Age of Voodoo (7 page)

“No, the job ate away at me,” said Lex. “Retirement’s allowing me to rediscover myself.”

“If that were really true, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Before Lex could respond, Seraphina said, “Oh, look. Ping! A reply in the inbox. Told you it wouldn’t take long. Just let me open it. Click. There. Yes. Thought so. ‘Dear Seraphina...’ Blah blah blah. ‘Terms are acceptable... funds can be remitted as soon as required... kindly await further instructions.’ There you go, Lex, you lucky sausage. Two hundred grand. I have your bank details. You certainly know how to drive a hard bargain. Remind me never to buy a used car from you. Now then, happy?”

Lex grunted.

“Delirious, I can tell,” said Seraphina. “Keep your phone fully charged and at your side from this moment on. I’ll text you your orders as they come in. It’s just like old times, isn’t it?” She gave a girlish giggle. “You and me, doing our thing. The dynamic duo. You know, one day I might just fly out there to see you, Lex. Wouldn’t that be nice? We could finally meet in person, there in your tropical paradise. You could show me the sights, I could show you myself in a bikini. How about that, eh, my darling?”

Lex could think of a number of comebacks, all of them snarky. He felt railroaded, exploited, a victim of circumstance and undue pressure. Seraphina had manipulated him, and that rankled. But worse—he had let her.

Finally he said, “One or other of us would be bitterly disappointed, and I’d rather it wasn’t me,” and he cut the connection.

At that moment, Wilberforce emerged from the spare room, stretching and yawning loudly. Rikki took fright and scarpered off into the garden, leaving a mess of sticky eggshell behind on the table.

“I see you’re still hanging out with vermin,” said Wilberforce.

“I am now the mongoose has gone,” Lex shot back. “Sleep well?”

“Like a log.”

“I know. I could hear you snoring through two solid walls.”

“Man, I do not snore.”

Lex laughed scoffingly. “There are pilot whales beached at Plantation Cove right now; they heard you in the night and thought it was one of their own in distress.”

“Oh, ha ha.” Wilberforce helped himself to coffee. The swelling around his eye had begun to diminish. Lex had made him ice it last night, and had dabbed antiseptic on his other contusions and applied adhesive surgical strips where the knuckleduster had split skin. “Someone’s in a grouchy mood this morning.”

“Being shot at by gangster goons will do that to a person,” Lex said.

“Yeah, about that...”

“Don’t apologise. Not necessary.”

“I wasn’t going to. What I was going to say was: you have a gun.”

“Yes. I do.”

“And you know how to use it.”

“So?”

Wilberforce drew a deep breath. “So, we’ve known each other a while, and I think I’ve been pretty good at not asking you about your past and stuff.”

“You’ve tried.”

“And you’ve stonewalled, so I’ve given up. Judging by the way you deal with the rowdies at the rum shack, it’s a safe bet you used to be a soldier or some such. You aren’t scared of anyone. You know how to handle yourself in a fight. But you’re so secretive, I don’t reckon you were
just
a soldier. Know what I’m saying? Plus, you seem to live pretty well”—he waved a hand, indicating the house—“and I haven’t heard of a military service pension that pays out like this.” An anxious expression came over his bruised face. “I don’t really want to pry, but I have to ask. Who are you, Lex? No. Scratch that. Who
were
you?”

The question hung in the air, as good questions tended to.

Lex was tempted to come clean. He could trust Wilberforce, and the man was already pretty close to the truth. Why not give him the rest?

Wilb, I’m a former professional murderer. The British government used to pay me handsomely for eliminating people whose activities or politics were inimical to the interests of the Crown. I worked freelance, meaning I was off the books, not employed by any security agency or Whitehall department, utterly deniable. I carried out covert executions sanctioned by the highest authority in the land, and some of those killings were arranged to look like accidents and others were public and splashy and very obviously assassinations—stiletto or hammer, depending on the offender’s circumstances and the message I was supposed to be sending. I was a high-value asset, ex-SAS, trained in the art of homicide, and I served my paymasters with distinction, indeed honour, for the best part of a decade. I have fifty-one confirmed kills to my name, for which I have received neither official recognition nor medals, and I believe my actions have made the world a safer place... albeit at the price of my own peace of mind
.

All this he so nearly said. The words were accumulating on his tongue, ready to pour forth, when Wilberforce’s phone rang.

“Hold on. Just let me take this.”

Saved by the bell.

Wilberforce strolled off into the garden, coffee cup in one hand, phone in the other. Lex tried not to listen in, but he gathered that Wilberforce was talking to a relative of his. The conversation—this side of it, at any rate—became animated and forceful. When Wilberforce returned to the table, he looked flustered and peeved.

“Who was that?”

“My cousin.”

“Which cousin?” said Lex. “Oh wait,
that
cousin. The one you don’t want me to meet. What’s her name—Alberta?”

“Albertine.”

“I’ve never been able to work out why you insist on keeping her and me apart. Is there something wrong with me? Do you not approve of me? If that’s it, I’m hurt. Really offended.”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

“So why so protective?”

“I’m not,” said Wilberforce. “I’m embarrassed, is what it is. Albertine, see, she got this thing—this mad thing. I’m really not sure about her. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love her. We were close, growing up. More like brother and sister than cousins. Now, though...”

“Not an evangelical Christian, is she?” Lex cajoled. “Bible in one hand, tambourine in the other?”

“Hell, no. You couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Wilberforce puffed out his lips and glanced up at the sky. “Probably best you find out for yourself.”

“Okay. When?”

“Not long. She’s on her way over.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. She was insistent. She gets that way sometimes, and there’s no arguing with her.”

“She’s coming here?” Lex repeated. “Why?”

“Couldn’t talk her out of it,” said Wilberforce. “She knows I’m in trouble, and she says she knows about you, and you’re in trouble too.”

“But I’ve never met the woman. How can she—?”

“Lex, enough with the questions. Let Albertine explain it herself when she arrives. Believe me, the shit she’s going to come out with, it’ll be the craziest shit you ever heard. Just listen and keep smiling and try not to blame me.”

SIX

ALBERTINE

W
ILBERFORCE WOULDN’T BE
drawn any further on the subject. He seemed ashamed, as though whatever was wrong with his cousin reflected poorly on him somehow.

At last a car came up the drive, a Suzuki soft-top off-roader faulty engine timing and a screeching fan belt. Out of it stepped a smartly dressed woman with the crisp, efficient air of a highly-placed, well-respected executive. She carried a large leather Mulberry shoulder bag and her hair was a mass of braided extensions, interwoven strands of gold, copper and bronze arranged in a neat bun at the back of her head. Lex watched her smooth her skirt down, and thought she was just about one of the most elegant and poised women he had ever seen. From the picture Wilberforce had painted, he had been expecting a frumpy wild-haired fruitcake in flip-flops and a kaftan. Not this. The only thing that detracted from her smartness were the trainers she wore on her feet, but they did at least look box fresh and were, on Manzanilla, far more sensible than heels.

As Albertine Montase climbed the front steps, Wilberforce opened the screen door to greet her.

“Albie.”

“Wilberforce. Long time no see, cuz.”

They embraced and pecked cheeks—warmly on Albertine’s part, not quite so on Wilberforce’s.

“How have you been keeping?” Albertine asked. A trace of an American accent was folded into her islander lilt, like cream into coffee.

“Fine.”

“Those bruises say otherwise.”

“Tripped and fell.”

“Onto somebody’s fists.”

“No. No. Nothing like that.”

“Yes. Yes. Exactly like that. And this is him.” She turned velvet-brown eyes on Lex. “Your rum shack peace enforcer.”

“Lex Dove.” Lex extended a hand. “Pleasure to finally meet you. Wilberforce has told me a lot about you.”

“I bet he hasn’t.” Her hand was dry and firm in Lex’s. “Wilberforce prefers not to acknowledge my existence.”

“I do not!”

“You do.”

“I can’t see why he would,” said Lex.

“That’s because you don’t know me,” said Albertine. “And also because you don’t know how people like Wilberforce think. Wilberforce is all up-to-date and twenty-first century, the very model of a modern West Indian. There are certain deep-seated cultural factors he simply won’t accept. Our racial heritage is an enemy to him, something he fears would hold him back. He rejects it, denies it...”

“I reject it because it’s bullshit,” said Wilberforce.

“No, because you’re scared of it.”

“I’m not scared of booga-booga tribal mumbo-jumbo.”

“Calling it names only shows how scared you are.”

“Scornful, maybe. Not scared.”

“If you’re not scared, say its name,” said Albertine. “Call it for what it is. Go on, I dare you.”

“Don’t be silly, woman.”

“You can’t, can you?”

“Of course I can. I’m—I’m just not indulging you in this nonsense of yours.”

“Ahem,” said Lex pointedly. “I hate to butt in on a family row.”

“Then don’t,” Wilberforce and Albertine both said in unison.

“But,” Lex went on, “as this is my home, and I’m the host, may I offer you a drink, Albertine? Something hot? Cold? Alcoholic? Not?”

Albertine grinned. Her teeth were huge, even and brilliant. “Sure you can. Sorry about me and Wilberforce going off like that. We always did like to squabble. And he can be such a dope at times.”

“I may be a dope,” said Wilberforce, “but at least I’m an enlightened one.”

“Shut up, Wilberforce.”

“No, you shut up.”

“Tea would be nice, Lex,” said Albertine. “Earl Grey if you’ve got it. Milk and two sugars.”

T
HE SUN HAD
burned off the mist. They sat at a parasol-shaded picnic table in the garden.

“So you know nothing about me,” Albertine said to Lex.

“Beyond your name, no.”

“Black sheep of the family, huh, Wilberforce?”

Wilberforce huffed. “Just because some of us have standards...”

“What can you tell about me, Lex, just by appearances?”

“Aside from the obvious, you mean?”

“The obvious?”

“You’re stunning.”

She laughed. Wilberforce, by contrast, scowled.

“Lex,” he growled.

“Just a statement of fact,” Lex said. “You’ve spent some time in the States. College?”

“Not bad,” said Albertine. “I did my master’s degree at Cornell. What else?”

“You have a decent job. Accountant?”

“IT consultant. I help run and maintain the government systems. The servers, the websites, the software for the power grid.”

“High flyer.”

“I do okay.”

“But you’re careful with your money. You couldn’t have splashed out much on that Suzuki.”

“What’s the point? Manzanilla roads are so atrocious, only a fool would have a decent car. Better an old banger, something that’s easy to fix when it goes wrong and doesn’t matter if it picks up a few extra scrapes and dents.”