She squinted at him. “With women going missing every time they run an ad and a drunk man answering the corresponding phone number at midnight?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I run ads too. I wouldn’t want officers throwing me in jail just because of it.” He tapped his pen on the edge of the ledger and took his time framing his statement. “Look, this isn’t easy for the country, the families or the authorities. The police have to investigate to make their case. Justice isn’t linear.”
“It shouldn’t be crooked either," came Eileen’s bitter retort.
"I'll tell you what.” Holden dug into his pocket for a ten-dollar note. "How about you go to the bakery and get some pastries for everyone? I'll talk to Derricks by the time you get back."
By the time she returned with six soft turnovers, Holden was sitting at the lunchroom table with a cup of tea and his mouth pressed in a firm line. He muttered thanks when she placed the warm coconut pastry in front of him and looked down at the desk as he spoke. “Derricks said everything we gave him is circumstantial. The ad you got from home that Anna may have circled might carry a little more weight, but the one in the cane field is iffy.”
“‘Iffy’?” she repeated. “And what do you mean by a little more weight?”
“How can we be sure it was Anna who wrote the note and not someone else?”
Eileen was exasperated. “Anna lived alone! Who else could have written it?”
Holden sipped too quickly and recoiled as the tea burned his tongue. He was flustered and it showed on his face. “I get that. You get that. But it’s not always so simple.” He rubbed his singed lips. “You've got to realize that this crappy economy isn't only affecting us. Derricks said he's the police had budget cuts too and it's not affected the man power he can commit to following up on leads. Officers are already working overtime to patrol neighbourhoods."
Eileen frowned. Even she had to admit that the situation was tough all around.
"But don't worry; he said he would look into it a bit further this afternoon.”
But that afternoon was not to be. At 2:15 p.m. the wail of sirens issued from three different directions, growing louder and louder as they descended on the junction in front of Davis and Sons. Eileen ran to the plate glass door with a daisy wreath in her hand and watched as the traffic parted like the Red Sea as cars mounted sidewalks and a vendor blocked the funeral home's door with his boxed cart. The sirens reached a deafening din as motorcycle outriders, an ambulance, and the police commissioner’s car met at the crossroads, converged into a convoy and raced down the street.
Eileen turned in alarm to Clifford who quirked an eyebrow at her and said, “Can’t be nothing good.” He twisted his mouth as though he’d sucked something sour and went back to reading the cricket scores. As the sirens faded, Eileen picked up the spray bottle and returned to the viewing room, her mind uneasy.
An hour later, she would ponder the inherent benefits and disadvantages of working at a funeral home. She had almost finished setting up the viewing room when the phone rang; Holden took the call. His face was solemn when he beckoned to her. Her heart plummeted. Had they been too late to stop the killer again?
“John just died.”
“Who’s John?”
He turned to Clifford and said, “Pick up Junior. We have to get to Illaro Court right now.”
The next few days were unlike anything Eileen had ever seen. Burying a prime minister was like burying a regular person, except it wasn’t. You met with the dean of the cathedral where other prime ministers and governor generals were buried, instead of the pastor of a rickety little church sandwiched between a rum shop and a mechanic’s garage deep in the country. Flowers came from Queen Elizabeth II and prime ministers. The processional included the armed forces, government ministries and the deceased’s mother whom Eileen had to refer to as ‘Lady’ since her husband had been knighted.
The whirlwind was a distraction during the day. Only at night when shadows came alive and the wind whistled through the leaves of the tamarind tree, rattling the fruit in their smooth brown shells, did the thoughts of the four dead women play on Eileen’s mind. Only then would fear come rushing back as she raced up the apartment stairs and slammed the door behind her, her mind on high alert as she went quickly through the rooms, ensuring she was truly alone. In the end, Eileen took to leaving the lights on all day so she wouldn't have to enter a dark apartment. She vowed to eat less to accommodate the increase in electricity she knew would follow.
The following week, when the prime minister was safely interred, she went to Holden again, asking about the status of the commissioner’s investigation into the serial murderers. “Derricks was busy with the prime minister’s burial. He’s a fellow who lives for that kind of pomp and pageantry. But, he said he would get to it today."
It never happened. Around 2:15 p.m. two prisoners jumped out of a van after their court date and escaped. The police commissioner declared the convicted killers to be armed and dangerous and launched an islandwide manhunt. Later, Clifford looked at Holden and Eileen as the three of them gathered around the radio listening to the evening news, cocked his head to the side and said, “I’m seeing a pattern. Makes me wonder what's gonna happen next week at 2:15.”
* * *
DONNA GREEN’S BODY WAS DELIVERED a few days later and it was all Holden could do not to blow out an exasperated breath as he surveyed Dr Thorpe’s handiwork. Donna’s hair was uncombed, her nails were dirty and there was dried blood on her fingertips. Holden comforted himself that Donna would be one of the last victims to cross Thorpe’s
