Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess) (17 page)

With a heavy heart, he went through the charade again. This time, he told Mr. Furbert “in confidence” that they were planning on raiding the home of the Captain. Furbert fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Burgess had never felt so depressed.

Chapter 33

Burgess and Pamela sat on PC Trott’s black leather sofa next to the high tech sound system facing the two teenagers. He could not help but feel that PC Trott must be a bachelor. The sound system, big screen TV and the weights in the corner of the living room gave him away. Trott had done the honours and brought them all a soda. Although the attempt had been to keep everything informal, Burgess could feel the tension emanating from the two kids. He had brought along Pamela for that feminine touch, if that was needed to coax them to talk. There had been no trouble as far as that was concerned. They were hyped at the thought they might have found the murder weapon. He did not detect a note of squeamishness. Such is today’s youth, he thought. Almost ceremoniously, the young man had presented them with the knife and anorak, still covered in sand but carefully wrapped in a towel that clearly served as an oil rag for his bike. Burgess didn’t want to even think about possible cross-contamination as the kids were sure they had done the right thing in wrapping the evidence.

“Thank you for this. Now why don’t you and I, Ewan, go into the dining room and Officer Zuill can stay here and talk to Sonya.”

When they had gone taking PC Trott with them, Pamela beckoned to Sonya to take the easy chair opposite her and began to question her in a friendly way.

“Just take me through the events of last evening and try and remember as specifically as possible what happened and where you were.”

The girl embarked on a long story about how they had wanted to see the fire worms and had gone towards the ironshore at Spanish Point. Pamela was amused to see that she was uncomfortable with the story and figured that the two had simply wanted some time to be alone.

“Let me get this straight, you and Ewan wanted some ‘quality’ time together, right?”

Sonya smiled ruefully. “Yeah, I guess that’s pretty obvious. Sorry. I’m not lying about the jacket and knife… just didn’t want to get into trouble with the parents.”

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. Just tell me everything from the beginning.”

She listened intently and made notes to compare afterwards with Ewan’s story. The important thing was they now had the murder weapon and a jacket that should, hopefully, forensically link Ja’von Williamson once and for all to the murder of Deon White. De Souza would be able to use this to get a full confession from Williamson. If he was going down for White, he might as well get the girl’s murder off his chest. At this point in time, he had yet to admit to that.

After a few minutes, Burgess came through from the dining room and indicated that he was ready to go. Back at the station they would compare notes and check with the Little Theatre to see if anyone remembered seeing them there. One good thing about Bermuda, you almost always knew someone when you went out anywhere. Burgess felt that the kids’ story would check out. Still he needed Ewan to take him to the place where they had found the evidence - and the sooner the better - so they could get photographs before the water or wind disturbed the sand where it was found. Ewan got on his bike and they followed in the car.

Chapter 34

“I need cheering up.” He was on the phone to Jacintha. Just to hear her voice lifted him. “Can you make dinner this evening?”

“Sure. Where and what time? I’d be delighted.”

“How about I pick you up at 7:30 and we go over to North Rock Brewing for a steak or prime rib? I think I could also go for one of their home brewed beers. It’s been a helluva day.”

“That sounds great. I look forward to it.”

Burgess felt better already. Hanging up, he took out his notebook and began to record what he had told each colleague. Better remember who was told what, he thought, otherwise there would be hell to pay.

He probably would have felt a lot better if he had known that the drug “King Pin’s” day was going no better than his. After his telephone conversation with the Reverend Whylie, he had heard from his cousin that the Brixton contact was on another assignment. He had therefore been given the option of another “gentleman” who lived in Croatia. His credentials were novel, to say the least. Apparently, amongst his accomplishments, he was a biathlete on the Croatian Olympic team. An excellent skier and marksman, he had competed in two winter Olympics, acquitting himself admirably so as to be a household name in the world of winter sports. What few knew was that during the Bosnian war, he had been a sniper in the Croatian army. Many believed that he was independently wealthy, having made money in property deals after the war. Part of this was true. However, what even fewer knew was that to afford his lavish lifestyle, he supplemented his income as an assassin for hire.

“He’s one of the best.” The rasping voice had assured him.

“Well, he won’t be doing any skiing here.” He felt worn out. He stopped himself from reaching for the McCallan's. It was getting to be a habit. “How soon can he get here?”

“British Airways flight tomorrow evening. He wants a couple of days to look around and study the mark. He’s also asked for some pretty fancy ‘accessories’, if you get my drift. Problem is, with the foiled airline plot at Heathrow, they are even stricter about carry-on luggage and security so he can’t bring his own. I’ll have to scout around for them, but I don’t think it’s an issue. Frenchie’ll probably be my best bet.”

“Okay, let’s get on with it. Make the deal.”

And so it was that, at 3:00 p.m. Bermuda time, a hit was put out on Detective Inspector Burgess.

At 9:20 pm in Croatia, in a magnificent town house in a select neighbourhood of the city of Zagreb, the telephone rang.

The tall, lithe Croatian listened for a few moments and said one word in his native tongue: “Understood.” and then hung up.

Deep in thought, he made his way downstairs drawing his hand along the polished brass handrail of the wrought iron banister. He loved the flowing staircase that led down to the entry hall. The oversized crystal chandelier that hung like a huge bunch of sparkling grapes, the black and white chequerboard effect of the marble floors, the high arched mullioned windows, all contributed to the glamour of the house. He had fallen in love with it at first sight because it matched his fantasies born from a love affair with old Hollywood movies. He could imagine Ava Gardner or Bette Davis floating down that staircase in an expensive couturier ball gown.

The house was a monument to his success. Besides the usual sauna, pools and spectacularly landscaped gardens, it boasted its own sound-proofed media room with an enviable collection of vintage Hollywood films. He would spend many an evening watching Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford, Spencer Tracy and Humphrey Bogart work their magic on the screen. He was fascinated by the glamour of that era. The sound system was a source of joy to him and both before and after an assignment, he would come home and listen to classical music - Dvorak, Handel and Debussy were his favourites With the lights dimmed and music loud, he felt cleansed and gradually his mind would calm and his mood lighten.

Next to the theatre was a huge gym; not just an ordinary work out room but filled with apparatus for the hardcore gymnast. He had ropes hanging from the ceiling, a climbing wall, spring boards to propel him over the buck or horse, a bar for gymnastic routines involving balance, as well as the usual spinning cycles, punching bags, treadmills and weight machines. His gym was better equipped than most high schools in his area and he spent a gruelling four hours a day keeping his body at the peak of fitness and agility. Outside, at a distance from the house and its amenities, was the shooting range, where he practised with a selection of crossbows, bow and arrow, rifle, shotgun and handguns mostly equipped with silencers. Electronically operated targets would spring up randomly behind bushes or trees in front, behind and beside him, much like those in training sessions for agents involved in covert operations. He prided himself on having state of the art equipment and the skills to go with it. He knew that many times his life had depended on them. All around the perimeter of his land was a jogging path where he ran, rollerbladed and in winter practised cross-country skiing.

He loved this house. It was a constant, pleasurable and tangible reminder of how far he had come. The son of a farmer, he had learned to ski and hunt at a young age. His father had instilled in him a respect for nature and the skills to adapt to his environment. Many a weekend they had spent in a home-made blind waiting for deer or shooting quail or duck. They had swapped stories by the camp-fire, his father teaching him how to survive in the most brutal of conditions while he skinned a rabbit or plucked a pheasant. Little did he know at that time that those skills would be the foundation of a lifestyle and fortune beyond the wildest dreams of his father. A bullet from a Serb in an uprising prior to the June 1991 Croatian independence from Yugoslavia had put paid to any dreams his father might have had and the son enlisted in the war full of venom and desire for revenge. His abilities with a rifle soon caught the attention of his superiors and he was quickly trained as a sniper. In 1992, when the war spread to Bosnia, his abilities were in constant demand. He discovered that he enjoyed stalking his quarry and then lying in wait for the perfect moment to kill. His greatest claim to fame was when he had buried himself in underbrush for more than 36 hours breathing through a straw while waiting for the perfect opportunity to kill his quarry. For him, the exhilaration and adrenaline rush in making a kill overrode any sentiment he might have had for the fact he had cold-bloodedly taken a human life. In the chaos of 1995 as the war drew to a close, he had paid a plastic surgeon to alter his appearance and then murdered him, making it seem like another war-related death. Nobody from his past now knew what he looked like and he had made enough contacts during the war to ensure a lucrative future as a hit man. In darker circles, his services as an assassin were highly sought-after and, as his reputation and success in the underworld had increased, so had his fee. He was now richer than he could ever have imagined but somehow, it never seemed enough.

With his new identity, he had made the Croatian Olympic team where he excelled in the biathlon becoming quite a national sports star. While he engaged in this purely for pleasure and the thrill of the competition, it was excellent practice for the other business that enabled him to live an elite lifestyle while also serving as a good cover.

It amused him to think that nobody knew about his “other life” yet he acknowledged that his illegal line of work precluded him from cementing lasting friendships and that his celebrity could put him in jeopardy. He was smart enough, however, to understand that a part of him enjoyed the double life and flirting with the chance of exposure. In any event, he possessed a natural cynicism regarding the motives of any who wished to get to know him better and kept his relationships superficial. During training and competition, the camaraderie of the ski world allowed him to enter into his persona of gregarious, playboy athlete. Men knew he was good for a drink and a joke at a bar but could never get beyond a superficial acquaintance. They thought him shallow. Women accepted that he liked to “play the field” and knew better than to expect more than a brief good time. The succession of women in his life only served to fuel his playboy image. Come time to go home, however, he always went home alone. No doubt about it, killing for hire was lucrative, lonely work.

“Eduardo,” he called to his Filipino houseboy. “I’ll be going out for a while. No need to cook supper for me.” He got out the keys to his Ferrari, fired it up and shot out of the driveway towards a pay phone in the city where he would continue the telephone conversation. He had to admit he was intrigued by the possible assignment. Bermuda. Where was that exactly?

Chapter 35

Laughing, Jacintha dabbed at her eyes with her napkin.

“I think I put too much sherry peppers in mine. It’s really hot!”

She and Burgess were enjoying a spicy fish chowder at the North Rock Brewing restaurant near Collector’s Hill. Burgess liked the atmosphere of the bar in front and the restaurant in the back. It was popular with tourists and residents alike, managing to strike the right balance between formal and casual. Tonight the restaurant was full with a large table of Bermudians along the back wall celebrating a birthday, their obvious camaraderie and laughter creating a festive atmosphere to the evening.

They had both ordered steak and Burgess had had his usual grumble to the Maître d’ about wanting a baked potato. Some time before, the chef had decided it was too expensive to serve baked potatoes with the steak dishes and had opted for rice. Every time that Burgess ate there, he requested a baked potato. Somehow, to him, a steak without a baked potato was not a steak. So far in the North Rock Brewing Potato War, it was Chef 3 and Burgess 0. Burgess knew, however, if the chef kept cooking his steaks this well, he would be back before long to engage in yet another battle.

He looked across at Jacintha. She looked and smelled great. She had on a yellow gauzy sun dress with a low scooped neck which showed off the swell of her breasts. He was having a hard time not letting his eyes linger too long on her cleavage. He liked it when she wore her hair on her shoulders. It was sexy and feminine, not that she did not always look that way. He wondered how many detectives worked with pathologists who looked and dressed like her. He knew he was in the minority. He remembered the pathologist in England when he was training there. He was a crusty old Scotsman - “from Edinburra” as he liked to pronounce it - with a thick grey beard and an even thicker brogue. Burgess’s biggest problem had been trying to come to grips with his speech patterns. He remembered that he and another recruit from Hong Kong had had a particularly hard time deciphering what was said in between sentences punctuated with “laddies” as the doctor was inclined to call his students. “Nah, wha da ya think o’ this heer, laddie,” and “Whaire, laddie, da ya think tha boollet coulda aintered his brain?” All said with much rolling of “r’s” and acute vowel compositions, very musical, but like another language to Burgess and his colleague, He noticed that he was giving his mind free reign. Good. That showed he was beginning to wind down. He was enjoying his beer and she was savouring a glass of Merlot. He felt the muscles in his neck begin to relax for the first time all day. He realized he had not spoken for some time. Jacintha must think him poor company.