By the time he hit the road, it was almost eleven o'clock, and already the heat was becoming uncomfortable. How could anyone live without air conditioning? Pulling out of the hotel and heading west, he crossed the bridge that connected New Providence Island to the smaller Paradise Island.
The road to the north side of the tiny Paradise Island ran along the edge of the sea, through many of the resorts where the tourists flocked to from all over the world. Names like 'Paradise Resort', 'Smugglers Haven' and 'Golden Sands Marina' passed by, large pictures of the complexes inside appearing on enormous billboards beside the road. In between the buildings and tall roadside vegetation, once or twice Kerrin got a quick flash of a beach, palm trees swaying gently over snowy white sands, people drinking cocktails and paddling lazily through the inviting turquoise sea.
In spite of the melancholy that he had woken up with, he began to feel slightly better, and by the time he was nearing his destination, he was in a much sunnier mood.
'The Wharf Tavern' was tucked away at the back of the main harbour that serviced the north side of the island. It was here that the police had told him he would be most likely to find either of the two captains from the boats that had found the wreckage of the Lear jet.
'The Sea Dancer' and the 'Highland Glen' were the two ships that had assisted the coast guard in the sea search and, although all the wreckage had been shipped to the main police station in Nassau for closer examination and possible forensics, Kerrin was hoping that chatting to the crew members would throw a little more light on what had happened.
The barmaids were just clearing up from serving lunch when Kerrin walked in the door, finding about twenty people dotted around the interior of the bar.
It took a moment for Kerrin's eyesight to adjust to the dim interior from the bright sunshine outside, and as he stood in the doorway, he could feel the eyes of the locals scanning him up and down, wondering who the new stranger in town was.
It was that sort of bar. Everyone knew each other, and if they didn’t know you, you were either trouble, or not worth knowing.
"Hello, what can I get you?" the barman asked, leaning with two heavy hands against the side of the bar, a white towel hanging over his shoulder like some theatrical prop, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a large colourful tattoo proudly displayed on his right forearm. His big, fluffy grey moustache bristled as he spoke.
"One of your very best cold beers please. And if you have any sandwiches, that would be great too?" Kerrin replied, plopping himself down on one of the tall bar stools running along the edge of the bar.
"New in town?" the barman asked, immediately probing for information. Obviously the local oracle, the man who made everybody's business his own.
"Yeah… I was hoping to find the Captains of the Sea Dancer and the Highland Glen?"
"Ah, anything to do with the airplane that went down the other day?" the barman asked, putting down a large frost covered glass full of blonde beer.
"That's the one. Any idea where I can find them?"
"Sure, about a hundred and fifty miles out on the Dardenal Banks, probably drift netting by now. They left early yesterday."
Kerrin had not reckoned with the fact that they might not be there. It had not occurred to him that the fishermen might actually be out fishing.
"Any idea when they will be back?" he asked, the disappointment showing in his voice.
"Probably sometime next week, depending upon the weather…or their luck, but normally they're away for a week. They're both part of the Dawson Fleet. Big boats. Can stay out for up to a month if they need to."
"Just my luck." Kerrin picked up the large beer, wiping some of the condensation off the side of the cold glass, before taking a long drink. "Ahhh…nothing better on a hot day like this."
The barman left to serve another customer, then returned a few minutes later with a large ham sandwich, garnished with salad and a succulent green pickle.
As Kerrin fought with the sandwich, trying to pick it up with his two hands without the contents spilling out all over the counter, the barman looked him up and down, playing with the edge of his moustache, twirling it back and forth between his fingers, before coming to some sort of decision.
"Of course, you could try talking to Old Ben over there. His ship was out there too. He might be able to tell you something." The barman volunteered, pointing to the far corner of the bar, to a man probably in his early seventies, reading the paper and smoking a pipe.
Kerrin finished his sandwich and ordered two more beers, picking them up and taking them over to the table Old Ben occupied in the corner.
"Mind if I join you?" Kerrin asked, offering the beer to the old mariner. He looked up at Kerrin, his rugged face ridden with lines from years of exposure to the elements and all that the sea could throw at him.
"It's a free world. Do as you please."
Kerrin sat down opposite the man, studying him quickly and noticing that the tips of two fingers on his left hand were missing.
"I hear you were out at sea when the plane went down the other day?"
The old man's eyes brightened slightly, and he reached for the beer in front of him.
"Took your time, didn't you?"
"What do you mean?" Kerrin asked, a little surprised.
"I mean, it's been almost a week since I reported it. That’s what I mean!" he said, a slight cockney English accent detectable in his voice, immediately reminding Kerrin of his earlier childhood. Kerrin had been born to a Scottish father and American mother, and after spending his first seven years in Scotland, they had moved to London, England for three years, before Kerrin’s parents had finally moved back to the US.
"Reported what?" Kerrin asked.
"The explosion. The cop on the phone said they'd send someone out, but it's taken you a whole week to come and ask me questions! Maybe I've forgotten the details by now. I'm an old man, after all," he replied, before puffing on his pipe and turning to look out the window.
Kerrin was confused. What was the man talking about? The police had only mentioned two boats. Neither of which had reported seeing any explosion.
And if Old Ben had seen something, why had they called off the investigation before they had interviewed him?
"I'm sorry. I'm not with the police. To be quite honest, I'm a relative of the man who died in the plane crash. I'm just trying to find out what really happened. The police don't seem to know anything." Kerrin replied.
The old man turned to look at Kerrin again, appraising him afresh.
"Sorry son. That's different then. It's just that nowadays no one is interested in what Old Ben thinks. No sir. People only ever listen to what the big boys from the Dawson fleet have to say. Well, I can tell you, they didn’t see anything. I did!"
"Exactly what did you see Ben?…Would you like another beer?"
Kerrin waved at the barman, who promptly brought over another drink for Old Ben.
"Thanks." The old fisherman took another mouthful of the cold beer, and wiped his forehead with a tattered handkerchief. "See, there I was, out at sea on the Sentinel Reef…the fishing's good out there this time of year…a bit far…but worth it…when we heard this plane flying over, we could even see its tail light flashing…"
"…T'was quite a clear night…only scattered cloud. We were bringing in the nets, but we looked up and watched him fly overhead…it broke up the monotony of the job…been doing the same thing for forty years now…forty years…" The old man started to wander off into his thoughts.
"So what did you see?" Kerrin asked, trying to bring him back from wherever he was going.
"Well…I was watching the plane, see, when suddenly it just blew up. Phuff, bang, and it was gone. A big ball of smoke and fire, and fireworks falling through the air down to the sea. Quite a sight it was. Never forget it, I will. Them pieces of metal started to hit the water hard…one even hit the bloody roof of the boat…cut right through a six inch plank of wood, it did!"
"
Have you still got it?"
"Sure have. You can see it if you want…along with the other stuff we picked up!"
"What other stuff?"
"Well, when the sun came up the next day there were bits of flotsam floating on the surface. From the plane like. Wreckage. So we picked it up…'case anybody wanted to see it!"
"Why didn't you hand it over to the police?"
"Tried to. Told them we had stuff, like, but they didn't show any interest. Didn't even come to pick it up! Still got it over at the shed…"
"Are you sure they knew you had it?" Kerrin couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
"Are you mutton jeff?"
"What?"
"Mutton jeff…deaf! Are you deaf? It's like I told you… I made a full report, told them everything I knew over the phone, even told them about the jet that passed back and forth a few minutes afterwards… just in case it was relevant, like."
"What jet?"
"It was very high, probably nothing related, but about five seconds after the explosion there was a loud roar, and a jet passed overhead in the same direction the plane was heading…then about three minutes later it came back much lower in the opposite direction, before disappearing back towards where it came from. Thought it odd that it came back upon itself, like it did. Maybe it saw the explosion too and came back to have a look-see…thought the police might think that as well…"
None of this was in the official report Kerrin had read.
"Can you show me some of the wreckage you found?" Kerrin asked, getting up from his chair.
"What? Now?" the old man asked.
"Seems like a good time to me. You can bring your beer with you."
The old man's shed was on the other side of the harbour, at the end of one of the slipways that took boats up into dry dock for maintenance and overhauling. Inside the shed, two men were working hard on an old trawler called 'The English Rose', painting the roof, and replacing one of the rails on the starboard side. It was a big boat, but with one look, Kerrin could tell its days were probably numbered.
The building stank of rotting fish, although there were no fish to be seen. Along the edge of the shed, there was a collection of old nets, winches, buoys, empty fish crates, lobster baskets, paint cans and other bits and bobs, and in the corner, a small pile of metal, wooden and plastic objects, which Old Ben pointed to and said was the flotsam which his boat had retrieved from the plane wreckage.
Kerrin bent down and began to sift through it, while Old Ben stood behind him and puffed contentedly on his pipe.
Most of the wreckage was either melted, or burnt, the edges of the metal and the attached charred plastic padding now turned black and green where the fierce heat of a fire had caught it in the flames. Kerrin felt slightly peculiar while touching it, the only trace of what was left of his brother-in-law's plane.
He spent the next hour examining each piece and photographing them meticulously, just in case it might help at some point in the future. But unless they were analysed in a lab somewhere, Kerrin knew that they would not be able to tell him anything more.
What more did he need to know anyway? There were eye witnesses to an explosion, and the wreckage showed the clear signs of intense heat and flames. It was obvious now that Martin's plane had blown up. What Kerrin would like to know was whether or not the explosion was deliberate or an accident?
On the other hand, the police were clearly not going to follow up on what Old Ben had to say. According to the old fisherman, they definitely knew about this wreckage but had made no effort to come and collect it, and now that the investigation was closed, there was little chance they would do anything else. Had they deliberately lied and kept the old man's sighting out of the police and official air crash investigation, or was it just typical police incompetence? After all, this wasn't America. What could he expect from the Bahamian police?
While driving back to his hotel that night, Kerrin decided that there was probably little point in chasing the officials in Nassau and asking them why they hadn't interviewed Old Ben. They either knew something they weren't going to tell him, or they were just not interested. His time would be better spent elsewhere.
Instead, his thoughts turned to the jet airplane that had passed overhead a few seconds after the explosion. According to the official records there hadn't been any other 'commercial or civilian' aircraft in the area at the time of the explosion. Which only left the military, and they hadn't said anything about a military jet being in the same airspace. If there had been one, then surely the pilot would have seen Martin's plane on its radar… and its instruments would have registered it disappearing off the radar when it exploded? And if so, why didn't the pilot report it? Anyway, Old Ben had said that the plane looked as if it had come around to take a second look. In other words, it must have seen something!
So what Kerrin wanted to know was, had a military jet been following Martin's plane, and if so, where did it come from?
Chapter 5
Day Seven
Clifton Beach
Cape Town, South Africa