The Abigail Affair (27 page)

Beaky and Indian stood at a discreet distance. They didn’t seem to know what was going on. The driver had stopped the engine of the Mercedes. Toby glanced across and saw him sitting with one hand on the steering wheel.

“You the one called this in, madam?” Tall Cop demanded.

“Yes,” Julia said simply. “Were you looking for the boy?”

“We’re acting on information received. Now we’ll need a statement from you folks. I guess you can give it, madam, as you called in. Who are these fellas? They work for you?”

“No, I’m in real estate. Came across from Barbados yesterday. These gentlemen are my clients. I was showing them Bluggo’s warehouse. They’re interested in taking it over, bringing in tyres from China, getting a business going. I can come and make a statement later today.” She dropped her voice. “Please, I don’t want any hassle—this sale is important to me. Don’t make me come now.”

Short Cop said, “I guess the lady can finish her viewing and make her statement later.”

Tall Cop looked uncertain. “You got a business card? Cell phone number?”

Julia looked worried and said, “I’m not ... maybe ... my bag’s in the vehicle.”

Short Cop waved his hand dismissively. “We need to process this youth. Just report to Central Police Station, on the Quay, Madam, today, right? Make sure you do.”

Julia nodded enthusiastically, obviously relieved. Toby’s wrists were starting to hurt from the handcuffs.

Nothing made much sense, unless, somehow, Julia had tipped off the police in order to achieve a rescue for Toby. He clung to this possibility, which meant that Julia was with him. But this would surely mean she had betrayed Krigov and would be in for serious treatment from his men, unless she could bluff her way out somehow.

There was no time to speculate further. The cops led Toby outside. The sudden glare of the sun reflected off the concrete forecourt made Toby blink. Then he was in the police squad car, a clean, modern Ford complete with stripes and a big rack of red and blue lights on the roof which spun lazily.

In a moment they were off, with Short Cop babysitting Toby in the back seat. The siren started up its whoop-whoop. Cuffed as he was, Toby had to lean forward with his head resting on the back of the driver’s seat.

It was not a position from which to ask questions.

They reached the central police station in a few minutes. The policemen bundled Toby down a green-painted corridor with a floor smelling of urine to a small interview room containing a square metal picnic-type table, four folding chairs, and not much else except, incongruously, a poster on the wall promoting holidays in Cuba.

Short Cop unlocked the handcuffs and pointed at the chairs.

“Wait.”

The two left the room. They didn’t appear to lock the door. Toby rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation.

He was in custody—again. It was hot, as usual, in these rooms. How many times had he been manhandled into small rooms and shut in? He was losing track. And every time, whoever his interrogator, his story was disbelieved. How in God’s name did this all happen?

Julia’s involvement was baffling. Perhaps she was an undercover agent, working for the Brits, or the Navy, or the Americans, or even the Russians. If so, she was now in great danger. Yet she had taken control in the warehouse with confidence. Perhaps she was with Team Krigov after all. Was she
Yulia?
Was she herself Russian? She didn’t look or sound it.

A snatch of Shakespeare that often featured in pub quizzes flashed into his mind, unannounced.

Who is Sylvia, what is she, that all our swains commend her?

Never mind bloody Sylvia.

Who is Julia?

One thing seemed certain: Julia had saved his life—again. That was enough for Toby to give her the benefit of any doubt.

His pulse was returning to something approaching normal. He puffed his cheeks out and looked around.

“Havana Good Time!” the poster proclaimed, alongside a picture of a Carmen Miranda look-alike set against a collage background of ancient buildings and old American cars with fins and chrome bumpers.

He wanted to go home, badly. The conversation with his mother had been unsatisfactory, and he wanted to see his long-suffering family. He even found himself missing the company of his kid sister.

She was nineteen and bright. She was in her second year at Uni in Birmingham, reading psychology. Having a younger sister had given Toby a great head start as a teenager. While Toby’s friends were knocking around with their bikes and skateboards in the shopping centre, Toby was learning what makes girls tick, with Kate and her friends, in the converted barn their parents had so thoughtfully provided as a teenage hangout.

The girls were always around; they had seen Toby as a safe bet because of Kate, and Toby had been able to cash in on that. And he’d had the looks and the banter. Abigail had been the first, as he had told Smithers. She was older than Kate, so nearer Toby’s age. At fifteen, she had been all there, physically, and like Toby, she had not suffered from spots or teen angst. She was posh, but fun. Happy times! Sitting quite close to her on the old battered horsehair sofa in the barn, the others safely outside, Toby had asked her what her name meant.

“Fountain of joy,” she had replied coquettishly.

“And I’ll bet you are,” Toby had replied boldly.

She had giggled. “Maybe. Or perhaps that description is more apt for you, Toby? Are you a big boy now?”

He had looked at her for a second, not sure whether he understood the innuendo, and whether to be flattered or embarrassed. He settled for flattered, and they had both burst out laughing. The first kiss had followed almost immediately, instigated by her. He was only fourteen, but had been a quick learner ...

Toby felt his mind wandering and pulled himself back to the present. What did the police want with him? There were a number of possibilities. First, a simple immigration violation. That was what the man in the Internet cafe had said. If Scott had claimed that Toby had jumped ship and left his passport behind when the
Amelia
sailed, then that would explain things. But wait. Leaving a ship in harbour was not an offence for the St Helen’s authorities. Losing your passport (or rather, having it handed over to the Immigration officer) was scarcely a crime either. Toby was a valid visitor to St Helen’s.

Technically, he should have stayed on the
Amelia
, because that was where he had told the authorities he was working. So maybe they thought he had left the ship and intended to find casual work on St Helen’s, and bum around there for months. Plenty of young people tried that in the Caribbean, and plenty got away with it.

Yes, that all fitted nicely. But maybe Julia had tipped off the police that Toby was ashore. If so, her aim must have been Toby’s protection. If Toby was in police custody, Krigov’s goons couldn’t touch him.

So Julia, on finding Toby’s note, had put out the call. But how had Krigov’s men known to go to the Founder’s Bay Resort? The only explanation was that Julia had told them of their planned rendezvous. Why would she have done that, and not just played dumb?

Either she was a real double agent, playing off both sides against each other for some purpose, or Krigov, Scott, and Co. had found out about her dalliance with Toby on the bridge, and had forced the information out of her.

That was a possible, but unpalatable, possibility for Toby.

Perhaps their fleeting embrace and kiss had been captured on camera. Toby didn’t think so—during his time on the
Amelia,
he had mentally scoped out and mapped in his head the location of all the cameras, both by physically looking for them and by monitoring the images on the bridge. At no time had he seen a picture of the bridge wings where they had kissed and Julia had said, “That doesn’t mean I’m your girlfriend,” or something. There were microphones, too, of course. Julia had warned him of those.

The note! Someone must have found the receipt with the scribbled rendezvous that Toby had shoved under Julia’s door.

How? She would have destroyed it, or hidden it immediately she found it. Toby was certain he had slipped the note under the right door. Could there have been someone in the cabin with her last night? Another unpalatable thought. He shuddered at the image of her in bed with Scott. Surely not. What about the big brute of a Pole? Timmins, the engineer? The Italian chef? All ludicrous.

Another thing—Julia had not looked to be under any duress in the hotel, on the vehicle or in the warehouse. The men had seemed completely at ease with her presence, and had even deferred to her at the end.

All this seemed to rule out Julia as innocent. She was involved somehow, and was merely using Toby.

When Toby thought about it, it had all been a little easy. What was her line when he kissed her? “Do it properly if you’re going to”? A little calculated, that. And, again, in the hotel, she had come on to him rather unconvincingly. “You were so cool,” or whatever. It had sounded nice, but a bit soppy, really ...

Toby’s brain spun as he tried to come to terms with his position. The only certain conclusion he reached was that he was safer in police custody than with those guys threatening to beat or shoot his brains out in a warehouse far out of earshot of help. Also, his tracking device was activated and presumably still operational. That meant the Brits knew where he was and would be along to collect him any time soon.

Toby got up from his folding chair, went to the doorway and tried the handle.

They hadn’t locked him in.

Maybe the police had already got word from the Consul.

He opened the door a crack and peeped out. No one on guard in the corridor. He heard a woman’s voice shouting, “You take your hands off me, Officer Bleasdille!” Then there was a scuffling noise and a man grunted. Sounded like he had got a knee in the balls.

Toby turned his head and looked the other way. He noticed that the green lino in the corridor was turned up where the floor met the wall to form a kind of skirting board. The lino was worn bare in patches where the concrete underneath was uneven.

Details, details. The answer was in some detail he had overlooked.

Meanwhile, had they forgotten about him?

Chapter 27

Toby resisted the urge to walk out and see how far he could get unchallenged.

He was safe for now.

He went back inside, closed the door and examined the wristwatch device. He had set off the GPS tracker in the warehouse and started the video and audio recording function. He now turned off the recording functions, leaving the tracker running.

His shoulder throbbed where Beaky’s gun had slammed on to it, and his hand throbbed from the glass embedded in it. At least the bleeding had stopped. His earlier injuries—his toe, ribs and so on—were no longer bothering him much, unless he thought about them, although the bruises from Ski-Pants’ kicking were painful enough if prodded.

He was very tempted to walk out and see what happened. He could always pretend he was looking for the toilet, or a glass of water.

Maybe not.

He returned to the table and sat. If only he had his phone! But that was smashed and in the trash aboard the
Amelia
, and the SIM card was in his backpack at the hotel. Which had probably been stolen by now. It was a good backpack, too. An Oakley.

The thief would eventually find the SIM card and try it. Toby made a mental note to remember to cancel the card as soon as he could.

A wave of self-pity washed over him. He had not deserved any of this. The more he thought about it, the more incredible it was that the Navy had put him back on that hell ship. What were they thinking? He could have been killed at any time and dumped overboard with a length of chain wrapped around his corpse.

Catching drug runners or gold smugglers in the Caribbean was their job, not his.

Maybe there was more to it than just smuggling. Smithers had seemed almost desperate to get Toby back on the
Amelia
. Was it gold in the hidden cargo bay? Toby felt in his pocket. He still had the nametag, at least. He must give that over.

The questions tumbled around in his head. He was tired, so tired, despite a reasonable night’s sleep the previous night.

And he was hot.

And thirsty.

But most of all, now, he was just plain homesick.

The sounds of the police station occasionally infiltrated his room. Men shouted and argued. Women raised their voices. A trolley of some sort squeaked by outside. He also heard street noises—the hiss of air brakes and the honk of hooters, some high-pitched, some low and powerful.

He looked at his watch. They’d left him alone in this stifling room for over half an hour. That was another thing. Where was
his
watch? He wanted that back. He put his arms on the table and rested his head on them. The background noises faded out to a hum.

He awoke, stiff in his joints. A faint headache pulsed in his temple. He looked at the watch again. This was ridiculous. A full hour had passed since they had frogmarched him in here, uncuffed him and told him to wait. It was noon, approaching the hottest time of the day, and the room was oppressive.

He stood up and stretched. He went to the door and opened it a crack. He poked his head out as he had done earlier. Everything was much quieter. Evidently the police force of St Helen’s, and their customers, liked to take things easy in the heat of the midday sun.

He spent a minute looking up and down the corridor. No one about. This was crazy. He needed a glass of water. He set off towards the reception area.

All the doors along the corridor were closed. The corridor turned at ninety degrees and then opened out into the little reception area, where a glass-partitioned counter area accommodated the duty officer. Toby turned the corner. No point in being furtive.