One of Us Is Dead

63 Tuesday 11 October 2022

Taylor felt much more refreshed after a long early swim across the clear warm water of the bay, out to the raft anchored in the middle and back, followed by a sensational breakfast. Then he wrote a postcard to his ten-year-old son Harrison, which he did whenever he was anywhere abroad. Although he had no idea whether Harrison ever saw them, or if Marianne destroyed them — he wouldn’t put it past her, he rued. He had given it to the front desk to post.

Now in shorts, a short-sleeved linen shirt and beach shoes, he sat in the back of Tony Skeete’s Mercedes taxi, watching the passing scenery and thinking about the questions he would ask fisherman John Baker if — he hoped to hell — he was around.

The road was bumpy, badly in need of a lot of repair work. To their left they passed a plethora of large signs. BEAUTY AND THE BEACH. LAS VEGAS SLOTS — 777! CHESTERTONS LUXURY SALES AND RENTALS. Out of his right-hand window he could see what looked like a smart department store, then a Rubis filling station. A short distance on they passed, on their left, a series of gated, ocean-fronting mansions, and on the right a long row of wooden chattel houses. Tiny, rectangular wooden dwellings, with a front door and a solitary front window, some clearly loved and some very dilapidated.

After twenty minutes, Skeete slowed sharply. ‘Moontown!’ he said.

On his right, Taylor saw a beat-up-looking, dark red single-storey building almost groaning under the weight of a satellite TV dish and an industrial aircon vent. On the wall, in white paint, one sign read, BANKS — THE BEER OF BARBADOS, and another, SENSIBLE SHOPPERS SHOP WITH US!

To his left was an open-sided building, a pitched corrugatediron roof supported on stone columns painted turquoise and white with the sea visible and alluring beyond. There were several people in the open space, none of them appearing to be doing anything.

‘The fish market,’ Skeete said. Then he added, ‘You’re in luck. I see John Baker, let’s hope he hasn’t been on the rum yet.’

Taylor’s watch told him it was 11.55 a.m. ‘Sun’s not over the yardarm.’

‘Yardarm? What’s that?’

‘Just a saying.’

‘I’ll introduce you, then I’ll leave you to do whatever business you have with him.’

They got out of the car. Taylor noticed immediately the rank stench of fish in the air, as he glanced at a large official-looking sign hanging high up. NOTICE — FISHERIES DIVISION, and a blackboard fixed to one column with the catches of the day marked and chalked up. There was a large free-standing refrigerator in one corner, and a long slab, on which sat weigh scales at one end, and a small, headless conger eel at the other, beneath a cloud of flies. The whole of the wall facing the sea was one long, tiled washbasin, like a raised trench.

He wrinkled his nose at the smell, looking around, wondering which of the dozen or so men in here was John Baker. Several were looking at him, eyeing him curiously, and one, a youth in a baseball cap, with a row of beads around his neck, with definite suspicion. There was a listless atmosphere, as if the business of the day was now over. Several open bottles of beer and rum sat on a table, and he noticed at least three of the men holding glasses containing the dark liquid.

Tony Skeete began talking earnestly to a man of around sixty, who was wearing old Crocs, faded green shorts that finished well below his knees and a grey T-shirt. He was solid and muscular, his shaven head looking like it had been hewn from a block of ebony.

‘Mr Taylor, this is your man, this is Mr John Baker. He’s happy to talk to you.’

Taylor strode over and held out his hand. ‘James Taylor, nice to meet you.’

Baker looked at him for a moment, with large brown eyes that seemed tinged with some deep sadness, as if appraising him. He shook Taylor’s hand back, a solid, almost crushing handshake, and said nothing for some moments. He seemed like a man who had no need to hurry anything, as if he had all the time in the world.

Taylor broke the awkward silence by adding, ‘I appreciate your talking to me.’

‘You’re English?’ Baker asked. His voice was deep, quiet and thoughtful.

‘I am. Ever been there?’

‘My wife was from Newcastle. I lived there once. But she died.’ He unconsciously fingered a ring hanging low down on a silver chain around his neck.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It was a while back.’ He looked at Taylor inquisitively and with a faint, wistful smile. ‘How can I help you, Mr Taylor?’

‘An old friend of mine — a very old and good friend — was lost at sea off a yacht off the coast of Barbados, a couple of years ago. I understand you found his jacket when you were out fishing?’

Baker seemed to stiffen. His face gave little away but there was wariness in his eyes now and he looked at Taylor more intensely. ‘I found part of a jacket. Wrapped around one of my net ropes.’

‘I heard he might have been the victim of a shark attack — is that what you think? I understand you’re an expert on sharks.’

Baker shrugged — just the tiniest hint of unease. If Taylor had blinked he would have missed it. ‘I killed a few.’

‘You think a shark got Rufus Rorke?’

He was silent for a moment, as if reflecting. ‘Maybe, or maybe the shark just saw the jacket floating free and took a bite at it, then spat it out when it realized it wasn’t a fish. Sharks don’t have colour vision, only black and white. For sure the teeth marks on the jacket were from a tiger shark.’

‘I understand there were bloodstains on the jacket — that matched my friend’s DNA. Wouldn’t that indicate the shark had got him?’

‘I never saw any blood on the cloth. But the police are clever with their forensic stuff. You know?’

Taylor nodded.

‘What exactly is your interest?’ Baker asked.

‘His widow asked me to find out more about his death,’ he lied. ‘She’s distraught and doesn’t think the police have been telling her the whole truth. Can I ask you, how did you know it was his jacket? The ocean’s a big place.’

Instantly, he clocked the flash of unease across the fisherman’s face, before Baker glanced down at his chunky digital mariner’s watch. ‘I got to go over to my boat in a minute, the engineer’s got the gearbox out.’

‘I won’t keep you. I am just curious how you knew it was his jacket.’

Taylor noticed him curl and uncurl his hands. ‘I didn’t. After I untangled it from the rope I slung it on the deck — it’s always good to have rags on the boat, although I could tell it had once been some kind of a fancy jacket, I saw the Savile Row name in the label. Like I said, I lived in Newcastle with my wife for some years, and I know what Savile Row is. I wondered how come that got into the sea — didn’t sit quite right. Then I got back and I saw in the papers about this man lost overboard.’

‘Rufus Rorke?’

‘Yeah — yeah, that was his name. There was a photograph of him and his wife taken at a fancy restaurant earlier on the night he disappeared, in the paper. I saw he was wearing a white jacket that looked pretty much like the one I’d fished out the water. First, I thought about not going to the police, because of the hassle — seems like I was right.’ He smiled.

‘You’ve had a lot of hassle?’

Ignoring the comment, John Baker said, ‘Anyhow, I contacted a police lady I know — she’s the sister-in-law of another Moontown fisherman. Next thing I know I’ve got police all over me like a rash, asking questions and stuff, and where exactly had I found it. They sent a dive boat out to the location, but they didn’t find nothing, of course.’

‘Of course?’

He hesitated and looked uncomfortable. ‘You go overboard five miles out to sea and the body could be anywhere, if it ain’t inside the belly of a tiger, could be damned well anywhere. But I’m betting a tiger got him.’ He shrugged again. ‘I wish I had more for you. I’m sorry ’bout your friend.’ He did look genuinely sorry.

Taylor thanked him, realizing this was all he was going to get. As he climbed back into the Mercedes, Tony Skeete asked, ‘Get what you wanted?’

Taylor didn’t reply for some moments. He was thinking about John Baker’s body language. About those flashes of unease. And he reflected on one of the last things John Baker had said. But they didn’t find nothing, of course.

What had he actually meant by that? The impossibility of finding anything in the vastness of the ocean? Or had it been a slip of the tongue?