One of Us Is Dead

61 Monday 10 October 2022

The flight from Miami to Barbados was delayed, the pilot giving one of the myriad excuses that Taylor himself had used during his days as an easyJet pilot. Late arrival of cabin crew/late departure from the previous location were two of the favourites. This time it was a bag in the hold whose owner had not boarded. Probably a drunken idiot, Taylor thought, but nevertheless he was reassured by the security process. And he was very happy to see a text from Debbie when he switched his phone back on after landing.

When the doors opened and he stepped out into the balmy, 30-degree afternoon heat, at 4 p.m. local time, Taylor had a big smile on his face. And an even bigger smile when he saw the placard held by a smartly suited man on the far side of the immigration control: Sandy Lane Hotel — Mr James Taylor

Ten minutes later, he was in the back of a blood-orange-coloured Mercedes taxi, heading north. It was now 4.20 local time and the driver told him it would take around forty-five minutes to reach the hotel. His name was Tony Skeete. An amiable man with a thick greying beard and a solitary gold tooth among an immaculate set of shiny white molars. He spoke with a strong voice, Bajan accent inflected with what sounded to Taylor like the occasional tinge of Irish.

‘First time in Barbados?’ Skeete asked.

‘No, I came a few years back,’ he replied.

‘You here on vacation?’

‘Partly.’ The aircon was icy and Taylor cracked the window a little. Instantly he felt the warmth of the afternoon air and the sun on his face. He calculated that with luck he’d have a good hour on the beach before dusk, get his legs working again in the water. ‘Can I ask you something — you’re a local, right?’

‘I’m local as they make them. Straight out the box.’

Taylor smiled. ‘So you know a lot of the locals on this island, right?’

‘Sure I do, pretty much most of ’em. Most of the ones that matter, anyhow. There’s only 280,000 of us that we know about. Sure I know a lot of them.’

‘Ever heard of a fisherman called John Baker?’

‘John Baker? You mean the shark man?’

‘The shark man?’ Taylor felt a rush of excitement.

‘Anything you want to know about sharks, John Baker’s your man.’

‘So he’s a shark fisherman? Like that guy Quint in Jaws?’

‘The one Robert Shaw played, right?’

‘Yep.’

‘John Baker knows all about sharks, but he don’t fish ’em.’

‘Could you take me to see him — are you available tomorrow?’

‘You want to see John Baker?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can take you up to where he keeps boats but there’s no guarantee he’s going to be around. He got a big boat that he goes far out into the Atlantic — four hundred miles — for maybe twenty days at sea. He got a day boat too, for lobster and inshore fishing — you may be lucky.’

‘Is it possible to call him?’

Tony Skeete shook his head. ‘Don’t have his number, I just know where to find him, up in Moontown.’

‘How far’s that from the hotel?’

‘About a twenty-minute drive.’

‘So we’d just have to take pot luck?’

‘Pot luck,’ Skeete replied.

Thirty minutes later, they swung into a smart, barriered entrance with a bored-looking security guard in a booth in the centre. He grinned at Skeete and raised the barrier.

‘Tony, could you take me up to Moontown tomorrow, see if we can find him?’

‘What time?’

‘When do you think might be the best time?’

‘Mid-morning be as good as any.’

Taylor figured on having a lie-in and an early swim. ‘How about 11.30?’

‘11.30 tomorrow. Got you covered.’