setting up their instruments on the small bandstand and way out across the sea he could see the lights of St. Thomas. It really was very pleasant, too easy to forget he had a job to do. He finished his drink, signed for it and went along to the restaurant, where he introduced himself to the head waiter and was seated.
The menu was tempting enough. He ordered grilled sea scallops, a Caesar salad, followed by Caribbean lobster tail. No Krug but a very acceptable half-bottle of Veuve Clicquot completed the picture.
He was finished by nine o’clock and wandered down to reception. Algaro was sitting in one of the leather armchairs looking at the
She smiled. “Everything okay, Mr. Dillon?”
“Perfect. Tell me, do you know a bar called Jenny’s Place?”
“I sure do. It’s on the front, just past Mongoose Junction on your way into town.”
“They stay open late I presume?”
“Usually till around two in the morning.”
“Many thanks.”
He moved away and walked along the dock, lighting a cigarette. Behind him Algaro went out and hurried along the car park by Sugar Mill, laughter drifting down from the people dining up there. He moved past the taxis waiting for customers to where the Land-Rover waited. Felipe Guerra, the
Algaro got in beside him and Guerra said, “Did you find him?”
“I was within touching distance. He was asking about that bar, Jenny’s Place. You know it? On the front in Cruz Bay.”
“Sure.”
“Let’s take a look. From the sound of it he intends to pay the place a visit.”
“Maybe we can make it interesting for him,” Guerra said and drove away.
Dillon drove past Mongoose Junction, located Jenny’s Place, then turned and went back to the Junction car park. He walked along the front of the harbor through the warm night, went up the steps, glanced up at the red neon sign and entered. The cafe side of things was busy, Mary Jones taking orders while two waitresses, one white, the other black, worked themselves into a frenzy as they attempted to serve everybody. The bar was busy also although Billy Jones seemed to be having no difficulty in managing on his own.
Dillon found a vacant stool at the end of the bar and waited until Billy was free to deal with him. “Irish whisky, whatever you’ve got, and water.”
He noticed Bob Carney seated at the other end of the long bar, a beer in front of him, talking to a couple of men who looked like seamen. Carney was smiling and then as he turned to reach for his beer, became aware of Dillon’s scrutiny and frowned.
Billy brought the whisky and Dillon said, “You’re Billy Jones?”
The other man looked wary. “And who might you be?”
“Dillon’s the name – Sean Dillon. I’m staying at Caneel. Jenny told me to look you up and say hello.”
“Jenny did?” Billy frowned. “When you see Miss Jenny?”
“In London. I went to Henry Baker’s cremation with her.”
“You did?” Billy turned and called to his wife. “Woman, get over here.” She finished taking an order, then joined them. “This is my wife, Mary. Tell her what you just told me.”
“I was with Jenny in London.” Dillon held out his hand. “Sean Dillon. I was at Baker’s funeral, not that there was much doing. She said he was an atheist, so all we did was attend the crematorium.”
Mary crossed herself. “God rest him now, but he did think that way. And Jenny, what about her? Where is she?”
“She was upset,” Dillon said. “She told me Baker had a sister.”
Mary frowned and looked at her husband. “We never knew that. Are you sure, mister?”
“Oh, yes, he had a sister living in France. Jenny wouldn’t say where, simply flew off to Paris from London. Wanted to take his ashes to the sister.”
“And when is she coming back?”
“All she said was she needed a few days to come to terms with the death and so on. As I happened to be coming out here she asked me to say hello.”
“Well I thank you for that,” Mary said. “We’ve been so worried!” A customer called from one of the tables. “I’ll have to go. I’ll see you later.”
She hurried away and Billy grinned. “I’m needed too, but hang around, man, hang around.”
He went to serve three clamouring customers and Dillon savoured his whisky and looked around the room. Algaro and Guerra were drinking beer in a corner booth. They were not looking at him, apparently engaged in conversation. Dillon’s eyes barely paused, passed on, and yet he recognized him from the reception at Caneel, the cropped hair, the brutal face, the scar from eye to the mouth.
“Judas Iscariot come to life,” Dillon murmured. “And what’s your game, son?” for he had learned the hard way over many years never to believe in coincidence.
The two men Carney had been talking to had moved on and he was sitting alone now, the stool next to him vacant. Dillon finished his drink, moved along the bar through the crowd. “Do you mind if I join you?”
Carney’s eyes were very blue in the tanned face. “Should I?”
“Dillon, Sean Dillon.” Dillon eased on to the stool. “I’m staying at Caneel. Cottage Seven. Jenny Grant told me to look you up.”
“You know Jenny?”
“I was just with her in London,” Dillon said. “Her friend, Henry Baker, was killed in an accident over there.”
“I heard about that.”
“Jenny was over for the inquest and the funeral.” Dillon nodded to Billy Jones, who came over. “I’ll have another Irish. Give Captain Carney whatever he wants.”
“I’ll have a beer,” Carney said. “Did Jenny bury him in London?”
“No,” Dillon told him. “Cremation. He had a sister in France.”
“I never knew that.”
“Jenny told me few people did. It seems he preferred it that way. Said she wanted to take the ashes to her. Last I saw of her she was flying to Paris. Said she’d be back here in a few days.”
Billy brought the whisky and the beer and Carney said, “So you’re here on vacation?”
“That’s right. I got in this evening.”
“Would you be the guy who came in the Cessna floatplane?”
“Flew up from Antigua.” Dillon nodded.
“On vacation?”
“Something like that.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “The thing is I’m interested in doing a little diving, and Jenny suggested I speak to you. Said you were the best.”
“That’s nice of her.”
“She said you taught Henry.”
“That’s true.” Carney nodded. “Henry was a good diver, foolish, but still pretty good.”
“Why do you say foolish?”
“It never pays to dive on your own, you should always have a buddy with you. Henry would never listen. He would just up and go whenever he felt like it, and that’s no good when you’re diving regularly. Accidents can happen no matter how well you plan things.” Carney drank some more beer and looked Dillon full in the face. “But then I’d say you’re the kind of man who knows that, Mr. Dillon.”
He had the slow, easy accent of the American southerner as if everything he said was carefully considered.
Dillon said, “Well in the end it was an accident that killed him in London. He looked the wrong way and stepped off the pavement in front of a London bus. He was dead in a second.”
Carney said calmly, “You know the old Arab saying? ‘Everybody has an appointment in Samarra.’ You miss
