Murder in Montego Bay Read online

  Murder in Montego Bay

  Paula Lennon

  First published in Great Britain 2017 by

  Jacaranda Books Art Music Ltd

  Unit 304 Metal Box Factory

  30 Great Guildford Street,

  London SE1 0HS

  www.jacarandabooksartmusic.co.uk

  Copyright © Paula Lennon 2017

  The right of Paula Lennon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction and all characters and incidents described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-909762-41-1

  eISBN: 978-1-909762-42-8

  Cover Design: Lesley Worrell

  Printed and bound in Europe

  by Jellyfish Solutions, Suite B, First Floor, Hollythorns House, The Hollythorns, New Road, Swanmore, Hampshire, SO32 2NW

  For Mom and Dad

  Yuh done know how it go.

  PROLOGUE

  Sunday, 19 July, 5:01 a.m.

  The man looked up when he heard the purr of an engine.

  He slumped low behind the steering wheel and watched as his target’s white SUV slowed to a crawl and passed his vehicle. His heart palpitated as he reached for his weapon, fondling the cold steel. This job had to be quick, clean and smooth. A better opportunity was unlikely to ever arise. It would provide no real enjoyment, no job satisfaction; it was a necessary act.

  The target unsuccessfully tried to open the electronic gates protecting his home. The gunman smirked, knowing that the security system’s controls would not respond. A small dog ran out to the gate and yapped sharply in excitement. The man’s smile faded. He had never liked dogs; they were annoying, needy creatures who shat anywhere they wanted to. He pressed on the unfamiliar accelerator and grimaced as the noisy engine sprung back into life.

  Sweat trickled from his neck down his back as his chest heaved and fell. Inhaling deeply, he could smell his salty odour mixed with fear and adrenalin. He stared through tinted glasses at his target, a young brown-skinned man who alighted from his vehicle to inspect his security system. The mark showed no indication of being disturbed by the noise of the engine as he forcefully pushed the heavy gates aside.

  The gunman lowered the car window. He inhaled again, more deeply this time, taking in the fresh, clean air. He advanced towards the target who was heading back to his SUV and hit the brakes. Three explosions followed; two bullets for the man, one for the pup.

  The perpetrator scrambled from his car, tugged at the victim’s limp wrist and checked that the job was done. More explosions rang out as the gunman jumped back into his vehicle. They were not from his gun. The shots ricocheted off the car’s bodywork and he heard the distinct crack of the rear windshield. Startled, he slammed down on the accelerator and sped away.

  CHAPTER 1

  Sunday, 19 July, 6:05 a.m.

  Detective Raythan Preddy wanted a hot cup of ganja tea, a large one. Sleep had eluded him last night, and now he was driving along the deserted roads of Montego Bay with no time for his usual therapeutic brew. His body was missing the vital energy that came with rest just when he needed to be at his productive best. Relaxation would need to wait until the “unwanted spike in crime”—as once described by the police commissioner—had retracted. Twenty minutes earlier an incoming phone call had all but confirmed that crime was in no mood to retreat just yet. Carter Chin Ellis, heir to the Jamaican Chinchillerz empire, had been found dead.

  The distance between Preddy’s Ironshore apartment and the Red Hills district was less than ten miles of pretty good road with not a pothole in sight. To the untrained eye everything on the route appeared to be perfectly in order, yet it was not. The city of Montego Bay was a tale of two extremes with a delicate balance in the middle. On the tourist side was the Caribbean Sea, an unending blanket of shimmering silver, which turned many shades of blue as soon as the sun came up in a cloudless sky. Palm trees everywhere with their fronds splayed like giant feathers covering their trunks, and endless miles of white sand. That was the magnificent side espoused by the glossy brochures enticing visitors to the parish of St James.

  Then there was the flip side: an unhealthy dose of guns, drugs and scamming. That side rarely reached visitors to The Rock whose adequately guarded hotels shielded them from anything that did not match the Jamaica Tourist Board’s output. The ugliness remained blotted out by the dazzling sun, the crunch of warm sand and the blare of reggae music. The locals saw it though. Those people unwilling or unable to leave their unstable communities lived it on a daily basis. The gangs in particular focused on the outer, unfashionable districts where unemployment was an occupation and there was no such thing as social security, save that provided by the gang leaders.

  Preddy was thankful a middle ground existed. Most residents would only ever read about crime or watch reports on the news, without directly being caught up in it. In the daytime there was no discernible change in people’s behaviour. They worked, shopped, swam, strolled in the park and otherwise led completely normal existences. At night they went to bars, movies, parties and wherever their social lives took them. Once home they affixed solid padlocks to iron grills caging all possible entrance points, and those who could afford it enabled their electronic security systems.

  Preddy reached for the radio control knob. As to be expected on a Sunday morning, the voice of a ranting preacher filled the air space, predicting that the wicked would burn in Hell and God would withhold his blessings from blasphemers. A tabby cat decided to use up one of its many lives and ran out in front of Preddy’s vehicle, startling the detective.

  “A whe de rass,” he muttered, as he swerved to avoid it, and then immediately apologised to God. Too late. There would be no blessings on him this morning, and he was really going to need help whether it was to come from on high or on the ground.

  The detective had worked for the Jamaica Constabulary Force for over eighteen years. It was tough, yet even at its hardest stage he had never regretted his choice of career. A failed raid had set his superiors’ nerves on edge and tested his resolve for a while though. He licked the bile from his lips as the visions of shots, screams and dead bodies that occupied his nights flashed through his mind yet again.

  Pelican Walk was not a large police station compared to some of the others in Montego Bay, but it benefited from high-calibre detectives, sergeants and constables, some of whom had up to twelve years of service. The detectives were members of the Major Crimes task force, which formed a primary part of the Area One geographic division, covering the western parishes of Westmoreland, Hanover and Trelawny, as well as St James. Its remit was to reduce major crimes, particularly murders, in the region.

  Preddy glanced at the dashboard clock. The two female detectives he had called earlier would now be making their way to Red Hills. He had hesitated before placing a third phone call. There was a new, temporary addition to Pelican Walk, a police officer on secondment from Glasgow, Scotland. Detective Sean Harris, a red-headed, white male approaching fifty with nearly two decades in law enforcement. For the past two weeks the foreigner had cut his teeth on the Jamaican style of policing and spent a great deal of time reviewing evidence of
violent crimes with other officers. Preddy was reserving judgment on Harris. Although Preddy was always open to a fresh take on things, he was not entirely comfortable with this green-eyed outsider, but the superintendent had indicated that Harris must be given high-level work to do and chances were it would not get much higher than this.

  *

  The scene that greeted Detective Preddy was not unfamiliar. Furious, half-dressed residents on the roadside were complaining loudly about murderers holding the community to ransom and demanding that the police catch the criminals. Had Red Hills not been such a wealthy area, tyres would probably be burning in streets blocked by rusty white goods and placard-waving residents. As it was, both people and traffic were temporarily prevented from contaminating the crime scene by reams of yellow and black caution tape strewn across the road from lampposts to trees.

  The abandoned SUV stood with the driver’s door open as if waiting for its owner to return. A Scene of Crime van was parked about twenty feet away. Crime scene investigators, decked from head to toe in white, were photographing the vehicle and the roadway, camera lights flashing every few seconds. They took notice of tyre tracks, spent bullet shells and anything that looked remotely like evidence before carefully placing the items into transparent bags.

  Two media vehicles from rival stations were parked at the end of the road, their dogged reporters mingling with the vocal crowd. Though dressed casually, Preddy knew that the reporters would soon spot him. Most reporters easily recognised him as a police officer even if they had never met him before. His appearance and stature fit the mould of a law enforcement leader. Tall and well-built with a poised bearing that conveyed self-assurance and control, his mahogany-brown skin was clean-shaven, with salt and pepper hair cut short against his scalp. Whatever he wore, be it plain clothes or his jogging gear, it sat well on his athletic frame. He enjoyed jumping out of bed before the sun came up to go cycling or running. Admiring glances frequently accompanied him and he would usually acknowledge female watchers with a wave when he was off-duty. On-duty, he had no time for flirting, no matter how attractive the temptress.

  Preddy had no intention of dishing out comments to anyone as the media relations team was empowered to feed the hungry reporters and they knew how to do it without getting their hands bitten. Past experience had shown news folk to be masters of misinterpretation and he was not entirely convinced this was accidental. The last time he told a reporter that he was “making good use of the limited resources available,” the reporter wrote that he had “issued a heartfelt appeal for more resources.” This had not sat well with the police high command. He brushed off a pushy reporter and swooped low to navigate the fluttering tape, emerging purposefully on the business side.

  “What we have here?” Preddy’s question was aimed at Detective Kathryn Rabino.

  Rabino was a slim woman with a long Brazilian hair weave and obvious false lashes. At first sight she could appear shallow, but she was a genuine professional, trained to never blink first. Rabino spun around and acknowledged her superior, resisting the urge to correct his language. Her boss was a Jamaican’s Jamaican and would never give up his Patois.

  “Carter Chin Ellis, deceased. Two gunshot wounds to the right side of the head,” said Rabino, who was a stickler for the Queen’s English unless riled or engaging in a joke. On those occasions, Patois really was best. “The car is registered to his brother, Lester Chin Ellis. It’s the same vehicle that was pulled over early this morning off the highway by Timmins and Franklin. The brothers were taken to Pelican Walk for drunken behaviour. The parents know all about it, sir.”

  Detective Preddy frowned as he lifted the cloth and looked at the body. He had so hoped there had been a mistake. The death of any young person was a terrible blow. But the murder of Carter Chin Ellis, from a prominent and respected family, would be treated as an outrageous attack by the monied class and as a tragedy by everybody else. The killing of a poor person never elicited the same frenetic reaction from prominent citizens as the death of a rich person. Add to the pot that Carter had been killed shortly after leaving Pelican Walk police station and the public would eagerly stir. The calls for justice would be much louder than usual. Preddy covered up the young man’s body.

  Everyone on the island knew the Chin Ellis family, composed of a Chinese man, a black Jamaican wife and two sons. Their empire had grown from a single ice cream shop thirty years ago to a state of the art, fast frozen-food operation with outlets in each of the fourteen parishes. It was hard to find someone who had never eaten in a Chinchillerz at some point in time and the detective himself was not immune to the draw of their yoghurts and smoothies.

  “What is dat over dere?” asked Preddy, pointing to a small mound of blue tarpaulin.

  “The victim’s dog was also shot dead, sir.”

  Preddy walked to the gates, frowning.

  “Why did he step out of de car outside his gates?” he asked his colleague.

  “The security system was disabled. We assume it was the perpetrator’s handiwork,” replied Rabino, pointing to the exposed wires on the control panel which looked freshly cut.

  “Eyewitness reports?”

  Rabino’s long fingernails deftly flicked over a page of her loose-leaf notepad. “A witness was in his front garden, sir. Said he saw a silver Subaru Outback drive up beside the victim. Partial registration, a six at the beginning, couldn’t see the rest. He heard about five or six shots. The shooter came out for a few seconds, then the car sped off. He’s not sure whether it turned right or left when it reached the end of the road. Said he bent down behind the wall.”

  “And him sure it was an Outback?”

  “So he says, sir,” she reported, swinging her mane back. “Said he saw a guy, medium-build, with a hood over his face and dark glasses, in a black shirt and black pants. Couldn’t make out any features. He believes the suspect’s car trunk has bullet holes in it. Like it got shot out before.”

  Preddy sensed movement at his side and turned to discover Detective Javinia Spence. Spence was a small, perfectly groomed officer who wore her natural hair in shoulder-length braids that curved into a bob around her ears. She had a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. He was forever reminding her that diplomacy was the best way to stay ahead on the force, but Spence viewed diplomacy as something of a chore to be undertaken only when absolutely unavoidable. He could not imagine where she would be now if she was not such an effective officer.

  “Any other witnesses?” he asked her.

  “Some residents say dem hear up to a dozen shots. Some say dey thought it was thunder. Some hide under bed. Nobody see a thing, sir,” explained Spence, with a disbelieving expression. “But if police did come up here shooting dem woulda report say dem see everything.”

  Preddy understood her frustration. All eyes would now be on the police, including those of the diaspora, that population of Jamaicans a million or so strong that mainly lived in the USA, Canada and England. Some of whom contributed to Jamaica in the form of money, food, clothes and education, as well as investments. Others had nothing to contribute but venom and watched the island with perverted glee to identify as many problems as possible, worshipping their residential visas and vowing never to return. The Jamaican Americans in particular annoyed him. Most of them kept quiet about the thousands of violent deaths that took place on the land to which they had pledged their allegiance, but as soon as a murder happened in Jamaica, they were all over social media. He had no time for them and would love the freedom to respond to some of the vitriol.

  Preddy noted the blood splatter on the road as he walked towards a crime scene officer and took a transparent plastic bag containing the spent shells. He studied the bits of metal closely before turning his attention to the large crowd. The eager spectators were pressing against the straining caution tape, smartphones held aloft, emboldened that the police officers were concentrated near the vehicle. Most hoped that their indiscipline would be rewarded with a good close-up shot of
something interesting to put on the Internet. They photographed the crime scene officers as they went about their work and shouted inane questions, which were ignored.

  “De body can go up to Cornwall. Get de car taken to de lab,” said Preddy. “Where is de man who gave de statement?”

  Rabino closed her notebook and looked around. “Right there in the red merino beside the wall.”

  Preddy strolled over to the skinny, middle-aged man whose dry knees peeped out under his long yellow shorts. “Is dere anything dat you forgot to tell de detective, sir?”

  “’Bout what, Officer?” The man’s eyes flickered from the male detective to Rabino and back again. “Dat me come outside to water me flowers? I know say dat wrong, what wid water restriction.”

  Preddy jangled the bag of spent shells, forcing the eyewitness to focus. “Don’t play wid me,” he warned. “So far you have been very helpful, but now is de time to speak, man. Or come to de station.”

  The man’s shoulders drooped and his lips suddenly required regular moisturising. He rubbed the back of his neck and stared down at his sandals.

  “Different shells,” stated Preddy. “You fire shot at de gunman car, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” he mumbled eventually. “I did run out after him. I know you going want to see de gun. I’m telling you from now dat it don’t license, so gwaan arrest me!” He held out both puny arms in front of him.

  “A so dem love do!” shouted a woman from the roadside. “Dem don’t want we to protect weself. Dem arrest de good people dem and make de criminal dem gwaan!”

  Preddy moved around so that his back faced the opinionated woman and he beckoned to Rabino. “Our witness wants to make an addition to him statement. And him have some equipment to hand over.”

  A determined male reporter ventured through the caution tape and was forcefully pushed back by a watchful Spence, even though he was twice her size. Preddy walked towards the victim’s house, where Detective Sean Harris stood questioning one of the female residents. Most of the houses in the Red Hills area had considerable kerb appeal and this vast property was no different. For the likes of Carter Chin Ellis, money was no object and none had been spared. Preddy greeted Harris politely, just as the Scotsman thanked the witness and began moving away.