In exchange for what?
No strings, he said. Its in the public domain. But if you turn anything up anything unusual Id be glad to know.
I smiled at him. I dont think my principals would like publicity. Is anything unusual likely to turn up?
Jackson shrugged. If a guy turns over enough stones hes sure to find something nasty some place.
And you think theres something nasty to be found by looking under Mr Saltons stones. Thats very interesting. What sort of a man was Salton?
No worse than any other son-of-a-bitch.
My eyebrows rose. You didnt like him?
He was a gold-plated bastard.
I glanced down at the obituary. Youre a better writer than you think, Mr Jackson. It doesnt show here.
Company policy, said Jackson. Mrs Salton owns the Chronicle.
That was a new one on me but I didnt let him know that. I said, If you talk like this to strangers youre not likely to be on the payroll much longer. How do you know Im not a friend of Mrs Saltons?
Youre not her friend, said Jackson. Youre an insurance investigator. Weve been expecting you to show up, Mr Ogilvie.
He had the wrong man but the right occupation and I wondered how that had come about. I decided to let him have his cheap triumph for the time being and said evenly, So?
So shes sticking your people for a lot of dough. You wouldnt be human if you admitted to liking her for it.
I looked down at the obituary. Granting theres a certain amount of bias here, Salton still doesnt measure up to your personal description of him. What about the two hospitals he built, the university foundation, the low-cost housing? Those are facts.
Sure, said Jackson. Hes been buying votes. Was successful at it, too. A very popular guy. You should have seen his funeral.
Ive seen the photographs, I said.
That cheap housing was a surefire vote-catcher. Jackson leaned forward and rested his hands on the table. Have you any idea of the cost of housing on this island? Youll be damned lucky to get away with £10 a square foot. So he cut a lot of corners he built cheap and he built nasty and he didnt sell a single goddamn house he built.
I dont understand. If he didnt sell any houses, where did he make his profit? I thought of Costello and the three millions and wondered if his ears were burning.
He didnt, said Jackson. He was losing like crazy. He rented those houses and the return was completely uneconomic. But it gave him a solid vote.
He must have been rich, I commented. Thats an expensive route to politics.
He had a lot of dough, conceded Jackson. But not that much. Mr Black was behind him with a slush fund.
I sighed. And who is Mr Black?
Jackson stared at me. Dont you know anything about what goes on here? Youd better learn fast. Gerry Negrini is Mr Big in the casino crowd.
Negrini?
Negrini Mr Black, get it?
Oh, I see. But where do casinos come into it?
Negrini represents certain New York and Chicago interests who are bucking Las Vegas and Reno.
I still couldnt see the connection. But why should he support a liberal like Salton? I tapped the file. Ive read Saltons speeches.
You need a crash course in local politics, said Jackson earnestly. He was getting into his stride, teaching this dumb foreigner how things worked around here, and I wasnt about to stop the flow. Look, Mr Ogilvie, this island is wide open and a buck moves faster here than any other place in the world. Mr Black and his boys have got the whole thing sewn up theyve put Campanilla on the map for the jet set and all the well-heeled suckers who go for gambling.
He hesitated. There was evidently more to come.
But theres another angle. The bankers and the big corporations have also got it made here, and they dont like gambling and the associations that go with it. They dont want the off-shore trust funds confused with the spin of a roulette wheel. Thats bad for business.
I can see their point.
So they made sure they had their own man Conyers. He was their boy, and he had his instructions: get the election out of the way and then crack down on the gambling. Mr Black had to pick an opposition leader and he picked Salton.
Salton? But hed only been back on the island five minutes.
Jackson shrugged. You can make a lot of noise in five minutes, Mr Ogilvie. Especially with someone like that behind you.
So the cheap housing was just an expensive red herring.
Make no mistake about it: if Salton had lived hed almost certainly have been the next Prime Minister. Jackson waved airily at the file. But all that flapdoodle in his speeches was for the suckers. You can bet that as soon as he got into power those house rents would have been raised pretty swiftly.
He was on a roll so I kept up the masquerade. Ive been reading the account of the inquest. Do you believe Salton died of natural causes?
Jackson sat down opposite me at the table and leaned back: he looked like he was settling in for the duration. Winstanley is a doddering old fool at the best of times but even if he was the best pathologist in the world I doubt he could have made much of what was left of Salton. He grimaced. I saw the body when he was brought in.
Hed been out there for days, hadnt he? Wasnt anyone looking for him? Didnt Mrs Salton raise the alarm?
Which of those questions would you like me to answer? said Jackson. There was more than a hint of condescension in his voice. No. The first anyone knew about it was when the body was found. He stared at me. Dont you find that strange?
She must have had an explanation that was acceptable to the police.
The police? Jackson snorted. Theyre in Conyerss pocket, from Commissioner Barstow down to the last man on the beat.
Thats an interesting take, Mr Jackson. In fact, youve raised a lot of interesting points.
Glad to be of help, Mr Ogilvie, he said genially. Youll be visiting Mrs Salton?
Probably tomorrow.
Youd better telephone first, he advised. No one gets to El Cerco without an invitation.
Have you got a telephone directory?
He grinned. You wont find the number in there. Its unlisted. He picked up my notebook and scribbled in it. Thatll find her.
As I stood up to go, I asked casually, How did you know I was Ogilvie?
I have a pipeline into the Department of Immigration at the airport. I knew that Western and Continental Insurance would be sending a man so I put out the word.
So that was how Ogilvie had been tagged. Thats all very well, but how did you know I was Ogilvie? Its not tattooed on my forehead.
Hell, I knew youd be coming in here to check the files so I had Mary Josephine tip me off. Then there was this. He lifted my notebook and grinned at me. Stamped on its cover in gilt were the words Western and Continental Insurance Co. Ltd. I didnt need to be Sherlock Holmes.
No, I agreed. You didnt. I took the notebook from him and put it away.
Jackson heaved himself to his feet and said, Id be very much obliged if you let me know anything you turn up, Mr Ogilvie.
I dont think I will, I said. You see, I told the truth when I said I was only interested in Mr Saltons companies in a business way. I have no connection with this insurance company beyond having taken out a policy with them, and my name is not Ogilvie its Kemp. I smiled. The notebook was a handout. Western and Continental lash them out to all their clients.
Jacksons eyes flickered. I dont believe you, he said flatly.
I took out my passport and handed it to him. William Kemp, business consultant. But thanks for the tutorial. It was most interesting.
Jackson seemed to have had the wind knocked out of him as I took back the passport and pocketed it. He said, Hell, anyone can make a mistake and you went along with it.
I nodded. I go along with most things as long as it suits me, Mr Jackson. I walked to the door and turned. By the way, I will be seeing Mrs Salton tomorrow. Ill give her your regards.
Hey, Mr Kemp, you wont tell her I mean you wont repeat what Ive said? He was shaken right down to his liver and obviously terrified of losing his job.
I smiled. Ill reserve judgement on that as long as it suits me. I gave him a curt nod and walked out of the room, leaving a shocked man. I dont know who he thought I was, but I reckoned Id given him enough of a fright to keep his nose out of my affairs.
I went back to the Royal Caribbean and telephoned Ogilvie. It was a long time before he answered and when he did his voice was grumpy. Kemp here, I said.
Youve woken me up, he complained. Im dead on my feet.
I knew how he felt. Air travel is tiring and my time sense was shot to pieces because of the transatlantic flight. Just something for you to do tomorrow, I said. Go to the Chronicle office in Cardew Street and ask to see the back issues for the last month. Youll find a lot of interesting stuff about Salton.
Whats the point if youve already done it?
Youll probably be contacted by a creep called Jackson. Dont try to hide who you are, but if he asks about me youre ignorant. Jackson is a bit hard to take, but disguise your finer feelings and get pally with him. Hell like you better if he thinks youre here to torpedo Mrs Saltons claim.
Well, arent we?
Dont be cynical, I said, and put down the telephone. If Jackson wanted to meet Ogilvie, who was I to stand in his way? Besides, there was always a chance his loose lips might give the company man something else we could work with.
I took out my notebook, checked the number Jackson had given me, and dialled. The call was answered immediately and a slurred Campanillan voice said, The Salton residence.
Id like to speak to Mrs Salton, I said. My name is Kemp.
What would it be about?
If she wants you to know shell tell you. I never have liked the nosy and over-protective underling.
There was a pause, some brief heavy breathing and then a rattle as the handset was laid down. Presently there was another rattle and a cool voice said, Jill Salton speaking.
My name is Kemp William Kemp. Your uncle, Lord Hosmer, asked me to call and present his condolences. He hadnt, but it made a good story.
I see, she said. Do you want to come here?
If thats all right with you. Im free tomorrow, if its convenient.
Would the morning suit you? Say at eleven?
That would be fine, Mrs Salton.
Very well, Ill expect you then. Good day, Mr Kemp. There was a click and the connection was cut.
I called down to reception and made arrangements for hiring a car, to be ready in front of the hotel at nine the following morning.
Then I got undressed and fell asleep as though Id been sandbagged.
IV
At nine-fifteen next morning I was threading my way out of San Martin in a fire-engine-red Ford Mustang with an automatic shift that I didnt like. I prefer to change gear in a car when I want to, and not when a set of cogs thinks I should. Maybe Im old-fashioned.
The road took me out along the coast for a way and through the outskirts of what was evidently a high-life area. Large and expensive-looking houses were set discreetly away from the road, some of them surrounded by high walls, and there were some plushy hotels with turquoise swimming pools of all shapes except rectangular. Those of the pools that I could see were surrounded by acres of bare skin, all tanning nicely. Here and there, uniformed waiters scurried around the poolsides with the first rum-and-coconut-milk of the day. La dolce vita, Caribbean-style.
I drove slowly, taking it all in. Even at this hour the sun was uncomfortably hot and the air pressed heavily on the open-top Mustang. Presently the road turned away from the sea and began to climb into a hilly and wooded area. The ambiance changed and the air cooled a little as I went inland. There were fewer white faces and more black, fewer bikinis and more cotton shifts, less concrete and glass and more corrugated iron. The tourists stuck close to the sea.
The landscape seemed poorly adaptable for agriculture. A thin soil clung to the bones of the hills but there were naked outcrops of limestone showing where the ground had eroded. Most of the afforested land was covered by a growth of spindly trees, which couldnt be of any economic significance, but occasional clearings opened up in which crops were apparently grown.
Nearly every clearing had its shacks usually of the ubiquitous corrugated iron, although beaten-out kerosene tins were also to be seen. Around each shack were the children, meagrely dressed and grinning impudently as they waved at the car and shouted in shrill voices. I passed though a succession of villages, all with rudimentary church and classroom. The churches were marginally better built than the classrooms, which tended towards the shanty school of architecture, each with its dusty, pathetic area of playground.
As I came over the central ridge of the island, I pulled off the road and looked north towards the distant glint of the sea. Close by, a couple of Campanillans were hoeing a field and planting some sort of crop. I got out of the car and walked over to them. Am I on the right way to El Cerco?
They stopped and looked at me, then the bigger one said, Thats right, man. His face was beaded with sweat. Just keep going.
Thanks. I looked at the ground by his feet. What are you planting?
Corn. He paused. Youd call it maize. His accent wasnt the usual Campanillan drawl; he enunciated each consonant clearly. He didnt sound like your average peasant.
Its hot, I said, and took out a packet of fat, imported American cigarettes that Id picked up on the plane.
He gave me a pitying smile. Not hot yet. Still winter.
I tapped out a cigarette, then offered him the packet. Smoke?
He hesitated, then said, Thanks, man, and took a cigarette. The other man, older and with a seamed, lived-in face, ducked his head as he took one with gnarled fingers.