‘So why did you deny that she’d been on board, you jerk?’
Steven tried to appear as ingratiating as possible. ‘They warned me not to say anything. They said they‘d be looking out for me in Florida. That’s why I’m going into Bermuda. I thought I’d turn round and head home after that. I thought they were a drug smuggling gang; they scared the shit out of me actually.’
The man named Vince reappeared. ‘She’s not down below, but here’s a DNA sample.’ He held up a brush festooned with long dark hair.
‘Ok,’ said the first man, ‘you’re gonna tell us exactly what happened, how you picked her up, what she said; everything.’
‘You’re not the Coastguard, are you?’ said Steven.
He related a quick story of picking up a woman from a life raft who gave her name as Emily. Subsequently she was picked up by another vessel. The two Americans told him to go below. He heard them making a call, presumably on a satellite phone, but he could not make out the words.
Then the man in charge came and spoke to him. ‘Ok you can go on to Bermuda now. We’ve found out that there are two boats called Kingfisher registered in Miami. We’re going to check a few things out, and if anything comes up we’ll be ready to meet you on shore, and oh boy, if we find you’ve lied to us it will be the worse for you.’
Steven watched the launch head off back to harbour. He read the name Seahorse 2, Fort Lauderdale, painted on the stern. He wanted to start the motor immediately and retrieve Gerry, however he decided that might look suspicious, so he slowly hoisted the main sail, but he did not sheet it home. When he was sure they were out of sight he began to reel in the safety line, and was relieved to find that it was still weighted. After a minute he saw her head, and waved and to his relief she gave a brief wave back.
A couple more minutes and she climbed back on board, exhausted, coughing and retching with a rope burn from where she had wound it around her. She winced when Steven hugged her, but she still clung on to him.
‘I’m sorry; they knew you’d been on board. They found out about you because of something you used the computer for.’
‘Oh shit!’
‘They also found a hairbrush you’d been using, and talked about DNA sampling.’
‘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.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
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 breakin 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.