Caribbean
Beach Hotel
Seven Mile Beach, Grand Cayman
He tried not to stare at Rosibel, but he was only human like all the other men trying not to stare at her. She was the most beautiful woman by the pool – probably in Grand Cayman. What fool wouldn’t want to stare at her – and dream?
When they’d arrived back at the hotel he realised that he didn’t actually own a pair of swimming trunks. He was here to find out who had stolen Mr Garcia’s money and to correct that error in judgement. Swimming was so far away from his raison d'etre as to be a death sentence if Mr Garcia ever found out. And yet, he had gone into the hotel shop and bought a pair of swimming shorts and two matching beach towels.
He knocked on Rosibel’s door.
When the door opened she was already wearing her sunglasses and a few patches of purple cloth that may have passed as a bikini under extreme conditions.
If she’d said to him, ‘Oscar, give up your life of crime. Run away with me to the ends of the earth, and we’ll live happily ever after wrapped in each other’s embrace,’ he would have done it without a backwards glance.
But she didn’t ask him.
Instead she said, ‘Yes?’ as if he was a dirty urchin from the poor area of the island.
He thrust the towel at her.
‘You could have got me a different one to yours.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
After changing into his new shorts and a short-sleeved colourful Hawaiian shirt, he met her in the hallway outside their rooms.
She’d knotted a peach-coloured sarong around her waist, wore a floppy straw hat to match her shoulder bag and had plaited her long black hair.
Why was he torturing himself like this? He should have stayed in his room and taken cold showers at irregular intervals. Instead, he held his rolled-up towel in front of his erection. Would he make it to a sun lounger before anybody noticed? If Rosibel saw it she would point and laugh – of that he was sure.
She’d say, ‘You pathetic human being. In fact, you are not a human being at all, you are an insect that can’t control its disgusting primal urges – get away from me, cucaracha.’
All the holidaymakers around the pool would also laugh. The waiters would arrive with rotten fruit in baskets to throw at him until he scurried away to hide in a dark subterranean place – away from the shame and embarrassment.
They found two sun loungers next to each other on the far side of the pool with the sun facing them. Between the loungers was a small plastic table and a straw umbrella on a stand tied up with a piece of string.
‘Are you going to open the umbrella out?’ she asked him.
He was sitting on his towel, which he’d laid out on the sun lounger, and was safe from prying eyes. If he stood up to organise the umbrella the whole world would see his erection – his apuro. Old women would come up and stare at the deformity with magnifying glasses. Scientists would arrive from all over the world to ask him if he’d be so kind as to donate a specimen for study. Rosibel would simply laugh and spit in his face – ‘Cerdo!’
‘No, you do it,’ he said. ‘You know how you want it.’
She made an unladylike sound with her mouth and tongue as she grappled with the pulley and ropes to extend the umbrella fully outwards. After which, she shifted the base into the position necessary so that the umbrella would shield them from the sun. At one point he stretched out a hand to help her, but she slapped it away. ‘I can manage, thank you.’
He saw people peering over their sunglasses and wondering why he did nothing while a beautiful young woman wrestled with the unwieldy umbrella.
He could almost hear what they were muttering behind their sunburnt hands to each other . ‘He is no man, he is a payaso – a clown of the worst kind.’
They were right – he was a clown. A clown who couldn’t control his own body for the woman he loved.
At last the umbrella was up, she lay on her sun lounger like a goddess, and he was sat astride his as if it were a horse. What else could he do? If he lay down, everyone would see his circumstance. A nurse would come with creams and ointments to try and reduce the swollen mass. They’d rush him to hospital, trainee doctors would crowd round to discuss the bizarre case, technicians would take photographs for the medical journals. No, he’d stay where he was.
He signalled a waiter.
‘Would you like a drink, Rosibel?’
‘Water with ice, please.’
He ordered an orange juice with ice for himself.
Between the waiter leaving and returning with their drinks, Rosibel slid into the pool like a mermaid. She swam two lengths and then climbed out dripping wet.
It wouldn’t have been so bad had she simply lain down again, but she didn’t. She began drying herself in front of him with her towel. It was as if she was saying, ‘Look at what you will never possess, Oscar Gamboa. Here is a body in need of love, a body that could satisfy a man until the end of his days and longer. Unlucky for you, but you will never be that man.
Her next method of torture was to slowly rub sunscreen over her body – her face, her arms, her legs, her feet and her breasts.
By the end of the day he would be a crazy man. The ambulance would arrive, men would jump out carrying a straightjacket with his name etched on it. His eyes would be fixed on the horizon, he would be frothing at the mouth and mumbling strange words. They would shake their heads and enquire as to the cause.
Spectators would point slowly at Rosibel.
The men would nod in understanding. ‘Come along, Oscar,’ they would say. ‘There is no time to lose. We have to get her out of your head before it is too late.’
He would go meekly, knowing that it was already too late – many years too late. Any chance he had of a normal life had gone forever.
She threw the sunscreen at him, turned over and undid the bow of her bikini top. ‘Do my back.’
Mother Teresa and all the bones of the sanctified saints – he was undone.
He stared at the tube of cream in his hand.
‘Well?’ she dared him.
What choice did he have? This was what he had prayed for in the quiet of the nights as he thrashed about in his bed unable to sleep – he could not refuse.
As he rubbed the oil into her perfect skin, his hands and his erection burned like the sun. If his life had ended then and there he would have died a happy man.
‘You want to do something about that,’ she said nodding at his erection. The corner of her mouth rose upwards into a shadow of a smile.
His face glowed red as if he’d just taken it out of the oven. He sat back down and turned away. There was no response to her jibe. What could he say? ‘Yes, I would like to bury it deep inside you, Rosibel.’ That would be as bad as saying, ‘I’m going to kill all your family.’ He had already said that, and now was not the time to make things any worse than they already were.
In a flash of movement he ran and dived into the pool. He was sure no one had seen the abnormal shape of his shorts. It took ten lengths for his erection to subside, and then he stayed in the water holding his breath on the bottom like a sucker fish just to make sure.
When he felt normal – if normal was the right word to use – he climbed out of the pool and lay on his front on the sun lounger. Closing his eyes he brought his breathing under control.
‘Turn over,’ Rosibel said. ‘I’ll put sunscreen on you.’
Absolutely not. That would be like giving a suicidal man a gun, a drug addict a bag of heroin with a needle and a syringe, or an alcoholic a bottle of whisky.
‘No, it’s all right. I don’t need cream.’
‘Turn over,’ she said pulling at his waist. ‘You’ll burn, and then I’ll have to put up with you crying like a baby.’
He turned over.
She had removed her bikini top.
Yes, he was definitely going to burn – sooner rather than later – one way or the other.
***
They were seven minutes late arriving at King George Hospital restaurant.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ Parish said as they approached Doc Riley and Angie sitting at a table next to the window. ‘Richards’ fault again, I’m afraid.’
Richards smiled. ‘Everybody knows you blame me for everything.’
‘Everything? No, I don’t think you have a direct impact on global warming, and I also don’t blame you for Chelsea losing to Steaua Bucharest last Tuesday.’
After the hellos were said they joined the queue for food and drink, and then returned to the table. They’d agreed with Doc Riley not to talk about the post mortem of Fannie Binetti until after they’d eaten.
‘How’s work going, mum?’ Richards asked.
‘Very well. It’s early days yet, of course, but I plan to work days until the end of the month, and then I’ll see how I feel. There’s also Jack to consider as well. If I do go back onto shift work – what happens to Jack?’
Parish squeezed her arm. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Whatever you decide to do will be just fine.’
She smiled. ‘I know. So, what’s happening with your case?’
‘Your daughter still hasn’t solved the murder yet.’
‘I really don’t know what she’s playing at, Jed. All I can do is apologise for her. I’m really embarrassed.’
Doc Riley and Richards laughed.
‘See how they gang up on me,’ Richards said. ‘It’s no wonder I have to keep seeing the therapist.’
‘You can tell Jed and Mary about the post mortem now if you want to,’ Angie said to Doc Riley. ‘That way they’ll be able to come and see Jack with me when we’ve finished.’
Doc Riley looked at Parish.
‘I think we can trust my wife not to leak anything to the press.’
‘Okay.’
Parish nursed his lukewarm coffee. ‘What do we know about Finnie Binetti so far, Richards?’
‘She was murdered between the hours of ten on Sunday night and two on Monday morning, and then dumped in a waste bin at the rear of the Chinese takeaway in Crabtree Alley, off Windmill Lane in Cheshunt. Cause of death was a stab wound to the heart, prior to that the killer had carved a broken heart into her abdomen pierced by an arrow. At each end of the arrow were a set of initials – FB and GH. We’re working under the assumption that GH is the killer’s initials . . .’
‘That’s a bit obvious,’ Angie commented.
‘I said exactly the same thing to your daughter, but she won’t have it. Why have you stopped, Richards?’
‘Her handbag with all its contents was thrown in the waste bin as well, and from that we were able to discover her name, some telephone numbers that we copied from her mobile phone and helped ourselves to her house keys.’
Parish said, ‘Don’t forget that Doc Riley . . .’
‘. . . also said that the victim had given birth at some point in the past. We visited her house first, but found nothing of interest . . .’
‘. . .except . . .’
‘. . . an old Poloroid photograph of a baby. On the back was the date of birth: April 12 1993. It meant that Fannie Binetti was thirteen years old when the baby was born.’
‘Oh dear,’ Angie said. ‘Do you know what happened?’
‘We thought it might have been her father,’ Parish said. ‘But we just don’t know anything yet.’
‘Next, we went to see Fannie’s sister Annie. She told us that the baby was a boy, and that it had been taken away for adoption as soon as it was born. She couldn’t tell us much about what had happened because she was only eight years old at the time, and afterwards nobody in the family spoke about it. After that, we went to see Fannie’s best friend who told us that the baby was the product of a rape, but Fannie would never say who the father was.’
Angie shook her head. ‘That must have had a devastating effect on her whole life.’
‘That’s exactly what I said, mum. From what we’ve found out she couldn’t hold down a relationship, and all she was interested in was going out or on holiday and having a good time.’
‘Stop meandering, Richards.’
‘Huh! She did tell us about a stalker from her place of work with the initials GH. That’s where we’ve been this morning, but the person doesn’t work there anymore. We have got his home address though.’
‘What about Toadstone?’ Parish reminded her.
‘Oh yes, Paul told us that he found chlorine and bromine on the back of Fannie Binetti’s head and clothes as if she’d been lying in traces of those chemicals. He said that they’re used in swimming pools and spas, which suggested that . . .’
Parish grunted. ‘It doesn’t suggest anything. In desperation to provide me with something useful, Toadstone has added two and two together to make seven. Fannie Binetti could have come into contact with those chemicals in a million and one places.’
‘Paul’s only trying to help.’
‘Have you told your mother about your forthcoming date with the said, Mr Wonderful?’
‘I don’t need to, you’ve just announced it to the world. Anyway, now we’re here, and this afternoon we have to go to social services at Redbridge Council with a court order . . .’ she patted her jacket pocket. ‘. . . to find out who adopted the baby, and who the father was.’
‘But first,’ Doc Riley said. ‘You want to know what I know.’ She passed Parish a file. ‘The PM report.’
He slid the file across the table. ‘Richards guards the files.’
‘I bet they’d be interested in knowing – as I would – what it is that you actually do while I’m doing all the work.’
‘One day you’ll understand the complexities of leadership, but for now let the Doc get on with her report.’
‘You’re not dealing with a very sophisticated killer, I’m afraid,’ Doc Riley began. ‘He drew the broken heart onto her abdomen with a marker pen before he began cutting. It would have been far simpler for him to have used a scalpel if he’d had one, but instead he made hard work of it by using a knife. The victim was still alive when he cut into her, and in my opinion he wanted her to know what he’d done. It was very personal. I think the broken heart meant something to both of them. In other words, they knew each other . . .’
‘Or,’ Parish interrupted. ‘The killer could be a stalker who was in love with her. Fannie broke his heart by going with another man. He gets his revenge by torturing her, and then he kills her. Sorry to pour cold water on your suggestion, Doc, but it all boils down to interpretation. I think we all agree that the broken heart and the initials are personal, but “personal” to the killer could be in his own mind. Fannie might never have known him.’
Angie chipped in. ‘Have you given any thought to the handbag?’
‘What do you mean, mum?’
‘Well, he left her handbag and all her personal effects. In other words, he doesn’t care that you know who Fannie Binetti is, because he knows you can’t connect him to her.’
‘Which proves my point,’ Parish said. ‘The murderer could be a complete stranger.’
‘Or,’ Angie said. ‘She might have known him in the distant past and the connection between them has been lost with time.’
‘The father of the baby,’ Richards said.
‘Or the son,’ Angie added.
Parish nodded. ‘Yes, we’ve thought of both of those as possible suspects, but until we find out the details from social services we haven’t got a lot to go on.’
‘Have you finished, Doc?’ Richards asked.
‘Not quite. The murder weapon was a long-bladed carving knife. I’ve provided the shape of the blade in the file. I think – based on the knives that were used – she was killed in somebody’s home . . .’
Richards eyes opened wide. ‘If that’s true, then she probably wouldn’t have come into contact with those chemicals before her death.’
‘What are you babbling about, Richards?’
‘If she was killed in somebody’s house, transported to Crabtree Alley and then thrown in the waste bin, she could only have come into contact with those chemicals in the vehicle she was transported in. That means the killer has a vehicle – probably a van – which has traces of chlorine and bromine on the floor, and it also means that his work is more than likely related to swimming pools.’
‘You’re as bad as Toadstone. She could have had sex in the back of a pool cleaner’s van before the killer abducted her.’
‘It could be a woman,’ Angie threw into the mix.
Parish looked at Doc Riley.
The Doc shrugged. ‘There was no sexual assault.’
‘That would rule out the father and the son,’ Richards said. ‘In fact, it would rule out all of our suspects.’
‘You’re as bad as your daughter,’ Parish said to Angie.
Angie smiled. ‘Just trying to be helpful.’
‘That’s what your daughter also says.’
‘I thought you’d adopted Mary,’ Doc Riley said. ‘So, isn’t she your daughter as well now?’
Parish snorted. ‘That was just a ruse to get her mother into bed.’
Angie laughed. ‘I don’t think coming up with that plan nine months after you’d already had your wicked way with me counts for anything.’
He put his hand in hers and grinned. ‘It was wicked as well, wasn’t it?’
‘And it isn’t now?’
He kissed her. ‘It’s as wicked now as it was then.’
‘Do you mind?’ Richards said. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
Angie stood up. ‘Come on. If we’re going to see Jack together we have to go now.’
They thanked Doc Riley, said goodbye and made their way to the crèche on the first floor where they stayed with Jack for fifteen minutes.