‘Domett? Anything against him?’
‘The vice squad might be interested, but it’s unlikely. Two names in the notebook are of interest.’
‘Names?’
‘Domett’s used a code, but we’re sure that he doesn’t know who they are, not unless he attempted to find out.’
‘And you don’t believe that he did.’
‘He’s a lazy man, makes enough money to live on without working too hard. Unambitious, the reason he never succeeded as a police officer.’
‘Yet he makes more money than me,’ Goddard said.
‘One of life’s injustices. Not really relevant, is it?’
‘Not really. What does the notebook tell you?’
‘A date, a time, and a location.’
‘Nothing more?’
‘Two phone numbers. We’ve checked them out, nothing there. Larry Hill’s checking the first location now. I’ll be assisting him as soon as we’ve concluded here.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘Just giving you a forewarning. The two men could have influence. You could receive a phone call to tell us to back off.’
‘If I do, I’ll let you know.’
‘And then?’
‘Keep investigating. We want this murderer. If it’s one of the two men, then give me the name, and I’ll follow through. And take care, we don’t know who or what we’re up against.’
‘We do,’ Isaac said. ‘It’s not the first time we’ve come up against one law for the powerful, another for everyone else.’
‘You’re right. Keep me posted,’ Goddard said.
***
Isaac knew that the investigation was not over yet, but back at his flat, Jenny was packing the suitcases. It had only been two days before that he had come home more optimistic of a breakthrough than he had been for some time. His parents’ wedding anniversary was in seven days, and it had looked promising that the two of them would make it to the celebrations in Kingston, the Jamaican capital. His parents had purchased a three-bedroom house, complete with swimming pool, in Barbican on Millsborough Avenue, upmarket from where they had both been born in Trench Town.
Trench Town had been dangerous when they had lived there over forty years before, and it still was. It may have been where Bob Marley and reggae had come from, but it was still the centre of violence, not a place to drive through at night, and not in the day if it could be avoided.
It wasn’t as if Barbican was entirely crime free, and Isaac’s parents had upgraded the security on their property twice already in the year since they had returned to Jamaica. The first time was after they had returned from the Mahogany Bar at Devon House, the former mansion of a Jamaican who had made his money in Venezuela. That time the burglars had made a run for it. The second time, three men, more determined and carrying guns. Isaac’s father, seeing them as he entered the driveway, had slammed the car into reverse and driven fast to the police station, two minutes away. Being the parents of a detective chief inspector in England carried weight. A police car arrived at the property within five minutes. There were four policemen, and all were armed. The robbers were arrogantly loading the entire contents of the house into a van. A shootout, two of the robbers died at the scene, the third attempted to make a run for it, two policemen in hot pursuit. He died with two bullets to the chest, one to the head.
Isaac had pleaded with his parents to return to England, but they were adamant. Jamaica was their spiritual home, the place where their extended family could visit, not that Isaac had yet. Always too busy the reason, but he had been born in England, and to him, England was home, not somewhere where the police shot first, asked questions later.
Jenny, regardless of Isaac’s trepidation, had every intention of enjoying herself, the chance to soak up the sun, to visit Boston Bay and to eat Jerk Chicken at Shaggy’s, and then to go up the winding road to Firefly, the home of Noel Coward, the place where he had died, his grave in the grounds overlooking the sea down below. And to visit Ocho Rios and climb the Dunn River Falls, where James Bond had encountered Honey Rider coming out of the sea. And if time permitted, a weekend at Negril, the haunt of hippies in the sixties, the wealthy in the seventies, and to jump off the cliffs.
But the visit wouldn’t be yet; he knew that, as did the team. Isaac reflected on previous cases when there had been more than one suspect. Then, as now, it was a case of intensifying the process, pushing that bit harder, working extended hours.
Larry and Wendy focussed on the two special clients that Nick Domett’s notebook revealed. The dates and the locations could be correlated, although the phone numbers proved to be of no value. The first date, a Thursday, the time, seven in the evening, the location, an address in the country. The two police officers made the trip out to the place, a thatched cottage of picture postcard beauty. A car was in the gravel driveway to one side of the cottage and smoke was coming out of the chimney.
‘Strange,’ Larry said. ‘It’s not that cold. Why would someone have a fire?’
Wendy had seen the car, noticed the confetti on the rear window. The people inside were honeymooners, and they were about to be disturbed on the one night that two people in love should have to themselves.
It was Wendy who rapped on the cottage door, using a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head with a ring in its mouth. After what seemed a long time, the door opened. The face of a young man in his thirties peered round it. Through the gap in the door, Wendy could see the reflection in a mirror on the wall at the other
