Page 96 of Deep Blue Sea

‘Are you Detective Henry, by any chance?’ she said.

The man nodded warily. ‘I am.’

Rachel stepped forward and offered her hand. ‘Rachel Miller, we spoke on the phone yesterday?’

‘Ah yes. I have just been visiting Mr McKiney.’ He glanced towards the door to the ward. ‘I imagine you are thirsty after your journey, Miss Miller. Perhaps I could buy you a coffee before you go in to see your friend?’

Rachel didn’t really think she had much choice, so she nodded. Besides, she needed to speak to the policeman. He led her to a lift, then down to a café with a view of the bay.

‘So how is he?’ asked Rachel when they were sitting at a table with their drinks.

‘As well as can be expected, isn’t that the phrase? You should prepare yourself, Miss Miller, he’s not a pretty sight – he took quite a beating.’

He registered the dismay on Rachel’s face and held up a finger.

‘However, I spoke to his doctor earlier; he is expected to make a full recovery. I think he was lucky.’

‘Lucky?’ said Rachel angrily. ‘My friend has almost been killed and you think that’s lucky?’

She sipped her coffee, feeling a swell of dread at seeing Ross.

‘So what happened? A tourist in the wrong place at the wrong time? I should have reminded him that this was the murder capital of the world.’ She knew she was being rude about someone else’s country, but she was angry and frustrated,

‘Contrary to what you might have heard, Jamaica is generally a safe country,’ Henry said patiently. ‘We work hard to protect our people and the people who come to visit us. Most of the violence you hear about in the media is by the criminal community directed at the criminal community. It is not the Wild West, Miss Miller.’

‘So what went wrong?’ she pressed.

‘Mr McKiney was walking in what might be termed a bad area. Shack housing, a few run-down businesses, the sort of place you wouldn’t want to be walking alone, even as a Jamaican. He was seen asking directions, then taking photographs with expensive camera equipment, and he was white, well-dressed . . .’ He shrugged. ‘He looked exactly like a lost tourist.’ Henry swirled his coffee around the cheap plastic cup.

‘I assume his possessions were taken.’

Henry nodded. ‘Unfortunately, we have a few of these cases each year. But this one seemed different. The ferocity of the attack was unusual for a simple mugging.’

Rachel felt a sinking in her stomach. Oh God, Ross, what have I done to you? she thought miserably.

‘Muggers, are, how do you say, opportunists: whack someone over the head, grab the stuff and run. They don’t want to risk anyone seeing them, especially in a small community where they might be recognised. In this case there was more than one assailant, definitely armed. Clearly Mr McKiney fought back, but even so, if they hadn’t been disturbed – a pastor visiting a sick parishioner happened to come by – I think we would be looking at a murder.’

The word seemed to hang in the air.

‘Why was Mr McKiney in Jamaica, Miss Miller? I have checked out his hotel. It isn’t a tourist resort.’

Rachel looked out at the view and wondered how much she should tell him.

‘It does not do your friend any favours to keep secrets,’ said the policeman in his thick Caribbean accent.

Rachel’s mouth felt dry. ‘He was tracing the movements of a friend,’ she said finally. ‘A friend who had come to the island with his mistress.’

‘Ah,’ said Henry, nodding as things became clear. ‘That makes sense,’ he said quietly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Perhaps someone didn’t want him to find anything out.’

‘You mean he got scared off.’

‘He was warned.’

Henry finished his coffee and threw the cup into the bin with a direct hit.