The Far Side of the Sun (16 page)

‘What’s on your mind?’ Oakes demanded.

‘Johnnie Morrell is dead.’

‘Jesus Christ, Hudson, I know. I heard that already. Poor bastard.’

‘Is that all you have to say?’

‘The dumb jerk should have watched out for himself better.’

‘He had other things on his mind that night.’

‘So what do you expect?’ Oakes challenged. ‘You want me to wear sackcloth and ashes or something for the guy?’

Oakes was breathing heavily. Flynn had dealt most of his life with men like Oakes, guys who liked to talk with their fists. The Chicago rackets were full of mobsters with more brawn than brain, that’s why they needed him. Thinking was something he was good at. He’d seen men shot through the heart because they believed a bullet or a knife or a broken bottle held all the answers. Hell, they’d forgotten that you have to keep dancing the dance, weaving the web, shuffling the cards, if you want to wake up each day without a hole in your head.

‘I want you to know I’m staying around for a bit.’

‘Not too long, Hudson. You’ve got to tell that shit Meyer Lansky in Miami that I’m not doing no deals. Tell him to stay out of my way, to keep his boys off my turf. You got that? I’m not having the mob hanging around Nassau.’ The line of his jaw set firm, his shoulders hunched.

Flynn kept one eye on the fists. You never knew with Oakes. Some days he was like a bull looking for a red rag. ‘Okay, I’ll do that. But he won’t like being told, you can bet your next buck on that.’

‘That’s your problem.’

‘You’re the one with a problem, Sir Harry.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? What’s your beef now?’

‘Johnnie Morrell is my beef. The small matter of how a knife found its way into his guts.’

Oakes didn’t flinch. If anything those fists of his quietened down, but his gaze shifted to somewhere over Flynn’s shoulder.

‘Morrell was a fool,’ Oakes said, ‘to let anyone get so close. The police are saying it was local unrest, that some resentful guy – probably drunk – waylaid him and —’

‘Do the police know that Morrell was here that night?’

Oakes gave a hard smile and didn’t even bother to answer the question. Somewhere in the distance a motor throbbed. Sounded like a boat engine.

‘When he left here, did you have him followed?’ Flynn asked.

‘No.’

A silence slid on to the damp grass between them. Flynn let it lie there.

‘What are you implying?’

‘Morrell came to see you that night and immediately afterward he died,’ Flynn pointed out.

‘A coincidence.’

‘One hell of a coincidence.’

He went for Flynn. Not bad speed for a man in his sixties. Must have been good when he was younger, but too much gold in his boots had made him slow. Ten years earlier he might have caught Flynn with the punch he threw, but Flynn swayed back on his heels and the blow thumped nothing but air. Oakes growled and looked around, searching for the two security guards who patrolled his property, but Flynn knew they were sneaking a smoke under the tamarind tree over on the far side of the estate, well out of sight of their employer.

‘Get out of here, Hudson,’ Oakes snapped. ‘You’re annoying me.’ When Flynn didn’t move, he swung back towards the house.

Flynn let him get as far as the door. ‘The gold is missing.’

Oakes froze. At that exact moment a great white egret drifted overhead through the darkness heading towards the marsh lakes that sprawled over the western end of the island. Flynn glanced up and looked away quickly. Dammit, it felt like a bad omen.

Oakes’ gaze locked on Flynn. ‘Find it.’

‘I’ll find it,’ Flynn said. ‘On one condition.’

Oakes snorted. ‘You’re not in a position to lay down conditions.’

‘On condition that you keep the police off the girl’s back.’

‘What girl?’

‘You know what girl.’

‘It’s your own fucking people you need to worry about. Meyer Lansky doesn’t like loose ends. That girl is a loose end.’

‘I can take care of that.’

Oakes studied him in the dim light, while Flynn lit a cigarette. The thing about Oakes was that he was his own man, he didn’t play by anybody else’s rules. He was a crass individual who possessed a bulldozer mentality, but at the same time he was a generous man. And now he was facing down the mob alone.

Christ, Flynn had to admire the guy. Oakes had guts. That counted for something in his book. But Oakes was getting his nose put out of joint not only by the mob and the likes of Lansky, but by the arrival of the military as well. The war had come to the Bahamas with a vengeance, and Oakes was not top dog any more. Even he could not control the might of the military. They had swept on to the island and shifted the balance of power in their favour, so that men like Oakes and the Bay Street Boys had to watch their step.

Without another word Flynn started to move away across the lawn, the tip of his cigarette drifting like a firefly in the darkness.

‘I’ll speak to Colonel Lindop about the girl.’

Oakes’ words hung in the cool air and somewhere close by, the boom of the surf could be heard nudging the island awake.

Dodie opened the gates of Bradenham House and walked straight in. No sounds, no lights, just the purr of silence in her ears. She had not expected it to be so easy. No padlock on the wrought-iron gates and no guard to deter her. The Sanfords seemed to believe in the inherent decency of Bahamians rather than in overnight locks.

Dodie closed the gates quietly behind her, but this time she had no intention of knocking on the front door where the maid could inspect her from head to toe like she was something the cat had sicked up on the doorstep. This time, while the morning light was still hampered by a thin veil of darkness, she slid under the pine trees that lined the property and moved across the grass on silent feet to the rear of the house.

The garden was huge and the air was heavily scented by the blooms that grew in such profusion. Dodie took up a position behind a camellia bush that gave her a good view of the house, and the stillness was only broken by the chirruping call of a pair of bananaquits that flew to a branch of the poinciana tree and flashed their bright yellow bellies at each other.

She sat down to wait.

Mrs Sanford and her maid emerged from the back door into the early morning sunshine, both wearing long brown pinafores, both with a bucket in each hand. A humid breeze was ruffling the trees as they strode over the wet grass past the shrubbery and down to an enclosure at the bottom of the garden. Here they proceeded to release a huddle of bright-eyed hens from their coops. As the birds swirled around their ankles with trills and chatter, Mrs Sanford scattered grain into troughs and poured water into trays, talking as she did so.

Dodie watched, totally absorbed by the contented scene. One woman so golden and slender, the other black and broad, as different as oil and water. Yet even from where she was hidden under the trees, Dodie could sense the affection that existed between them. For that moment she forgot why she’d come to Bradenham House or why she was loitering in a patch of shadow on her own. That was why she heard nothing behind her. Sensed no movement coming at her.

The hands that seized Dodie’s elbows from behind pinned her arms together, disabling her. She screamed with shock and tried to swivel round to catch sight of her attacker, but he knew exactly what he was doing. He yanked up her arms, forcing her forward, as she fought in vain to wrench free from his grip.

She lashed out with her heels and connected with bone. Someone was screeching, yelling abuse, threatening to rip her heart out, but it was only when she hit the grass face first with this man clamped to her back, the weight of him crushing her into the earth, that she realised the abuse and threats were coming from her own mouth.

She couldn’t stop them. Out flooded the words that she didn’t say when this happened three years ago. When she had fought in silence, too ashamed to scream. The words that had been stored in her head since then cascaded out of her mouth this time in a torrent of curses.

‘Leave her!’ a woman’s voice was shouting. ‘Let her go!’ A pair of grass-stained canvas shoes came into focus inches from her nose, a pair of dainty ankles above them. ‘Detective, release her right now.’

Instantly the weight lifted off her back, but a strong hand still gripped one arm and dragged her to her feet. She was shaking and her cheeks were soaking wet – whether from tears or from the dew on the grass, she had no idea. Her heart was grating against her ribs and she tasted blood in her mouth, slimy on her teeth, but the words had stopped. Where they had been inside her head was now an empty dark space.

They sat at the table in the kitchen, the three of them. Emerald stood by the stove, arms folded across her hefty bosom, her face puckered in a frown, her large teeth on show as if she was thinking of taking a bite out of someone.

‘What are you doing here, Miss Wyatt?’

It was Detective Calder speaking, but Dodie didn’t look up. She stared at the cup of coffee in front of her and thought about throwing it in his face. The skin of her arms still held the impression of his fingers and her mind still fought against the submission he had forced on her.

‘I came to see Mrs Sanford.’

‘Hiding under the trees? At seven o’clock in the morning. Trespassing? Spying on her? With a knife in your pocket?’

Put like that, it didn’t sound good.

‘What,’ he continued, ‘did you want to see Mrs Sanford about?’

‘That’s between me and Mrs Sanford.’

She heard him exhale. Smelled the coffee on his breath. She was hunched in a ball and knew she looked guilty.

‘Why the knife?’ he asked.

‘It’s only an old penknife. It was my father’s. I found it in the ashes of my house and just kept it in my pocket. There was no need,’ she flicked her long hair forward to curtain her cheeks, ‘to attack me.’ Still she didn’t look at him.

‘Dodie —’ Mrs Sanford said softly.

‘Miss Wyatt,’ the detective interrupted, ‘I would like to point out that you were the one who did the attacking.’

‘No.’

Again Mrs Sanford’s steady voice. ‘It’s true, Dodie.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’ Calder’s tone was calm and reasonable. ‘I watched you for some time spying on Mrs Sanford from under the trees and when I approached you from behind and held your arm, you exploded like a firework in my face.’

She shook her head.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Wyatt, but I was forced to restrain you.’

‘Forced by whom?’

‘By you. You became dangerous.’

‘You had my arms pinned behind my back, so how could I be dangerous?’

A coffee-scented silence settled on the table.

‘Look at Detective Calder,’ Mrs Sanford said.

Dodie forced herself to look. His face was bloodied. A bowl of ice sat at his elbow. On his left cheekbone a bruise was sending out purple tentacles as she looked at it and on the side of his neck was the clear oval outline of a bite. Each tooth had left its mark.

Colour flooded Dodie’s cheeks. She wondered why he was even being polite to her.

‘You done used that head of yours like a batterin’ ram,’ the maid told her. ‘Don’t it hurt you none?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Dodie whispered through her hair.

All she could remember was his body crushing hers and the taste of grass and soil in her mouth. A moan crawled out between her teeth. At the sound of it, Mrs Sanford abruptly left her chair and opened the back door.

‘Miss Wyatt,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘I think you need some fresh air.’

Dodie was on her feet and out the door before the policeman could tie her to the table leg.

‘Was that the crime?’ Mrs Sanford asked.

‘What crime?’

Dodie didn’t want to talk. She was happy admiring the garden. There was a lushness to it and a beauty that slowly reeled her back from the edge. Dense swathes of tropical shrubs encircled the lawn and her gaze was drawn to the vibrant greens of their leaves and the shimmering shades of jade, rather than to the bold splashes of scarlet and magenta of the heliconia and the hibiscus blooms. Their colours were almost overwhelming right now.

‘The crime you told me that you reported before, but no one believed.’

‘What about it?’ Dodie asked.

‘It was rape, wasn’t it?’

Dodie’s hand was poised over a succulent leaf that was almost purple, its colour was so deep. She held her breath. It was the way she dealt with it. Whenever that moment of a man tearing at her clothes, ramming her on to his desk and ripping into her flesh flared up in her head, she held her breath. Starving it of oxygen was the only way she knew to put the flames out. So she held her breath and felt the pain recede.

‘Yes,’ she said bleakly, ‘it was rape.’

‘I’m so sorry. But Detective Calder wasn’t trying to hurt you.’

‘I know. But he seized my arm and…⁠’

‘I understand. You panicked.’

Dodie steadied her breathing and looked at Mrs Sanford but her large blue eyes held no pity. No scorn. No fear of being in the presence of the unclean. Just concern and a flicker of so+rrow.