mayoress.’
Stick smiled. ‘That narrows it down, thanks. What did she look like?’
‘Expensive.’
‘In what way?’
‘You can tell a lot about a person from their hands.’ She glanced at Xena’s hands.
Xena’s eyes creased to slits and she growled under her breath.
Kemp scooped one of Stick’s hands up in hers. ‘Take your hands, for instance. I can see that you’re a skilled craftsman, a sensitive man who enjoys poetry and literature, a man who knows how to look after a woman . . .’
‘Will you stop talking rubbish?’ Xena said, pulling Stick’s hand out of Kemp’s. ‘He’s also a copper who’ll arrest you for wasting police time. Tell us about the woman. We haven’t bought you a coffee in return for a palm-reading session.’
‘You didn’t buy the coffee anyway,’ Kemp snapped.
‘The woman,’ Xena prodded.
‘I could tell that her hands weren’t used to work. There was no damage to the cuticles, and no scars or indentations in the skin – it was like newly-spun silk. On the index finger of her right hand was a gold ring with Arabic writing . . . Ah! Yes, it could have been Jewish writing. I wouldn’t know the difference between the two. Is there a difference?’
Xena finished her toast and burped. ‘What about her face? We don’t do photofits of people’s hands.’
‘She had dark hair . . .’
‘We know that already. What else?’
‘Her hair went about three inches past her shoulders, and was parted just left of middle. There were no split-ends. It was shiny and lustrous – she looked after it. Her skin was soft and white – she wasn’t the type of woman to use a tanning studio. There was a pearl necklace around her neck and I think they were real pearls. I didn’t see an ounce of fat on her. She wasn’t skinny, just . . . Well, I wish I looked like she did, that’s all I can say.’
Stick squeezed her arm. ‘Keep going. You’re doing brilliantly.’
‘Her face was thin and angular. The skin was unblemished. She had perfectly shaped eyebrows, high cheek bones, dark brown eyes and a lovely smile with straight, even teeth. Her coat was mustard-coloured. Underneath she wore a wrap-around multicoloured zigzag patterned dress with a low neckline. I couldn’t help but notice her breasts, and I remember thinking that maybe she’d had them surgically enhanced . . . People do, don’t they? Well, those that can afford it. I’ve often thought about getting my eyelid done, and then maybe breast implants, liposuction . . . It’s amazing what they can do these days.’
Xena leaned forward. ‘Yes, but they can’t do anything about personalities, dear.’
Stick nudged her.
‘We’d like you to go to the station sometime this morning to work with one of our forensic artists . . .’
‘I have back-to-back appointments all day . . .’
‘This is a murder investigation,’ Xena said. ‘How would it be if we arrested you?’
‘I don’t like you.’
‘The feeling is mutual, lady. Just get your arse down to the station and then we won’t hassle you anymore.’
‘I suppose I could . . .’
‘Good.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, Maggie,’ Stick said getting up. ‘We’ll let you get back to work now.’ He passed her his card and walked with her to the door. ‘If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call us.’
‘I won’t. You want to get yourself another partner, one who appreciates you as a person.’
He shut the door behind her and returned to the table.
Xena began mimicking her. ‘. . . one who appreciates you as a person.’
‘Maybe I will,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll request a partner who doesn’t rub everybody up the wrong way all the time.’
‘Maybe you should.’ She pulled out her phone and told Judy – the clerical assistant in the squad room – to find out what the function at the Town Hall on Saturday night had been, to get the records for the number of the mobile, to put out an alert at the local hospitals for a woman with a severed left hand, and to inform the duty forensic artist that Maggie Kemp was due in and to have a face for them by lunchtime.
‘She was very helpful. At least now we can put a name to the hand, and with the information she gave us about the woman sitting on the top table it won’t be long before we put this case on the “solved” pile.’
‘Sometimes I despair of you, numpty.’
‘Why?’
***
He’d slept fitfully. Troubled sleep wasn’t something he normally suffered from, but the idea of Rosibel lying naked in the next room had made him hot and uncomfortable. He could almost hear her breathing, hear her heart beating, hear her call his name in her sleep. All he could think about was leaping over the low wall separating the two balconies, sliding through the open door and slipping into bed with her.
She would welcome him with open arms – kiss his lips, his body. They would consummate their love throughout the night. Of course, it was all fantasy. She hated him. He was the evil one. The very epitome of the devil himself. And who could blame her? He had threatened to kill her whole family if she didn’t help him. It was hardly the way to win the heart of the woman he had loved nearly his whole life, but what else could he do?
After his shower he put on a pair of beige linen slacks and a loose short-sleeved shirt and then sat on the balcony with a glass of water. He knew why he was there. Instead of being the second in command to a ruthless Colombian drug lord, she had turned him into a voyeur – a peeping Oscar. Mother Teresa and all the angels in heaven! She didn’t disappoint him. It was as if she knew he was sitting there watching her. As if she took delight in torturing him with her naked beauty.
What was he to do? He was not the type of man to give up. They would never say of Oscar Gamboa that he gave up in the face of impossible odds and walked away. Never! What man could ever hold his head up high having failed in such a way?
At nine-fifteen he put his sandals on and made his way down to the restaurant. After only a short time he saw her as she walked outside to the table at which he was sitting in the early morning sunshine. She wore lilac shorts with side pockets, a matching sleeveless top without a bra and a pair of sunglasses. Her hair was pinned up as if it might fall down at any moment. Heads turned and watched her. He wanted to gouge out their eyes with a knife. She smelled of freshly squeezed lemons. He fell in love with her all over again.
Why did he bring her? He had confined himself to hell on earth. The most beautiful woman in the world was sitting across from him, and he couldn’t kiss her lips, or run his tongue over her breasts, or breathe in the scent of her hair.
The waiter arrived. He ordered a mushroom omelette even though he wasn’t particularly hungry. He would much rather have feasted on her body. Rosibel asked for grilled fish.
‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked her, merely because he had to say something. He didn’t want her to think he had taken a vow of silence.
‘I slept as well as any kidnapped woman might.’
‘That is good.’ He ignored her jibes – it was the only thing to do. Soon, she would accept her situation. ‘After we have eaten we will walk along the beach – like normal people who are on holiday – and visit the bank to decide what we are going to do.’
‘You’ll never be a normal person,’ she said, as if she were telling him he had a speck of cotton on his shirt.
It was true. Normal had somehow passed him by in the little village of Puente de Calamate. He hadn’t been normal since the first time he had seen Rosibel Caballero. She had stolen his heart, and how could a person be normal without a heart?
The sun was rising in the sky, the sea was lapping at the white sand and the woman of his dreams was sitting across from him. It was idyllic. Someone walking by would think they were lucky to have found love in such a place.
‘Look behind the masks,’ Abuela Tierra – his mother’s mother – had said when she’d still been alive and before he’d started working the streets. ‘Tell me what you see.’
‘It is not possible to see, Abuela.’
‘Look closely, little Oscar. See that woman over there, describe her to me.’
‘She has short grey hair, wrinkled skin like leather left out in the sun too long, a mouthful of rotten teeth, big ears and old patched clothes.’
‘That is all on the outside. What do you see on the inside?’
He had grinned. ‘I would have to look into her mouth, and I think it would smell terrible inside.’
She had clipped him round the ear. ‘Look in her eyes.’
‘They are sad, Abuela.’
‘Why do you think that is?’
‘She has no money?’
‘Why has she no money?’
‘I do not know.’
‘You are looking, but you are not seeing, little Oscar.’ She always called him “little Oscar”, even when he had grown and she had shrunk. ‘Why do you say that she has no money?’
‘Her clothes are old and worn.’
‘So are yours and mine.’
‘There is something about her. She is bent forward as if she is carrying the donkey, instead of the donkey carrying her.’
‘I am bent forward.’
‘But you have no donkey on your back.’
‘Why? What makes us so different?’
‘Her eyes. The light is dying in her eyes.’
‘Now you are peeking behind the mask. Why is the light dying?’
‘She is ill?’
‘That might be so, but it is not the reason the light is dying. What is the most important thing humans must have to survive?’
‘Money?’
‘We can live without money.’
‘Food and water?’
‘They are very important, but not the answer I want from you.’
‘Sunshine?’
‘I know you know the answer. Tell it to me.’
‘Love?’
‘That is right. Without love there no reason to live. Everything else means nothing without love. The old woman has lost her husband. Her children are dead. She does not wish to fight anymore. Soon, she will die.’
‘Can we do another one, Abuela?’
‘I must sleep first. Help me carry this donkey inside, little Oscar.’
‘What donkey . . . ?’
They had laughed as he helped her up the steps.
Yes, he had come to learn in the years that followed Abuela Tierra’s passing that everything was meaningless without love.
‘Are we going to sit here all day?’ Rosibel asked.
He stood up and moved to pull her chair away.
‘Do not embarrass yourself by pretending to be a gentleman,’ she said. ‘You are no gentleman.’
It would have been less painful if she had cut off his head and fed his brain to the seagulls.
There were three branches of the First Caribbean Bank on the island, and he decided that the nearest one would serve his purpose. The banks were all connected by computer. If one had the information he needed, they would all have it.
They walked along the beach towards West Bay. He imagined himself and Rosibel running hand-in-hand into the clear cool water. Laughing and joking together as they waded out to the coral reef where no one could see them swimming and making love amongst the turtles, snappers and clown fish.
Holidaymakers were arriving in droves weighed down with towels, umbrellas, drinks and a myriad other things necessary for a day at the beach. Apart from a few wisps of white the sky was a clear Caribbean blue.
The bank didn’t look like a bank. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the ATM sign, they would have walked right past it. The two-storey white building had arched windows, a sea-green wooden veranda and two large pots with palm trees growing out of them either side of the main door.
There were two other customers inside. A middle-aged local man waiting behind a young woman. They joined the queue and were soon at the front.
‘How may I help, Sir?’ the woman asked. She was overweight, dark-skinned and wore her hair swept back.
He passed his credit card over. ‘Five hundred dollars, please.’
She passed it back. ‘You need to put your card in the machine and key in your pin number, Sir.’
He did as she instructed.
She passed the currency over.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘What time do you close?’
‘Four-thirty.’
‘Have a nice day.’
‘And you, Sir.’
Outside Rosibel said, ‘Is that it?’
‘Yes, until four-thirty.’
‘What are we going to do until then?’
He had some ideas. Instead he said, ‘What would you like to do?’
‘I’d like to go back to my life in Medellín, but if I can’t do that then I may as well take advantage of a free holiday and lie by the hotel pool.’
He shrugged. ‘Okay.’
‘And what will you do all day?’
‘We are together. I will be on the sun lounger beside you.’
‘You may be on the sun lounger next to me, but we will not be together.’
She twisted the knife in his heart at every opportunity.
He set off back along the beach towards the hotel. At least now he had a plan. It wasn’t the most elegant of plans, and Rosibel would no doubt object in the strongest possible terms, but if it worked he would obtain the information he needed.