Kingston noir, p.16
Kingston Noir, page 16
Doctor Smith. “I’ll email you my report right away, Chief. But I thought I’d give you the shortened oral version.”
“Any specific conclusions?”
“Our man continues to prefer sharp knives. A scalpel, most probably. But also a larger specimen, a hunting knife type with one smooth edge. Thousands of those on this island, so I’d guess this information is rather useless. And he used the same kind of knife before.”
“Any other resources he used?”
“Does he need to? That scalpel has served him well every time. You surely remember the wounds of the previous victims. Nothing different this time. Never need heavy tools.”
Tim made a gesture, attracting Vassell’s attention.
“Doctor,” said Vassell, “Timothy Hesseltine is listening. He has just arrived from London. He’s a profiler …”
“A profiler? I assumed your Chief …”
“Never mind. I pay his bills. He wants to say something.”
“Hello, doctor,” said Tim. “No heavy tools, you say?”
“Not once.”
“So he doesn’t work from a workshop? Not, like, a garage or something?”
“A garage? No. Unless the garage is merely a quiet place where he feels safe. I think he deliberately chose these knives because we can’t trace them, and certain types of rope that don’t leave fibers, or tape that don’t leave marks …”
“Everything leaves traces,” said Tim. “Unless he used electrical cords to tie up his victims. Even in that case, the skin will bear pressure marks.
“We have indeed found those. Ankles and wrists—all very classic. Sometimes on the neck as well. But never anything that would be the cause of death. He let his victims die by cutting into them. And often quite deep, I’m afraid.”
“He has a room big enough for this work, somewhere where he cannot be disturbed or his victims heard. He is not necessarily a specialist, but has learned something about human anatomy.”
“Dr. Smith also came to those conclusions,” Vassell said.
“Of course you did, doctor. I am convinced you have,” said Tim. “I’m just summarizing. And then I have to get into his head.”
“Getting into his head? Well,” said Smith, “I wish you all the luck with that. I would not want to be near him, and certainly not in his head.”
“Anything else we need to know, doctor?” Vassell asked.
“She died sometime after midnight, between twelve and two, and when she was found, she had been dead for no more than two hours. I couldn’t be more accurate. It gives you a fairly defined time frame. No blood around, like the others. Genital mutilation, but this time not deep. Blood loss and shock as causes of death. She didn’t survive much longer after he started working on her. I’ll give her an hour at most. Let’s hope it was faster than that.”
“He used gloves?”
“Surgical. Minimal traces of talcum powder. Just like with the other victims.”
“Thank you, doctor; I will read your report right away.”
Vassell rang off. She looked at Tim.
He looked at her.
“I barely slept on the plane,” he said.
“I’ve been up since three tonight,” she said.
“The right combination for quality police work: stress and no sleep.”
“As if we aren’t used to this.”
And then she shut up. She didn’t want to go back to their earlier experiences. Which meant the things that had happened in London. Their last case together. A man who had cut open five boys aged around seventeen in a period of five weeks and sent their genitals to their families.
Tim had created a profile.
But he had made a fatal mistake.
The wrong man went to jail. The murderer killed two more boys in one night and then committed suicide.
They never commit suicide, Tim had said. People like that are too cowardly for that.
That was his second mistake. He was not given the opportunity to question the murderer. He had ventured into the man’s head, but things had gone dramatically wrong.
He drew his own conclusions, left the force, and disappeared into academia.
And now he was here.
Once again involved in an investigation into a serial killer.
Because Vassell asked him to.
“There was a man at the door this afternoon,” Tabita said. She had a chicken in the oven and was preparing a salad with peppers, onions, and tomatoes.
“A man?” Terrence asked. Most of the people who asked after him were from the neighborhood, and needed him for some jobs. Tabita’s use of words implied that the man was a stranger.
“Yes. He asked about you.”
“What kind of man? Police?”
“No. An almost white man. Dark hair. Southern European type. Italian? Don’t know. He spoke strange English. No Patois.”
“A wa im telling yu say, gyal? A strange man? What did he want?”
“I say: he not in the house, so bugger off! He was looking for a relative, he said, and thought it could be you.”
“Relative? Like family member?”
“Yes. God, Terrence, you’re so slow. Do you have relatives in Italy? Or elsewhere in the south of Europe?”
“No. Not that I know. What did he want with that family thing?”
“Maybe give money. Maybe inheritance. He asked about you. Asked if you had lived in Europe.”
“And you said?”
“I told him you have no family. Not in Europe and not elsewhere. He took off. So no money.”
“Weird. An Italian?”
“Maybe. Or from the Lebanon, Egypt, or Iraq. Dark, but not black. Nice, yes. And still young. Maybe I should have told him: come in and see if we can find out something you don’t know yet, boy!”
“Tabitha!”
“Well, Terrence leaves me alone? So do I still do what I want? I have the day off, and Terrence he leaves me alone. What does he do all day?”
“Working for Mr. Harkaway. Sixty dollars a day for yard work.”
“Sixty dollars? Working in the house where your white woman also works. She gave you a lemonade? Or was there more?”
“Tabita, I already told you …”
“Yes, Tabita, she believes everything Terrence tells her. And in the meantime, everyone has noticed something. Everyone has something to say. People talking behind my back. Terrence and his white chick.”
“Did the man say anything about Anna?”
“A no dat man mi a talk. I’m talking about the neighbors. And our friends. The man I don’t care about. People talk. Terrence, who crosses the line, he does! Terrence, who neglects his Tabita, he does!”
“People gossip. You care? They always done that, right? What do people do differently than before?”
She laughed. As only Tabita could. While she prepared the salad with everything God had generously spread over this land.
“I only care when Terrence is home and with me! Good now?”
It was good.
But the next day Terrence spoke to Anna about it. He had gone to ring the doorbell in the evening, at her apartment.
“A man came looking for you?” she said.
“Or for you,” he said. “More likely.”
“They know your name.”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” he said.
“If it was a coincidence, Terrence,” said Anna, “you wouldn’t be standing here, worrying about the visit of an unknown man.”
“Tabita says he was of the dark type. But definitely not Jamaican. Maybe someone from the south of Europe. Maybe even an Arab. Where did that stuff you brought come from?”
“I have no idea.”
“And the man who shot Alexei? What did it look like?”
Anna remembered a North African. Or someone from the Middle East. She wasn’t sure and hadn’t had a good look at him. That boy had been dead. And full of blood. And she had been afraid. At the bottom of the stairs: a third man. She alone with Lucy. Of course she didn’t look at the man very closely.
“Maybe the man came from the same place as that boy,” Terrence said.
“Would they have found me? Here?”
“Not impossible. That depends on what resources they have. Alexei really didn’t say anything about…?”
“No. He didn’t get the chance. The thing he had is valuable. I want to give it back, Terrence, but I don’t even know to whom.”
“You don’t give anything back,” he warned her.
“But what if they find me?”
“Tabita told him that I don’t know anyone in Europe. He left again. There is no problem.”
“How many people named Mason are there in Kingston?”
He grimaced. “I do not know. Thousands. It is a fairly common name. And if they only know my last name, they will be busy for a while. Would they have seen our marriage certificate? In Brussels?”
She didn’t know. If they had, they would also know her name. She knew she was in danger. And Lucy, who was doing her homework and had just received a big hug from her father, was also in danger.
But there wasn’t much they could do.
Maybe run again, but where to? She had nothing but the Jamaican passports. She needed a visum for most countries. And that would cost money and time. Which she didn’t have.
“You look dejected, Mom,” Lucy said afterwards, after Terrence had left.
“Always worry, girl,” said Anna.
“Everything is fine at school,” said Lucy.
“Oh, that’s good. I’m glad you’re integrating.”
“It still is a strange language. I thought I learned a lot from Dad, but I don’t understand half of what they’re saying.”
Well, what about me, Anna thought. She was happy that more or less standard English was spoken in the Harkaway house. She didn’t have a problem with English. But Patois! Even going to the store was a problem. Lucy often accompanied her as a translator, even with the little she knew.
She had just opened the newspaper. On the first page: another girl kidnapped and murdered. She didn’t show the paper to Lucy.
But at school, the kids would talk about it.
A dangerous city. Where she would rather not have come.
But it hadn’t been her choice.
Anna had the impression there seemed to be a lot more police in the streets than earlier. Men and women in uniform, with rifles, and what looked like armored police vehicles. She could not really compare with the usual situation, but she assumed it had to do with the new murder. All this attention would be pointless and came much too late. It was merely a matter of the cops showing they were present and giving people what amounted to a false sense of security.
But then she heard what new measures had been taken by the authorities. Young people under the age of eighteen were no longer allowed to go out alone after ten o’clock in the evening. Places where these young people would usually gather after school would be closed. Patrols would also be on the streets, and the authorities asked civilians to watch the neighborhoods carefully for strangers.
It looked as if a revolution was in the air, and maybe it was.
Anna heard harsh voices over the radio, from ordinary people. She didn’t fully understand what they were saying, but Abraham told her that people were angry because the police apparently did nothing about the series of murders, or at least were not able to find the murderer. All those measures no one really believed in drew more anger, and not only from kids.
The murdered children’s relatives accused the government of negligence, but at the same time called for calm. Not that anyone in Kingston would listen to them.
Politicians tried to profile themselves as the guardians of public safety, as they usually did under such circumstances. They asked for more money for the police corps, even when, in the recent past, they had been opposed against extra spending on law enforcement. They called for more funds for child protection, for tourism, and for public housing—all the while knowing that those kinds of funds would never be available in Jamaica.
Anna recognized the pattern: the politicians were elbowing their way into the coming elections, gathering votes with promises, even ones they could not keep. Elections when? Anna didn’t know, but she was sure the date would be written in large letters in the politicians diaries.
She knew this for sure: that she watched Lucy leave for school every morning with a heavy heart and was relieved when she safely returned home in the evening. No police in the street could take that feeling away.
Under no circumstances would Lucy go anywhere on her own after school. She was too young. And certainly not with a monster walking around freely.
However, she tried not to scare Lucy too much.
She had no fear for herself since she was well outside the scope of the murderer. Too old, wrong skin color. She had another problem to deal with: an enemy, invisible to her but who would perhaps already be observing her. And she could do nothing about that threat.
In the absence of a plan, she concentrated on her work in Harkaway House, where Abraham seemed satisfied with her.
To her surprise, Mr. Harkaway spoke to her that morning. She especially noticed his shoes: dark yellow suede moccasins with rough leather laces. Quite unusual, even—she assumed—in Kingston.
“You’re Anna, aren’t you? Where do you come from?” He sounded cultured, like a well-read man. He was well-read, she assumed. She had seen his library. Many of the volumes looked like they had been frequently used.
“Belgium, sir,” she said. Of course she just told him the truth. Because he undoubtedly already knew, or at least could find out. You wouldn’t work in his house if he didn’t know who you were.
“Ah! Beautiful country. Hardworking people. Very different from Jamaica. This is a paradise, but not for everyone. And it is hard to find good and trustworthy help here.”
“Yes sir.”
“Maybe you would like to work for me in the evenings as well? I often receive guests for dinner. I need reliable people who won’t spill the wine.”
“I have a young daughter, sir, that I have to take care of. In the evenings.”
“Of course you do. Children are important to all of us. They need a lot of attention. But why don’t you bring her along?”
“Here?”
“Yes. Why not? If you work here evenings, she can come with you. Homework, whatever, and something to eat. They still have homework to do, I hope? I come into contact with young people often enough because of my foundations, but if you don’t have a family yourself, you don’t know how education works today.” He smiled.
His hair was neatly combed back. He smelled faintly of an expensive aftershave. He shaved carefully. His skin was tanned, but not too much. His chin told you that he was able to make decisions and stick with them. That was the sort of man he was.
“I agree to pay well for evening work. I want decent people to serve me when I have important guests. What do you think? Will you consider my offer?”
“I think I will, sir,” she said. She could use the extra money.
He nodded. “All right then. That’s settled. Abraham will arrange the details for you. Here, your daughter will find a place where she can keep herself busy. And where she is safe.”
“Yes sir. Thank you.”
“How old is she?”
“Twelve, sir.”
“Twelve. They grow up fast, don’t they?”
“Yes sir.”
That was it. An offer for more pay.
She couldn’t afford to say no. Besides, it was good that Mr. Harkaway knew who she was. Maybe one day she would need him.
He was a man who cared about the community, she had heard. She could use a man like that, not as a friend, but at least as an acquaintance.
She took the elevator down into the basement with a trolley she used when she had things to move around the house. She had a list of drinks that needed to be replenished. Whoever those friends of Mr. Harkaway were, they could handle quite a bit of liquor.
And expensive drinks, too. Any of his party’s would cost a few thousand dollars, she assumed. All for the sake of doing business, no doubt.
The basement was not a single room but a number of storage rooms with a separate hallway next to the garage.
In the garage, she noticed, stood a metallic gray BMW 6, a large black all-terrain vehicle, and a dark blue Mercedes E-series. All as good as new. To the side, she also noticed a not very new Ford Transit van, probably used by the staff to transport supplies. And yet another van, a somewhat more recent Mercedes.
The rest of the basement was a bit of a maze. She herself had been given a key for three rooms, where freezers and pantries were located. Food and drink. But also table linen, extra cutlery sets, tableware, glasses, and candles. Everything to throw a decent party.
She knew Mr. Harkaway himself wasn’t much of a drinker, or so she had heard from the other servants. He was generous with drinks for his guests, though. And with cigars, which he had shipped in straight from Cuba.
However, there were more doors in the basement. She didn’t have a key for them. Probably archives of Mr. Harkaway’s companies. Or even more supplies.
Or maybe bomb shelters, in case of war.
You never knew with those rich people.
She placed the bottles on the trolley. Then she took the elevator upstairs. She placed the bottles into the unlocked bar. Mr. Harkaway did not want closed cabinets in his home. Except in his office.
In the kitchen, two girls were preparing supper.
Bottles of wine in the refrigerator.
Abraham entered. He looked around. Two couples came to visit, he announced—Americans who had been on the island for a few days. Business associates, Anna assumed. She never asked about who the guests were.
“Any specific conclusions?”
“Our man continues to prefer sharp knives. A scalpel, most probably. But also a larger specimen, a hunting knife type with one smooth edge. Thousands of those on this island, so I’d guess this information is rather useless. And he used the same kind of knife before.”
“Any other resources he used?”
“Does he need to? That scalpel has served him well every time. You surely remember the wounds of the previous victims. Nothing different this time. Never need heavy tools.”
Tim made a gesture, attracting Vassell’s attention.
“Doctor,” said Vassell, “Timothy Hesseltine is listening. He has just arrived from London. He’s a profiler …”
“A profiler? I assumed your Chief …”
“Never mind. I pay his bills. He wants to say something.”
“Hello, doctor,” said Tim. “No heavy tools, you say?”
“Not once.”
“So he doesn’t work from a workshop? Not, like, a garage or something?”
“A garage? No. Unless the garage is merely a quiet place where he feels safe. I think he deliberately chose these knives because we can’t trace them, and certain types of rope that don’t leave fibers, or tape that don’t leave marks …”
“Everything leaves traces,” said Tim. “Unless he used electrical cords to tie up his victims. Even in that case, the skin will bear pressure marks.
“We have indeed found those. Ankles and wrists—all very classic. Sometimes on the neck as well. But never anything that would be the cause of death. He let his victims die by cutting into them. And often quite deep, I’m afraid.”
“He has a room big enough for this work, somewhere where he cannot be disturbed or his victims heard. He is not necessarily a specialist, but has learned something about human anatomy.”
“Dr. Smith also came to those conclusions,” Vassell said.
“Of course you did, doctor. I am convinced you have,” said Tim. “I’m just summarizing. And then I have to get into his head.”
“Getting into his head? Well,” said Smith, “I wish you all the luck with that. I would not want to be near him, and certainly not in his head.”
“Anything else we need to know, doctor?” Vassell asked.
“She died sometime after midnight, between twelve and two, and when she was found, she had been dead for no more than two hours. I couldn’t be more accurate. It gives you a fairly defined time frame. No blood around, like the others. Genital mutilation, but this time not deep. Blood loss and shock as causes of death. She didn’t survive much longer after he started working on her. I’ll give her an hour at most. Let’s hope it was faster than that.”
“He used gloves?”
“Surgical. Minimal traces of talcum powder. Just like with the other victims.”
“Thank you, doctor; I will read your report right away.”
Vassell rang off. She looked at Tim.
He looked at her.
“I barely slept on the plane,” he said.
“I’ve been up since three tonight,” she said.
“The right combination for quality police work: stress and no sleep.”
“As if we aren’t used to this.”
And then she shut up. She didn’t want to go back to their earlier experiences. Which meant the things that had happened in London. Their last case together. A man who had cut open five boys aged around seventeen in a period of five weeks and sent their genitals to their families.
Tim had created a profile.
But he had made a fatal mistake.
The wrong man went to jail. The murderer killed two more boys in one night and then committed suicide.
They never commit suicide, Tim had said. People like that are too cowardly for that.
That was his second mistake. He was not given the opportunity to question the murderer. He had ventured into the man’s head, but things had gone dramatically wrong.
He drew his own conclusions, left the force, and disappeared into academia.
And now he was here.
Once again involved in an investigation into a serial killer.
Because Vassell asked him to.
“There was a man at the door this afternoon,” Tabita said. She had a chicken in the oven and was preparing a salad with peppers, onions, and tomatoes.
“A man?” Terrence asked. Most of the people who asked after him were from the neighborhood, and needed him for some jobs. Tabita’s use of words implied that the man was a stranger.
“Yes. He asked about you.”
“What kind of man? Police?”
“No. An almost white man. Dark hair. Southern European type. Italian? Don’t know. He spoke strange English. No Patois.”
“A wa im telling yu say, gyal? A strange man? What did he want?”
“I say: he not in the house, so bugger off! He was looking for a relative, he said, and thought it could be you.”
“Relative? Like family member?”
“Yes. God, Terrence, you’re so slow. Do you have relatives in Italy? Or elsewhere in the south of Europe?”
“No. Not that I know. What did he want with that family thing?”
“Maybe give money. Maybe inheritance. He asked about you. Asked if you had lived in Europe.”
“And you said?”
“I told him you have no family. Not in Europe and not elsewhere. He took off. So no money.”
“Weird. An Italian?”
“Maybe. Or from the Lebanon, Egypt, or Iraq. Dark, but not black. Nice, yes. And still young. Maybe I should have told him: come in and see if we can find out something you don’t know yet, boy!”
“Tabitha!”
“Well, Terrence leaves me alone? So do I still do what I want? I have the day off, and Terrence he leaves me alone. What does he do all day?”
“Working for Mr. Harkaway. Sixty dollars a day for yard work.”
“Sixty dollars? Working in the house where your white woman also works. She gave you a lemonade? Or was there more?”
“Tabita, I already told you …”
“Yes, Tabita, she believes everything Terrence tells her. And in the meantime, everyone has noticed something. Everyone has something to say. People talking behind my back. Terrence and his white chick.”
“Did the man say anything about Anna?”
“A no dat man mi a talk. I’m talking about the neighbors. And our friends. The man I don’t care about. People talk. Terrence, who crosses the line, he does! Terrence, who neglects his Tabita, he does!”
“People gossip. You care? They always done that, right? What do people do differently than before?”
She laughed. As only Tabita could. While she prepared the salad with everything God had generously spread over this land.
“I only care when Terrence is home and with me! Good now?”
It was good.
But the next day Terrence spoke to Anna about it. He had gone to ring the doorbell in the evening, at her apartment.
“A man came looking for you?” she said.
“Or for you,” he said. “More likely.”
“They know your name.”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” he said.
“If it was a coincidence, Terrence,” said Anna, “you wouldn’t be standing here, worrying about the visit of an unknown man.”
“Tabita says he was of the dark type. But definitely not Jamaican. Maybe someone from the south of Europe. Maybe even an Arab. Where did that stuff you brought come from?”
“I have no idea.”
“And the man who shot Alexei? What did it look like?”
Anna remembered a North African. Or someone from the Middle East. She wasn’t sure and hadn’t had a good look at him. That boy had been dead. And full of blood. And she had been afraid. At the bottom of the stairs: a third man. She alone with Lucy. Of course she didn’t look at the man very closely.
“Maybe the man came from the same place as that boy,” Terrence said.
“Would they have found me? Here?”
“Not impossible. That depends on what resources they have. Alexei really didn’t say anything about…?”
“No. He didn’t get the chance. The thing he had is valuable. I want to give it back, Terrence, but I don’t even know to whom.”
“You don’t give anything back,” he warned her.
“But what if they find me?”
“Tabita told him that I don’t know anyone in Europe. He left again. There is no problem.”
“How many people named Mason are there in Kingston?”
He grimaced. “I do not know. Thousands. It is a fairly common name. And if they only know my last name, they will be busy for a while. Would they have seen our marriage certificate? In Brussels?”
She didn’t know. If they had, they would also know her name. She knew she was in danger. And Lucy, who was doing her homework and had just received a big hug from her father, was also in danger.
But there wasn’t much they could do.
Maybe run again, but where to? She had nothing but the Jamaican passports. She needed a visum for most countries. And that would cost money and time. Which she didn’t have.
“You look dejected, Mom,” Lucy said afterwards, after Terrence had left.
“Always worry, girl,” said Anna.
“Everything is fine at school,” said Lucy.
“Oh, that’s good. I’m glad you’re integrating.”
“It still is a strange language. I thought I learned a lot from Dad, but I don’t understand half of what they’re saying.”
Well, what about me, Anna thought. She was happy that more or less standard English was spoken in the Harkaway house. She didn’t have a problem with English. But Patois! Even going to the store was a problem. Lucy often accompanied her as a translator, even with the little she knew.
She had just opened the newspaper. On the first page: another girl kidnapped and murdered. She didn’t show the paper to Lucy.
But at school, the kids would talk about it.
A dangerous city. Where she would rather not have come.
But it hadn’t been her choice.
Anna had the impression there seemed to be a lot more police in the streets than earlier. Men and women in uniform, with rifles, and what looked like armored police vehicles. She could not really compare with the usual situation, but she assumed it had to do with the new murder. All this attention would be pointless and came much too late. It was merely a matter of the cops showing they were present and giving people what amounted to a false sense of security.
But then she heard what new measures had been taken by the authorities. Young people under the age of eighteen were no longer allowed to go out alone after ten o’clock in the evening. Places where these young people would usually gather after school would be closed. Patrols would also be on the streets, and the authorities asked civilians to watch the neighborhoods carefully for strangers.
It looked as if a revolution was in the air, and maybe it was.
Anna heard harsh voices over the radio, from ordinary people. She didn’t fully understand what they were saying, but Abraham told her that people were angry because the police apparently did nothing about the series of murders, or at least were not able to find the murderer. All those measures no one really believed in drew more anger, and not only from kids.
The murdered children’s relatives accused the government of negligence, but at the same time called for calm. Not that anyone in Kingston would listen to them.
Politicians tried to profile themselves as the guardians of public safety, as they usually did under such circumstances. They asked for more money for the police corps, even when, in the recent past, they had been opposed against extra spending on law enforcement. They called for more funds for child protection, for tourism, and for public housing—all the while knowing that those kinds of funds would never be available in Jamaica.
Anna recognized the pattern: the politicians were elbowing their way into the coming elections, gathering votes with promises, even ones they could not keep. Elections when? Anna didn’t know, but she was sure the date would be written in large letters in the politicians diaries.
She knew this for sure: that she watched Lucy leave for school every morning with a heavy heart and was relieved when she safely returned home in the evening. No police in the street could take that feeling away.
Under no circumstances would Lucy go anywhere on her own after school. She was too young. And certainly not with a monster walking around freely.
However, she tried not to scare Lucy too much.
She had no fear for herself since she was well outside the scope of the murderer. Too old, wrong skin color. She had another problem to deal with: an enemy, invisible to her but who would perhaps already be observing her. And she could do nothing about that threat.
In the absence of a plan, she concentrated on her work in Harkaway House, where Abraham seemed satisfied with her.
To her surprise, Mr. Harkaway spoke to her that morning. She especially noticed his shoes: dark yellow suede moccasins with rough leather laces. Quite unusual, even—she assumed—in Kingston.
“You’re Anna, aren’t you? Where do you come from?” He sounded cultured, like a well-read man. He was well-read, she assumed. She had seen his library. Many of the volumes looked like they had been frequently used.
“Belgium, sir,” she said. Of course she just told him the truth. Because he undoubtedly already knew, or at least could find out. You wouldn’t work in his house if he didn’t know who you were.
“Ah! Beautiful country. Hardworking people. Very different from Jamaica. This is a paradise, but not for everyone. And it is hard to find good and trustworthy help here.”
“Yes sir.”
“Maybe you would like to work for me in the evenings as well? I often receive guests for dinner. I need reliable people who won’t spill the wine.”
“I have a young daughter, sir, that I have to take care of. In the evenings.”
“Of course you do. Children are important to all of us. They need a lot of attention. But why don’t you bring her along?”
“Here?”
“Yes. Why not? If you work here evenings, she can come with you. Homework, whatever, and something to eat. They still have homework to do, I hope? I come into contact with young people often enough because of my foundations, but if you don’t have a family yourself, you don’t know how education works today.” He smiled.
His hair was neatly combed back. He smelled faintly of an expensive aftershave. He shaved carefully. His skin was tanned, but not too much. His chin told you that he was able to make decisions and stick with them. That was the sort of man he was.
“I agree to pay well for evening work. I want decent people to serve me when I have important guests. What do you think? Will you consider my offer?”
“I think I will, sir,” she said. She could use the extra money.
He nodded. “All right then. That’s settled. Abraham will arrange the details for you. Here, your daughter will find a place where she can keep herself busy. And where she is safe.”
“Yes sir. Thank you.”
“How old is she?”
“Twelve, sir.”
“Twelve. They grow up fast, don’t they?”
“Yes sir.”
That was it. An offer for more pay.
She couldn’t afford to say no. Besides, it was good that Mr. Harkaway knew who she was. Maybe one day she would need him.
He was a man who cared about the community, she had heard. She could use a man like that, not as a friend, but at least as an acquaintance.
She took the elevator down into the basement with a trolley she used when she had things to move around the house. She had a list of drinks that needed to be replenished. Whoever those friends of Mr. Harkaway were, they could handle quite a bit of liquor.
And expensive drinks, too. Any of his party’s would cost a few thousand dollars, she assumed. All for the sake of doing business, no doubt.
The basement was not a single room but a number of storage rooms with a separate hallway next to the garage.
In the garage, she noticed, stood a metallic gray BMW 6, a large black all-terrain vehicle, and a dark blue Mercedes E-series. All as good as new. To the side, she also noticed a not very new Ford Transit van, probably used by the staff to transport supplies. And yet another van, a somewhat more recent Mercedes.
The rest of the basement was a bit of a maze. She herself had been given a key for three rooms, where freezers and pantries were located. Food and drink. But also table linen, extra cutlery sets, tableware, glasses, and candles. Everything to throw a decent party.
She knew Mr. Harkaway himself wasn’t much of a drinker, or so she had heard from the other servants. He was generous with drinks for his guests, though. And with cigars, which he had shipped in straight from Cuba.
However, there were more doors in the basement. She didn’t have a key for them. Probably archives of Mr. Harkaway’s companies. Or even more supplies.
Or maybe bomb shelters, in case of war.
You never knew with those rich people.
She placed the bottles on the trolley. Then she took the elevator upstairs. She placed the bottles into the unlocked bar. Mr. Harkaway did not want closed cabinets in his home. Except in his office.
In the kitchen, two girls were preparing supper.
Bottles of wine in the refrigerator.
Abraham entered. He looked around. Two couples came to visit, he announced—Americans who had been on the island for a few days. Business associates, Anna assumed. She never asked about who the guests were.
