The Gilgamesh Conspiracy (33 page)

‘They didn’t say who they were, did they, or show any ID?’

‘No, but I don’t think they were from Bermuda Customs. One of them sounded American, and one of them was English for certain, and he was called Vince.’

He gave a small smile that quickly faded when Gerry immediately released him and he saw the expression of angry hatred that spread over her face. ‘Was the American red haired, with a gold tooth?’

‘So you know them,’ he said.

As dusk drew in the
Surprise
was half a mile off shore in Gunner Bay and the tide was turning. The breeze had died away during the evening and it was now almost calm. Gerry climbed down into the inflatable dinghy. She was wearing Steven’s ill-fitting dark clothes and in a plastic bag under the thwart she had two hundred US Dollars and fifty UK pounds. She gave a quick wave and then began to paddle the dingy towards the shore. Steven watched her until she was swallowed up in the darkness and then with all lights blazing he motored the yacht towards Town Cut and into St. George’s harbour. He hooked on to a buoy, let go the anchor for additional security and switched off the engine.

A few minutes later the Customs and Immigration vessel pulled alongside. ‘Hello
Surprise
. Permission to come aboard, Captain?’ A man aged about sixty dressed in a white uniform of Bermuda shorts and shirt with an insignia on the collar stepped aboard.

‘Hi, nice to have someone to talk to at last,’ said Steven.

‘Ah yes, the loneliness of the solo yachtsman,’ he observed. He offered his hand to shake. ‘You, I presume are Steven Morris. I’m John Grant.’

A young man aged in his mid-twenties stepped across after him, wearing a similar uniform, but with a sidearm in a button down holster around his waist. ‘This is Sam Goodhew of the Customs.’  Steven shook hands with the young man. ‘He just has to make sure you haven’t brought anything you shouldn’t have with you. You’ve come from the Azores, I believe.’

‘That’s right,’ said Steven.

‘You know the regulations regarding animals and fresh produce?

‘I’ve no animals on board and the fresh produce ran out many days ago,’ Steven assured him.

‘Very good, well Sam will have a poke about while we fill out the paperwork, then.’

Steven led the way below and they sat down at the table. Grant kept up a steady flow of chatter while he inspected Steven’s yacht master’s certificate and insurance documents and Steven filled out his personal details. He was holding his passport in one hand and writing down the date of issue on an immigration form when a large plastic bag containing a white powder thudded down on the table.

‘This would appear to be cocaine, Mr Morris,’ Goodhew declared. Steven stared at the bag in horror. After a short silence, Grant reached across and tugged the passport out of his fingers.

‘Perhaps I’d better take care of that for the moment.’

Gerry walked along the narrow road until she came to a house with a small sign with the name of a holiday rental company on a post beside the driveway. From her rucksack she pulled out the list of rental properties that she had printed out from Steven’s computer and by the light of the moon she checked the address. She crept around the perimeter looking for burglar alarms, security guards, canine or human and then walked boldly up to the front door and rattled the door handle and called out ‘Hello, anyone at home?’ 

She scanned the area and then walked around the back of the house where she found patio doors adjacent to a swimming pool. She picked up a leaf strainer from beside the pool and drove the long pole at the glass door. It was made of toughened glass that broken into a myriad small pieces that cascaded to the ground in a sizzling shower that sounded very loud to her adrenaline heightened hearing. She walked quickly away from the house, glancing back over her shoulder for any sign that police or neighbours might be taking an interest.  She waited twenty minutes before returning to the scene of her crime, stepped quietly into the house, checked out the ground floor and then ran upstairs. She peered out of the bedroom window and watched the street for another fifteen minutes. A few cars drove past but there was no sign that her break-in had raised an alarm. She ran back down to the utility room where she found the mains water stopcock and an electric water heater switch.

While she waited for the water to heat up she switched on the television in the living room and watched CNN for a while before flicking through the channels. She wandered around the house looking at books; picking up ornaments and setting them down; gazing at the pictures hanging on the walls; thinking about the normal life she had lost before Phil had been killed, or as normal as was possible for someone in executive operations. After twenty minutes she returned to the bathroom, tested the water, stripped off and climbed in with a big smile on her face. It was pure luxury to bathe in hot fresh water and wash the salt out of her hair with the expensive brand of shampoo she had found in a cabinet.

The bedroom cupboards were empty, but at the end of the house she found a door that was locked. She examined the frame and then searched in the kitchen until she found a meat tenderiser and took a shelf from the oven. She hammered the oven shelf into the gap between door and frame and levered it open, mouthing an apology to the house’s owner as the frame splintered. As she hoped the room was packed with personal belongings that the owner of the house did not want any holiday lessees to share. Inside a cupboard she found clothes that fitted quite well. The trousers were a good fit around her waist but not surprisingly they were too short in the leg, but there were shorts and skirts which she could easily wear. The next thing she required was some make-up; she pulled open drawers of a dressing table and found what she needed.

In the kitchen she opened some tins and ate the contents cold. Then she went back upstairs and cleaned her teeth as best she could with a finger. She inspected the peg from where her crown had been dislodged. She tried a smile, then shook her head and muttered ‘sod it.’ She went into a bedroom, yawned, set the alarm on the clock radio, slumped down on the bed and fell asleep.

Steven Morris had not been arrested since he was a student involved in a drunken brawl at a nightclub. On that occasion he had been released after a few hours because he had managed to convince the duty sergeant that he had been no more than a bystander who had tried to defuse the tension, but he remembered it as a salutary experience. Now thirty years later he was on the much more serious charge of attempted drug smuggling. He had no idea if the penalties in Bermuda were fairly lenient, in accordance with British criminal justice, or as harsh as in Thailand. In any event he had no wish to spend time incarcerated while his yacht lay unattended and unprotected at some obscure mooring. He had demanded to see a lawyer as soon as possible, and now after an uncomfortable night in a police cell he was ushered into an interview room by the duty sergeant. A tall well-built middle aged man dressed in an elegant lightweight suit was seated at the desk. He stood up and offered his hand.

‘Good morning Mr Morris. I am your assigned legal counsel. My name’s Hammond.’

‘Good morning Mr Hammond,’ he replied. He shook his hand and then took the proffered business card and read “Kenneth Hammond - Strickland, Hammond & Fitch Partners”. Steven felt some confidence returning ‘Have you been informed of the charges against me?’ he asked.

‘One moment please,’ said Hammond. He reached into a briefcase and brought out a piece of electronic equipment the size of a mobile phone and stood up. ‘Bug detector,’ he said. He walked around the room passing the device all around the walls, across the floor and under the chairs and table, while Steven watched in some surprise that a Bermuda lawyer would need to take such precautions. Then the lawyer stood by the door and abruptly opened it. Steven could see that the corridor was clear and he looked at his visitor with raised eyebrows.

‘So it seems we’re alone.’

‘Yes,’ Hammond replied, ‘can’t be too careful.’ He sat down and gazed frankly into Steven’s eyes. ‘The honesty with which you answer my questions will probably decide whether or not Gerry Tate ever gets home safely.’ Steven stared at him for several seconds, taking on board her surname. He wondered if the man opposite might be a colleague of hers rather than a lawyer. Then he realised that this man could either be trying to help Gerry, or possibly to arrest or even kill her. The problem was that he had no idea which.

Hammond studied his fingernails while Steven thought the matter through. ‘So I guessed that Gerry works for MI6. Does that mean you do as well? Are you a real lawyer?’

Hammond finished his nail inspection and folded his arms. ‘Is that what she told you?’

‘No, she said she worked for the Ministry of Overseas Development and her name was Emily Smith. How do I know that you’re not someone who is out to get her?’ he asked. ‘I might be handing her over to her enemies if I talk to you? You might be an accomplice of those two guys who planted that damn cocaine!’

Hammond smiled. ‘I arranged that.’

‘What?’ Steven shouted. He clenched his fists under the table, barely resisting the urge to leap up and throttle him. ‘You bastard! Why the hell did you do that?’

‘So I could have an excuse to have the two of you taken into protective custody without arousing any suspicions and to stop Gerry rushing off somewhere,’ Hammond explained. ‘Trust her to circumvent that. When this is over the chemical analysis will reveal that it was talcum powder or something and then we’ll let you go, but I really need you to tell me where Gerry is, and what she’s planning.’

‘I’m not certain I should trust you,’ said Steven. Hammond looked him in the eye.

‘I’m not sure if I can persuade you. Do you know I’ve considered all kinds of options? I considered threatening to harm you; your daughter; sink your yacht; throw you in jail. I’ve documentary evidence to show you that Gerry Tate is actually an aggressive, dangerous and a killer without conscience for whom you should have no shred of sympathy. What I’m actually going to do now is hand you back your passport take you to the gateway of this pen and call you a car. This will take you to the dock where your yacht is moored. The customs people will allow you on board and I would suggest that you slip out under cover of darkness.’ Hammond reached into his case and placed a passport on the table. ‘We’ll try and think of some other way to save Gerry.’ He picked up the telephone and dialled. ‘Sam, could you come in please?’

Steven picked up his passport and fanned through the pages until he saw his photograph and then pocketed the booklet. A few moments later the young Customs Officer who had boarded Steven’s yacht entered the room.

‘This is Sam Goodhew, Steven. I expect you remember him. Sam, could you take Mr Morris back to his yacht? I expect he’ll be leaving with the evening tide.’ Hammond stood up and offered his hand. ‘Have a good trip, Mr Morris. Sorry to have troubled you.’ Steven shook his hand.

‘Sorry, but Gerry told me not to trust anyone, or talk to anyone if possible,’ he explained.

‘No, no, that’s quite alright,’ Hammond assured him.

‘This way then, please sir,’ said Goodhew. Steven followed him out of the building. Outside in the yard Goodhew directed him to a Range Rover. ‘Do you need water and fuel? I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you for the fuel, but I think I can give it to you free of duty which should save a tidy sum.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Steven.

‘The weather forecast is good for the next five days,’ Goodhew remarked as they drove through the gates. ‘You should have a nice run towards Florida.’

‘Look…turn the car round!’

‘What’s that?’ asked Goodhew.

‘I’ve decided I’ll co-operate. Take me back to Hammond.’

‘Well if you’re sure. I’ll just take the next right and then turn round there. We have rather narrow roads on these islands.’

Richard Cornwall was sipping a cup of coffee in front of his computer and checking his inbox when his telephone rang. ‘Yes, hello.’

‘It’s Goodhew, sir. Mr Morris has had a change of heart. I’m bringing him back.’

‘Well that’s marvellous,’ said Cornwall in a voice that he hoped Steven Morris would hear. ‘Tell him I’ll be very happy to see him.’ He switched off the phone. ‘Morris, you’re a bloody romantic idiot,’ he said out loud, but internally he was congratulating himself. He now had to find out somehow if Gerry had ever mentioned the name Richard Cornwall to Morris, and if she had, was it with admiration, approbation or murderous intent. Until then he would have to keep up the somewhat tiresome pretence of his Kenneth Hammond persona. He telephoned the agent who was keeping tabs on Vince Parker and Neil Samms, and then settled to await Morris.

‘I’m glad you’ve decided to help,’ Cornwall declared as Steven came back into the room.

‘Ok so what do you want?’

‘Firstly I’d like you to explain why Gerry was no longer on board.’

‘When we were about twenty miles out from Bermuda, this big yacht, motor yacht, came alongside. Gerry went over the side with a mask and snorkel. I tow a rope astern and she clung on to that. These two guys came on board and searched the yacht. Later she told me they were Neil Samms and Vince Parker. Well they didn’t find her, but they found a hairbrush festooned with her hair and took it for DNA. I thought they planted the cocaine.’

‘Oh I understand now,’ said Cornwall. ‘When you said two guys planted cocaine I thought you were referring to the men from Bermuda rather than these Americans. Sorry, go on.’

‘Anyway when she found out who the two of them were, well you should have seen her face – you’d think she wanted to kill them.’

‘Oh surely not. Now did she mention any other names?’

‘Not really.’

‘Not really?’

‘Well when she was asleep. She’d have these recurring dreams and she’d mention Ali a lot. I asked her who he was and she said he was on the raft with her but he died.’

‘Mmm…anyone else?’

‘She mumbled something about Phil when she was asleep, and once she called me Phil by mistake. I asked her who was this Phil guy and he said he was from her past.’

‘So I can take it that as you heard all these dreams you were sharing a cabin?’

‘Er yeah…that’s a polite way of putting it, but yes.’

‘Are you sure there’s nothing else she told you in intimate moments? You were her first lover oh, for years, probably since Philip.’

‘Four years…really? No wonder she was so…er, that guy Phil must have really hurt her.’

‘He’s dead Mr Stevens, and for the last few years she’s been in prison for killing the man who was responsible.’

‘What!’

‘Actually I don’t believe she did kill him: I think she was fitted up for it.’

‘Well thank goodness for that; she doesn’t seem the type at all.’

‘Oh no, of course she isn’t.’

They remained silent for a few seconds as each of them considered their divergent opinions of Gerry Tate.

‘Is that why she gave up her daughter for adoption?’ ventured Steven after a while. ‘Because she was in prison.’

‘So she told you she had a child?’

‘Yes. I think she wants to go back to England and see her child and then she’s out for revenge.’

‘Revenge on whom?’

‘On whoever’s responsible for dumping her on that life raft. And probably whoever put her in prison too I should imagine.’

‘Well she can hardly go through the usual channels; there’s an arrest warrant out for her. And it’ll take her some time to track down her daughter.’

‘No it won’t, she already knows where she is.’

‘What? How?’

‘She hacked into the adoption records.’

‘Ah!’ Cornwall shook his head slowly. ‘So she’s heading back to London. Unless of course she planted all that with you as disinformation.’

‘She may have done.’

‘So Mr Morris, what plans do you have now?’

‘I’ll continue to sail to Florida I think.’

‘How long will that take, do you reckon?’

‘Five to ten days, depending on the wind of course.’