Reckoning With The Force: Stories of the Jamaica Constabulary Force in the 1950s (2024)

David Godfrey has recorded some of his experiences whileserving in the Jamaica Constabulary Force (JCF) during the 1950s. Itwas a time during which incidents of crime were low as comparedwith today and an age when there was much more civility in oursociety. Godfrey was serving at the end of a long line of expatriateofficers and his services in Jamaica preceded the Jamaicanization ofthe Force which heralded an era of fundamental change.

In 1950, Godfrey started with fourteen staff. When he wastransferred ten years later, there were over sixty police at variousranks and the Force had been completely Jamaicanized withGodfrey himself having served under many Jamaicans.

Some of the stories contained in this book trigger memories ofsimilar experiences in my mind, but overall, they reveal a Force witha sense of humour spiced with good Jamaican 'ginnalship'.

The stories concerning relationships with the media,politicians and the various communities of the day are, in fact,a vivid social commentary of those times. Godfrey does not usecorrect place names, organizations or people in every instance, butthose who are knowledgeable about the period will engage theirown detection skills to correctly identify the persons involved.The visit of the Inspector-General to the Watt Town police station,for example, is one such manifestation and some of the characters,such as the 'cricket-loving' Detective Corporal of St Ann, will beeasily recognized by anyone who has served in the JamaicaConstabulary Force.

Today, the advent of new technology, more efficient training andbetter facilities add to the increased professionalism of the Force.Godfrey, however, demonstrates that the intelligence and cunning,which still exist today, was at the helm of police work of yesteryear.It is of interest to note that at the time, the Police Special Branch wasa good deal more extensive than generally supposed. It is againstthis background that it should be mandatory for all servingmembers of the Constabulary to learn about the origins of theForce. Not only should we read official documentation, but suchincidents as those experienced by Godfrey should be acknowledgedas being an integral part of the colourful history of the Force. Somemay disagree and be offended by some of the incidents recalled inthis book. Be that as it may, this volume should be read by allJamaicans who have a sense of history and an interest in theJamaica Constabulary Force.

This book is about West Indians, mainly Jamaicans, andalthough each story may read like fiction, every one is based on fact.Most of the stories have some connection to law-enforcement, asseen through my eyes. This is not, however, a book of memoirs,but rather an intimate series of human landscapes which wouldnot have materialized without the faith and dedication of mypublisher, Valerie Facey. I have taken the liberty of including someunabashed autobiography and dedicate these anecdotes toPeggy, my wife of forty-seven years.

"Lawd, Him Boasy!"

WHEN I LANDED IN KINGSTON, from a banana boat, newly appointedAssistant Superintendent of the Jamaica Constabulary, I wasconfident that I was fully equipped to face the rigours ofparticipating in the Colonial Raj. Thanks to Hobson's, specialisttailors of Soho.

On a side street in that most exciting part of London, a windowwith a legless dummy displaying the full dress uniform of a Marshalof the Royal Air Force, or perhaps an Admiral of the Fleet or hismilitary equivalent, signalled the location of the establishmentwhich supplied uniforms to those who toiled in the far-flungEmpire, the Colonial Service, the Indian Civil Service, the AfricanMandated Territories, or even the Sudan. It was here that one couldpurchase the cap badge of the Fiji Constabulary, a complete set ofuniform requirements for the Hong Kong police or a button or twothat might be needed in St Kitts, British West Indies.

Inside was a long, narrow room with cubicles and full lengthcupboards with dark wooden doors. There was no hint that it washere that every colonial governor, and every impoverished districtofficer spent his sadly inadequate uniform advances from HerMajesty, for no uniforms displayed on hangers waiting for collectionand payment were ever visible.

Long before this specialist tailor's establishment was replaced by aconcrete car park, I went there to exchange my old naval uniform forthat of an officer of the Jamaica Constabulary. The list of requirements was long, far too long, and included a dress sword, full dress baratheaoverall trousers, boots and spurs, a crossbelt with the official badgesand fittings of the Force, a cumme*rbund, spiked helmet complete withpuggree and constabulary silver badge, appropriate rank badges andmedals, miniatures for mess kit, monkey jackets (2), white tunics (4),khaki drill bush tunics (6), matching shorts and trousers, Sam Brownebelt, black stockings (6), khaki stockings with navy blue tops, navylanyard, revolver holster and a copper-lined tin trunk (owner's nameand destination clearly marked) to pack it all into.

The tailor, a Hobson perhaps, assured me that he could providea similar service if I had the good fortune to be transferred to any ofthe other fifty-four colonies that were then available to members ofthe Colonial Service, including the police.

My splendid accoutrements were to prove my greatest source ofpride as well as my greatest embarrassment. For instance, myexperience with swords had been limited mostly to drills andweddings. On the occasion of my own nuptials, I had borrowed mybrother-in-law's which was last used at his wedding. It was no greatsurprise when, after getting the scabbard stuck in the church pew, Ifinally freed the ceremonial implement and hoped to use it to goodeffect when I drew it to cut the spectacular three-tiered weddingcake. As it was unsheathed, however, a shower of stale crumbssprayed from the polished scabbard.

After returning early from our honeymoon, my wife and I havingboth come down with food poisoning, I was assigned to lead aceremonial parade which included the Constabulary Band, anothereven more junior officer and about a hundred NCOs and constables.We assembled in the parade yard at Central Police Station,impressively arrayed in our full dress white tunics, red-seamedtrousers, gleaming boots and spiked helmets. The two officers alsowore gloves and marched with drawn swords.

I called the whole parade to attention, did a smart about-turnand marched off at the head. The sentry at the entrance to Centralstood rigidly at attention and saluted instead of halting traffic whichincluded an incoming black and white police vehicle returning from patrol which narrowly avoided running me down as well as theleader of the band. An inauspicious start.

We wheeled sharply to the right and I strode down the street,confident that my men were right behind me. However, a hugedrum strapped to the chest over a colourful lion skin does not makefor long strides. The band slowed accordingly, the officer in front ofthe platoon slowed too in order to keep an even distance.

At the first turn off, a right angled one to East Street, a large busjoined the ceremonial parade, inserting its ungainly presencebetween me and the band, giving them the full benefit of variousnoxious fumes. The band slowed even further to give the JamaicaOmnibus vehicle a wider berth and prevent thick blobs of burntdiesel fuel from landing on their whiter-than-snow tunics.

In those days there were no environmental controls and theband leader's decision was understandable. There was a lot of noise,the band had not begun to play for fear of the brass section beinggassed by the bus, so I had no idea that I was drawing rapidly aheadof everyone else. The street was lined with enthusiastic spectators,because Jamaicans, like everyone else, love pageantry, especiallyparades. All and sundry cheered loudly as I marched past themalong the designated route. At the head of King Street, the mainshopping centre, the bus turned left, I turned right. Still unawarethat by now I was totally on my own, I marched into Victoria ParkSquare, where many more of the white-jacketed constabulary werekeeping the crowd at bay and ensuring that the podium in front ofthe Ward Theatre was kept clear for the Governor who was to passon the Queen's message to her people.

A solitary figure, sword drawn, I marched into the square andhalted myself with a voice that would have made a Guardsregimental sergeant-major proud. There was a hush, then a round ofapplause, followed by cheers and cries of:

"Lawd, him boasy! The policeman look good, eh?"

Flushed with pride, I demonstrated my parade ground training,performing another 'about face' with military' precision.

My jaw would have dropped had it not been held fast by a silver chin-strap which had the effect of pulling my helmet on my headmore firmly. I was on parade by myself. The full horror had barelysunk in when the faint strains of the admittedly immelodiousConstabulary Band came wafting over the traffic noises and thecries of the crowd. To my relief, the rest of the parade wheeled intothe square.

The square was small, the band wheeled round again, and again,followed by the whole troop.

"For Christ's sake HALT us," my brother officer managed to yellover the cacophony as they all swept past me again. The bandpaused, but the assembled squad were forming a sort of U shape,I couldn't halt them like that. So around they all went again untilthey formed a straight line.

"HALT!" I screamed, just as the bloody band was drawing in theirbreath in preparation for playing another piece of their limitedrepertoire.

It was a tense moment and just in time. His Excellency's cararrived, flags flying. The Governor alighted, climbed to the podium,magnificent in a plumed helmet and white uniform, gold epaulettesflowing over his shoulders like scrambled eggs, his chest draggeddown by medals, some held in place by the brightly-coloured sash.I heaved a sigh of relief, mingled with pride for, after all, beforethe Governor's arrival, it was about myself that the crowd hadshouted: "Him boasy!"

A Talent to Amuse

I knew my turn would come, probably sooner than later, becauseto my horror I discovered his mother lived in my parish, St Ann. Wetook precautions. It was impossible to drive from Kingston to StAnn's Bay without passing at least one of my division's policestations, so we set up an early warning system. Alarm bells shouldring as soon as the dark blue Humber, flying the Commissioner'spennant like a pirate flag, was sighted heading north. Surpriseattack was further impeded by means of secret intelligencewarnings sent by friendly colleagues based at HQ. As it turned out,all these precautions were unnecessary: a full inspection wasscheduled in writing for a specific date, an ominous sign.

We had heard that the new Commissioner favoured smart policestations and staff. He liked to see uniform beds of flowers, paintedstone walls, polished floors, short-term prisoners well fed and gainfully employed, spotless vehicles and forage horses in goodenough condition to meet household cavalry standards. The tenstations and one police post of the St Ann Division had few of theseamenities.

In desperation we planted cannas, tall yellow plants that couldeasily be up-rooted after the inspection and rushed to the nextstation, Runaway or Discovery Bay to the west, Ocho Rios to theeast. Urged on by district constables, short-term prisoners cleaned,scrubbed, polished and dug garden beds. Books, diaries and logswere brought up to date.

We prepared for the onslaught.

As an added precaution, I visited Detective Corporal FitzroyHinds in his private lair, upstairs above the charge room. He was atall, pipe-smoking man, who moved languorously, bending slightlyfrom a great height to listen more attentively to shorter people likeme, though in all fairness I stand six feet. He rose slowly when Icame through the door and removed first his pipe then his batteredtrilby before tightening the knot of his Constabulary Cricket Club tieas a gesture of respect for his superior officer.

Actually, Detective Corporal Hinds didn't give a sh*t about all that.His only real interest was cricket. He so loved the game that hesacrificed his career in the force. Though a thorough and sometimesinspired investigator, he was only comfortable when arranging, thenplaying, games, and the accompanying social events. He was famousfor his lethal rum punch and the fierceness of his curried goat. Hindswas better known than Conrad Hilton as 'mine host' throughout thelength and breadth of Jamaica, and his reputation as a wicked bowlerwas unsurpassed. So when I warned him about the coming inspectionand advised him to ensure that all the exhibits were in order, properlylabelled and stored, he nodded gravely, but my words went throughone ear and out the other. In fact, when the dreaded day arrived, theinspection of Hinds's domain proved to be the breaking point. Thenew head of the Force preferred hockey to cricket.

The Commissioner arrived at the appointed hour. His sinisterblue Humber, pennant flying, cruised smoothly into the spacious yard at the back of the St Ann's Bay station. He did not alight until hisdriver, wearing a white tunic and white gloves, opened theimpeccably-clean rear door for him.

He returned the salute and glowered round him, scowling at theguard of honour that was drawn up in full dress, for his inspection.Obviously it did not impress him. Things only seemed to get worse.As the morning drew to a close, the Commissioner's suppressed ragewas already mounting towards explosion point, he having observedslovenly habits at every turn, despite our efforts.

Corporal Hinds was standing to attention outside his office, foronce wearing a proper suit instead of his customary cricket blazer,and holding an almost new white trilby in his hand, which somehowmatched the silver, blue and red constabulary tie, often worn byplainclothes members of the Force who wished to appearinconspicuous. There was no sign whatever of Hinds's pipe.

As anticipated, the Commissioner immediately headed for thetall cupboard where the exhibits were supposedly stored andlogged. Hinds fumblingly unlocked the door: a bad sign.

The Commissioner peered myopically at the shelves, almostbare save for a few straggly bags of ganja, a couple of firearms andseveral bloodstained cutlasses. I saw the back of theCommissioner's neck darken, the flush increasingly evident as heturned to face Hinds. Most ominous of all, he began the much dreadedstutter as he questioned where the rest of the exhibits were,as listed in the exhibit book. Hinds stuttered back, his usual aplombdeserting him in this hour of need.

The angry police chief swept everything off Hinds's almost tidy,old wooden desk then attacked the drawer. It would not open. Adeathly hush ensued. The head of the Force held out his hand."Keys," he whispered with an obvious effort at self control.

Hinds frowned. "Jammed, sir," he replied.

In a burst of maniacal fury, terrifying to behold, theCommissioner put his highly polished shoe against the desk andheaved out the whole front of the rotting frame, clearly revealingthat the drawer had been nailed shut. A variety of exhibits tumbled out, some bearing yellow labels, some white, others none at all.

"C-C-Corporal Hinds," the furious officer exclaimed calmly, butbreathing with difficulty. "Go and pick that lot up and get themproperly labelled."

He turned to me. "You c-c-come with me to your off-off-office!"

In my young life both during and since boarding school days, Ihad received many dressings-down. The one I had that day easilysurpassed any I've experienced before or since.

"You...Godfrey...are a bl-blo-bloody disgrace! Sh-shoes unpopo-polished." Had I never heard of a batman? And so on.

All rather unflattering you might think. And you would be quiteright.

Then following the basic principles of personnel management,the Commissioner having broken me down proceeded to build meup so I had some traces of tattered self-respect by the time he left,which at least prevented any suicidal tendencies.

But I had learnt a lot, so had Detective Hinds, whose ill-advisedrefusal to listen to my warnings had resulted in the curtailment of alot of his sporting activity, which had to be utilized in otherchannels, such as police recreation rooms.

That was the Commissioner's new brainchild. A place where theother ranks could play dominoes, gamble, smoke, argue, socializeand, hopefully, relax.

During one of his all-too-frequent visits to St Ann, sometimes tokeep an eye on me but more often en route to see his mother, he hadagreed to stay for an informal dinner which my wife and I gave at thepolice quarters we occupied up the hill from the station. My long sufferingwife, whose brother also served in the Force with me, isJamaican, as was the Commissioner himself. She has always been agracious hostess, and somehow the evening went smoothly. Thelocal manager of Barclay's Bank and his Trinidadian wife smoothed the way despite the efforts of Florette, our interminably-pregnantmaid/cook, whose dubious cooking ability was legendarythroughout St. Ann. However, she could almost handle cold dishesand if carefully supervised, handmake ice cream in a round drum invarious flavours, reasonably well. The flavour of the evening wassoursop.

Over the dessert course, the Commissioner produced hisbombshell: police recreation rooms were to be established at allstations, but since no funds were available for this purpose, theywere to be raised from volunteer collections. I suppressed ashudder, knowing full well how the Constabulary approaches'volunteer' fundraising. But worse was to follow.

"No problem in this rich parish," the Commissioner asserted."Just take over a hotel, put on a bloody good police floor show' andget some one like Noel Coward to come and play the piano, sing acouple of his songs. I'll come myself of course."

He thought for a moment, totally misinterpreting our shockedsilence. It was hard to believe that worse was to follow, but it did."You had better try and time it so that I can bring the Inspector-General during his visit before Christmas."

Another bombshell. The Inspector-General of all police forcesheld sway in Westminster and reported directly to the Minister forOverseas Territories and the Commonwealth, at that time theHonourable John Profumo.

The Inspector-General had been a former Police Commissionerof Trinidad before moving to Kenya, and his word could authorizetransfers to the rich forces of other territories such as Hong Kong orMalaysia. Worst of all, he was reputed to be an ex-member of thePalestine Police.

I said nothing, knowing it was pointless to argue, but wonderedhow the hell I could ever get to talk to Noel Coward (who had ahome in nearby Oracabessa), never mind induce him to appear inan amateur stage performance on behalf of the local Constabulary.But desperate situations require desperate measures.

My wayward parent had been Director of Music for the BBC until the tyrannical Sir John Reith fired him for being involved in a messydivorce, not even his own. I was pretty sure Noel Coward wouldrecognize his name because it was still well-known in musicalcircles. So I sent a telegram in my father's name requesting aninterview.

A couple of days later I was invigilating police promotion examswhen Mr Coward's private secretary, whom I knew slightly, wasushered in by the constable guarding the door. With mixed feelingsI learned that, "Mr Coward would be delighted if Mr and MrsGodfrey could come to dinner next week".

My misgivings increased as we drove up the tortuous driveway toFirefly, Noel's house at the top of a steep hill.

I could well imagine some biting retorts from one of the world'sleading satirists, furious at having been misled by some miserablejuvenile police officer. I could not have been more wrong. We weregreeted like old friends by Noel who was casually attired in acolourful Tower Isle shirt and linen pants. Characteristically, acigarette dangled from a long holder that he used as a wand. He wastaller than I expected, and I was relieved to see his bright blue eyessparkled when he smiled at us in a delightfully sardonic way.

He jokingly referred to my grandfather and great-grandfather,whom he recalled from Spy cartoons, open-air concerts and eventhe Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra. His easy charm and acouple of stiff drinks he served himself, soon made both of us relaxand feel at home. After the three of us had finished dinner, he playedthe piano and sang lyrics to some of the new music scores he wascomposing.

When we were able to return some of his hospitality over dinnerat the quarters, he even agreed to help with the police floor show,but declined to actually perform as that would compromise variousagency contracts.

Eventually, I wrote a script for the floor show: a satire of thehistory of Jamaica, set it to the music of William Walton's Facade,and discussed it with Noel. I recorded the whole thing in RadioJamaica's studio. Most of the cast were police, although two very pretty Chinese flight attendants from BWIA added some glamour toone scene. In another, waited on by my wife in a French maid'scostume, one of my colleagues played the part of a Carib taking anAlka Seltzer after consuming the last Taino inhabitant. I was theMaster of Ceremonies and noticed that amongst the audience wastire Lord Mayor of London, two peers of the realm, a noble earl, andof course the Commissioner, his wife and, God have mercy' on me,the Inspector-General.

The floor show was a real success, though by the end I wasthoroughly plastered. Noel Coward was bombed from the start butfortunately we were all staying nearby and did not have to drive.I had forgotten to ask the Commissioner to open or close the show,which might have been just as well. In any event, he was very visiblein his messkit sitting at one of the tables closest to the dance floor.

Afterwards, in a haze of smoke and alcohol, a drunken postmortemwas held by Noel Coward, Stanhope Joel, wealthy tycoonand international race-horse owner, my wife and myself. Noel'srather cryptic comment was that I was a obviously a big loss to showbiz, even though, "You looked positively petrified, dear boy!"

The Inspector-General

THE TALL MAN UNDER THE BOWLER HAT wore a black overcoat whichreached to his knees, concealing most of his pin-striped trousers. Asusual, the weather was inclement, the BBC forecast predicted rain,so he carried a tightly-furled umbrella in his right hand, and in hisleft a black leather briefcase embossed with the royal coat of arms ingold. Although he wore the uniform of a Westminster warrior, theman's domain stretched from Hong Kong to the Falkland Islands,from Africa to Asia, including Cyprus and even Gibraltar, for he wasthe Inspector-General of Colonial Police. Little did he know what ahumbling and educational experience a field inspection tour of theCaribbean would prove to be.

The Inspector-General strode along the crowded pavement andentered the portals of No 1 Great Smith Street, a tall institutionalbuilding that was soon to change its name from the imperial sounding'Colonial Office' to the more user-friendly 'Ministry ofOverseas Development'. Passing through the double glass doors, henodded to the uniformed commissionaire, a fiercely-mustachioedveteran whose medal ribbons proudly bore the reminders of manyfar-flung campaigns. The IG stepped into the elevator, anotherveteran dutifully closed the brass grill and turned the lever thatpropelled the ancient lift slowly upwards towards the executivefloors. His office was large, the heavily-panelled walls covered incrested shields presented by almost every police force he supervisedfrom afar. Proof that this was voluntary was provided by numerous photographs of this and preceding Inspectors-General receivingthese trophies. The furniture was designed for domination, ratherthan comfort, although the slightly-worn carpet still managed tohint at oriental splendours.

On this day, the IG held a hurried conference with his deputy,then gathered his papers from his flustered secretary. He felt a surgeof relief as he left the building. Instead of the usual dreary round ofconferences and interviews, mostly requests for transfers, he wasleaving rain-swept London for tropical shores.

He first flew to Bermuda, where he was greeted at the airport bythe Commissioner, an old colleague. His inspection of the smallforce, which still included British sergeants and inspectors, wasaccomplished to his satisfaction. He dined with His Excellency, the Governor, a distant royal, swam in the hotel pool and spent a quietweekend touring the island with his former colleague beforecatching the BOAC flight for the Bahamas, his next stop.

It was in Nassau that things began to unravel. On arrival, hefound one of his bags was missing. The airport staff blamed BOAC,the airline indignantly pointed the finger at the general serviceground crew. In the end it was found by Customs, having beenthoroughly ransacked. The IG was relieved that both his khakiworking and dress uniforms, complete with helmet and medals,were safe in the other suitcase.

Later, when he was given a copy of his itinerary, he wryly notedthat more time had been allocated to social functions than visits orinspections. The next morning his visit began in earnest. Heinspected a smart-enough guard of honour complete withConstabulary Band, the not-so-smart police HQ and an even moreramshackle police station at a place called Hogg Island, which wassituated on the fringes of Nassau. He suggested a coat of paint andwinced when the Commissioner sadly shook his head, spoke ofthe ferocious appetites of 'duck ants' and suggested that a smallcontribution of funds from London would expedite totalreconstruction before the termites digested the white woodenstructure as they had been known to do before. The IG concluded that this inspection was certain to develop into one of those 'If onlyI had the money' tours.

The official co*cktail party given in his honour that night onlyserved to confirm his worst fears. Every officer's wife bemoaned herpoverty in such a potentially rich territory, quite forgetting nature'sfree compensations; marvellous weather, golden beaches and afriendly local population. Towards the end of the evening theCommissioner had cornered the IG.

"We will have an early start tomorrow, plenty of time for lunchand then a quick flight back from Freeport," he cheerfully predicted."Tomorrow night it's dinner with HE." He spoke with an enthusiasmthat was unshared but he did not notice. "HE always gives fabulousparties," he continued. "Then we'll send you on your way to theislands on the BOAC London-Kingston flight. So you can be sure ofa nice little visit: schedule's a bit tight but the local airline's alwayson time and it's only a short hop. Be there in time for a decentbreakfast."

The next morning, they arrived at the airport at 6.30 a.m. Forthe next two hours the IG, the Commissioner and a staff officer saton uncomfortable tin chairs in the departure terminal facing anunmanned counter belonging to the Bahamian airline that servicedthe out-islands. It was hot to start with and soon got hotter. It wasalso crowded with would-be passengers, relations, friends andluggage. No attempt was made to predict the arrival or departure ofany of the flights and the airline's ground staff remainedconspicuously absent. The IG's tight schedule sagged, thencollapsed. When suddenly the flight was announced, a free-for-allscramble began. Children eagerly trampled on the IG's highly polishedblack shoes as he rose to his feet and was jostled towards adoorway. When he finally climbed the metal stairs and stepped intothe aircraft, he was astonished to see that the plane was already halffull, the luggage racks bulging and luggage overflowing onto theaisle. The three police officers made their way to the rear of theDash 8 where there were still some unoccupied seats. The aircraftwas filled and three hours late when the port engine refused to start. Everyone de-planed. Half an hour later, just when the IG was givingup all hope, there was a sputter then a roar of engines triumphingover adversity.

It was already teatime when the aircraft glided over the harbourand landed gently on the Freeport runway. They had arrived too lateto visit the police station, so the entire party waited at the airport tore-board the same plane and return to Nassau. The pilot signalled hisdistrust of the aircraft by keeping the engines running until the planewas bouncing down the runway again. There was barely time toshower and change before presenting themselves to the Governor.

The next day, comfortably seated in First-Class clutching a ginand tonic, the Inspector-General heaved a sigh of relief as hewatched New Providence and the rest of the Bahamas disappearbeneath the wings of the national airline.

The Commissioner of Police in Jamaica was very different fromthe two previous police chiefs whose forces the IG had inspected. Tostart with, the head of Jamaica was a scion of the local plantocracy.He had left his native island to serve the Crown in 'darkest' Africa formany years before being transferred nearer to home on promotionto become Commissioner of the Barbados force. Under hisleadership the Jamaica Constabulary had shed the artificialappearance of Scotland Yard in favour of more Caribbeancharacteristics as befitted an almost self-governing colony, but ithad always retained its para-military facade. The gazetted officersstill drilled with a sword and wore spurs with their full dressuniform, which made driving a car rather difficult. It was notsurprising that the programme, moulded round the IG's list ofrequirements, was rather different from the one arranged inBermuda and the Bahamas.

At least, the IG reflected, he would not be expected to spend theday hanging around an overcrowded tropical airport. There was agood deal more emphasis on the consulting aspects of his office,more time for discussions and opportunities to meet members ofthe Force. This would enable him to select those among the seniorranks who were worthy of scholarships, transfers and accelerated promotions or, alternatively, termination. The official declarationsof independence were causing heavy lay-offs and unemploymentamongst former Colonial Service personnel.

However, there was still a full round of official social functions tobe endured, including a fund-raising dinner at a tourist hotel, to befollowed by a visit to a rural police post. The IG sighed at bothprospects. He would have his revenge and send as many of them aspossible to the UK Police College at Bramshill for a six-monthcommand course and inedible food.

After a couple of days' routine inspection and consulting with avariety of officials, the IG set off for the north coast of Jamaica. Hebooked into one of the hotels on the beach near Ocho Rios andenjoyed a quiet unofficial dinner with the Commissioner whounwisely expounded some of his views on the rationalization ofindependence for the British Caribbean islands and the creation ofa Federated West Indies, including a dominion-type law enforcementagency, citing Canada as an example as opposed to theUK model of county forces. The IG secretly always had hoped tobecome a chief constable so privately disagreed with theCommissioner's views. It was to be the first of many such clashes.Although subdued, the views propounded by the Commissionerrepresented those of a newly-independent colony, which metwith all the natural resistance of Whitehall and years of distantcolonial rule.

Later that night, the Commissioner's car arrived and they drovethrough the moonlit cane fields along the shore and then up intothe lush, rolling hillside. The road deteriorated, becoming a dirttrack as they approached their destination, appropriately enoughcalled Watt Town.

It was a mere village, most of the houses had no electricity. Therewas an all-purpose store, a small bar and two churches. There wasno courthouse, just a police station, so small that it was dwarfed bythe Commissioner's official car.

A yellow light burned dimly outside, illuminating theCommissioner as he climbed up the two steps leading to the station, followed by the IG. The green wooden door was locked, no lightshowed inside. The Commissioner raised his fist and his voice,knocked and demanded to be let in. There was no answer. Heknocked again, raising his voice still further, this time eliciting afaint response.

"The Commissioner of Police. Open up."

"Me can't do dat."

"What? Why not?" the astonished Commissioner asked. "Where'sthe corporal?"

"Im hon patrol sah, on 'im forage 'orse."

"Where's the constable?"

"'lm gawn visit spirit licence premis' dem."

"Who are you, the District Constable?"

"No sah, 'im doan 'ere hat all."

The Commissioner's patience was exhausted.

"Well, who the hell are you? Open the bloody door."

"Me can't, sah."

"What? What do you mean, you can't? Who are you?"

"I de prisoner sah."

The IG was later to record this conversation and inspection asthe most remarkable he encountered during his tour of duty, but atthe time he was more than a little put out with having to travel overincreasingly rough roads for over an hour, only to view the outsideof a dingy, unlit building in a non-descript rural village.

The next day was the usual round of inspections and discussionswith local authorities, followed by dinner and the police floor showat the elegant Jamaica Inn. The Inspector-General did notappreciate seeing policewomen acting as chorus girls, silentdrills by uniformed constables and the apparent inebriation ofthe young Master of Ceremonies. Nor did he approve of the allegedhom*osexuality of one of the famous show biz guests, thepreponderance of rich overdressed Americans and impoverishedEnglish aristocracy. For him, the evening was not a success.

A day later, having said his goodbyes, he waited impatiently to be picked up at 4.00 a.m. and driven to the airport to catch anotherflight. Time went by and at last he used the phone. A puzzled andsomewhat sleepy staff officer arrived and drove him to the airport,arriving barely in time to catch the flight to Belize which was the IG'snext destination.

On his return to Jamaica a couple of days later, he learned thatthe Commissioner's car had been delayed because the driver hadbeen allowed to take it home, had celebrated by getting drunk,sobering only when he realized that the gleaming Humber staff carhad been stolen.

Goldeneye

THE HUGE WHITE CRUISE SHIP was moored alongside the bauxitewharf in Ocho Rios, looking for all the world like a floating zeppelinwith her high superstructure and low hull. Early that morning shehad disgorged her cargo of white and crimson tourists, allencouraged by local shopkeepers and the ship's crew to dress inways they had been told were appropriate.

The dock has always been narrow, and like the road, heavily-congesteddespite the construction of a new bypass. Taxis, busesand limos vied with one another, horns blared, traffic chaos ensuedand only the lucky few escaped on tours as far afield as Kingston oras near as Dunn's River Falls. The whole place was always crowded,even with the arrival of one cruise liner, let alone two, which didhappen from time to time.

Tourists were only allowed ashore for one day, so many simplytumbled along Main Street and wandered into the tourist traps. Ifthey were lucky or rich enough they might have been able to arrangea special bus tour or catch a cab or limousine to visit some of thesuperb hotels, or even stray as far as the Upton Golf and CountryClub, but they would have to leave before sunset, happy in the beliefthat they had seen Jamaica's north shore.

Most of the cruise ship passengers had never driven along thenarrow winding coast road amidst the sugar cane and lush tropicgrowth. Not for them to ride up Fern Gully under a dome-likecanopy of vegetation or wind their way to Brown's Town, through ahilly landscape that could be mistaken for England's North Devon were it not for the bursts of colour, the flash of a parakeet's wing, thetropic wild life and unfamiliar trees and bushes.

They would never follow the spine of hills that runs acrossJamaica's back and sample what must be the most wonderfulclimate in the world. Nor would they ever find Goldeneye, home ofIan Fleming and the birthplace of super-spy James Bond, or visitFleming's neighbour, Noel Coward, whose house - Firefly - has nowbeen turned into a museum by Chris Blackwell, world-renownedmusic impresario, who now also owns Goldeneye.

During the winter of 1956 I spent three weeks at Goldeneye withthe then British Prime Minister, Sir Anthony Eden and his wife. LadyEden, at a time when the Suez crisis was at its height. VIP protectionand tours have always bored me, but I have had to do my share, asone time divisional superintendent in the Uniform Branch and nowat the time of Eden's viisit, as head of Special Branch.

Goldeneye is located on the seaward edge of thirty acres ofthickly-wooded bush, mostly cedar, citrus, tall coconut trees andtropical shrubs. To the north side is a path to some steps which leaddown to a small beach protected by a coral reef. The house wasdescribed by its owner, Ian Fleming, as 'modest', consisting of threebedrooms with adjoining bathrooms, a kitchen and sunken livingroom. The windows were wooden jalousies which overlooked anunkempt garden.

Sir Anthony and Lady Eden occupied the master bedroom, theirScotland Yard detective the second and myself, the third. Outside,the Jamaica Constabulary's Special Branch team patrolled thegrounds, including the communications centre which was in directtouch with the cabinet room in London. In the street and aroundthe perimeter, members of the St Mary division (Uniform Branch)provided protection, while a small open police launch, on loan fromKingston and modelled absurdly like those seen on the RiverThames, floated leisurely up and down the crystalline waters insidethe reef. The uniformed crew, accustomed to patrolling Kingston'scargo-filled wharves, now hung over the side of the launch to gaze inwonder at the myriads of tiny fish that occupied the nearby reef.

I found it both boring and stressful as I too patrolled the thirtyacres, or stood on the point and enviously watched the police boat.My eyes often wandered across the harbour to the Oracabessa wharf(later abandoned) where stacks of green bananas waited to beloaded on the SS Ariguani or her sister ship.

Excitement came twice during those long sunny days.

First, a local dugout canoe, loaded with the traditional box-shapedwire fish pots, paddled innocently along the coral shore.Suspicious because they knew there were no fish large enough forcommercial purposes, not even a crab or crayfish in those waters,the patrol boat revved up its engine and pulled alongside the canoe.

Closer examination revealed, hiding behind the pots, a daringFrench photographer armed with telephoto lens, eager to snap thePM and/or his wife disporting themselves on the beach whileBritish and French troops invaded Suez. The enterprising journalistwas turned back minus his camera and warned not to return.

The next day the banana boat arrived and the lighters beganferrying their loads to the black-hulled cargo ship. While I stood onthe point directly above the reef, another craft approached from thewest, this time a small bamboo raft being furiously paddled by aman wearing a straw hat, dark glasses, bathing shorts and a brightlycoloured shirt. There was something vaguely familiar about the darkglasses. I used my hand radio to summon the police launch tointercept the innocent tourist: he proved to be the samephotographer, this time armed with an even bigger and moreformidable camera. His endeavour would have been in vainbecause the Edens only used the beach early in the mornings, butone had to give the paparazzi an E for effort.

The following day I went for a local sightseeing tour with LadyEden. She visited the shop sponsored by Noel Coward in Port Mariaand borrowed a fiver off me which I never saw again. That eveningwe all went to bed early after a light dinner.

We found the Prime Minister hopping around in his stripedpyjamas shouting angrily at the world, while his wife was stillshrieking, but nothing seemed amiss. I had checked the patrolsbefore turning in and they were still around, fully alert. We werebaffled: had the Egyptian army won a major victory against thecombined British and French forces?

Eventually, everyone calmed down and Lady Eden tearfullyrecounted how she had been woken by a curious feeling on the soleof her foot. She had switched on the light only to discover a large,hungry banana rat gnawing at her toes. Of course, when the bananaboat had left with her European bound cargo, a bunch of local ratsjumped ship and went in search of an alternative diet. To even thescore, my security staff were encouraged to shoot a few of therodents that Ian Fleming's wife had regarded as pets of a sort, butyou can't have it all ways, can you?

I never did meet James Bond and I still wonder - who waspuss* Galore?

Royals and not so Royal

MY FIRST INVOLVEMENT WITH A ROYAL TOUR nearly began and endedin disaster, disgrace and possible banishment to the Gilbert andEllis Islands.

An impressive stage was set. From early morning, assortedschoolchildren, scouts, guides and local enthusiasts, all armed withUnion Jacks, had lined the new coastal highway where it left theparish of Trelawny and entered St Ann.

Her Majesty the Queen, accompanied by the Duke of Edinburgh,was scheduled to arrive in Montego Bay and en route to Kingstonwould pause to open the new Queen's Highway in St Ann. There hadbeen much serious preparation. Committees of all sorts and dressrehearsals by the dozen, some even featuring the Governor ofJamaica, Sir Hugh Foot.

I had a small but vital part to play in this my first experience of aroyal tour. It was to open the left hand rear door of the royal vehicleto let out the Duke of Edinburgh; a simple enough task but heavywith responsibility, because the Governor himself was charged withthe same duty on the right hand door for Her Majesty the Queen.We had practised until Sir Hugh, an ambitious man, was satisfiedthat nothing could go wrong.

Came the great day, I stood in the blazing sun along with oursmartly-turned-out police escort, right beside the tape to be cut byHer Majesty. The actual spot where the royal vehicle was to stop wasmarked with a blue line. How could anything go wrong?

I struggled in vain with the bloody door. Some over-zealousperson had locked it in Montego Bay and neither I nor the Dukecould open it. The Duke mouthed silent but easily-interpreted oathsat me as I gestured in vain to the royal chauffeur, a senior policedriver, who was apparently in a state of shock, to pull the any leverthat spelt freedom and redemption.

After what seemed like a lifetime had passed, the reluctant doorwas unlocked enabling the Duke to join the Queen, who appearedsomewhat overwhelmed by the warmth and size of the crowd, theheartiest of cheers and the temporary absence of her consort.

My next royal encounter was with Princess Margaret. I had beenforewarned to expect the worst by a senior police officer at ScotlandYard and though I doubt that the Princess ever knew, there wasnearly one serious breach of security during her visit.

The Metropolitan Police, from 'A' Division which is responsiblefor guarding the royals, had sent us a thick watch list, bound in alight green cover, which contained photographs and details of 'royalstalkers', namely, those individuals who were known to have a royalfetish. To my surprise there were quite a lot of them listed anddoubtless even more unidentified to this day. One was a peer of therealm, regrettably domiciled in Jamaica, along with several otherequally distinguished members of the aristocracy including a dukeand a couple of earls who led harmless lives on the island. Protocoldemanded that they all be invited to attend the official reception atKing's House, the Governor's residence.

This was a big headache for me. I selected two members of theSpecial Branch to keep an eye on Lord .... throughout the evening,while I mingled with the crowd, grabbing as many drinks from thetaxpayers as I decently could while I tried to discourage the press from getting too close and exploding flashlights in the Princess'sface as they had done to the Queen during her reception.

As usual, the whole affair was due to last for about two and a halfhours. It ended when the band of the Jamaica Regiment played GodSave the Queen, instead of their usual more melodious hint, It's Timeto Say Goodbye.

Everything seemed to be going well until about half-way throughthe reception when, to my horror, I felt a light touch on my arm.I turned to see the crestfallen face of one of the plainclothes policeassigned to keep his lordship under surveillance.

"Oh, my God!" I gasped. "You've lost him."

I hastened to inform my immediate boss, the AssistantCommissioner (Crime), and organized an instant search of theGovernor's residence which bordered on panic born of desperation.Fortunately, I was able to put my knowledge of the building'slayout, acquired during an agonizing spell as aide-de-camp, togood use. I found the culprit actually hiding under the Princess'sbed. I pulled the skinny little sod out by his ankle, his white dinnerjacket rising round his neck, and politely escorted the rumpledpeer to his car. I suggested that he would not be welcome duringany part of the visit and added that I would be visiting him athis estate soon after the royal tour was complete. When laterI phoned to make an appointment, I was informed that he hadleft the island on urgent business.

The experience gained during this tour helped to bring to asuccessful conclusion the Queen's next visit. My fondest memory washow after a particularly gruelling day. Her Majesty sat on the stairs atKing's House, kicked off her shoes and asked us all what was on theagenda for the next day. The Queen was always most considerate,regal without being haughty, and a pleasure to serve.

Another member of the royal family, Queen Victoria's solesurviving granddaughter, Princess Alice, the duch*ess of Athlone,was Chancellor of the University of the West Indies, then theUniversity College. I did three tours with her over the years and holdher in the highest regard.

The first time I accompanied her with a small police escort to anew, small school. For some reason when we arrived, the staff andlocal citizenry, after exchanging Jamaican unpleasantries, hadresorted to throwing stones, bricks and bottles at each other. I usedthe radio to police HQ and was instructed to advise the Princess tocancel the visit.

"Nonsense young man," she retorted, "I came to see this schooland I'm going to do so."

Caught between an irate royal and the Commissioner of Police,yet another bloody crisis threatened my career. I need not haveworried. Princess Alice descended from the car with her usualdignity, and the missiles, which had been falling like rain in BritishColumbia, suddenly stopped. In place of abusive exchanges, thecrowd broke into enthusiastic cheers and the visit was a totalsuccess.

It was a lesson to me of how quickly the mood of a West Indiancrowd can change, in this instance, the inevitable good humour ofthe ordinary Jamaican getting the upper hand. I was to experience itoften during those stormy pre-independence years when seriousriots occurred with regrettable frequency. But that is another story.

So much for royals. Now for the not quite so royal, variousheads of state.

We were visited by President Tubman of Liberia, who wasgreeted by an enthusiastic burst of machine gun fire from hissubjects when he returned home aboard an aircraft carrier of theRoyal Navy. The Governor of Puerto Rico, the prime target forPuerto Rican nationalists, is the subject of the section The Man with the BlackMoustache. And last, but by no means least. President Magloire ofHaiti, whose visit is described in Champagne Tastes and Shiny Boots,a Haitian saga.

In the meantime, I'll round off my VIP experiences with thegreatest one of all.

Sir Winston Churchill holidayed for three weeks in Jamaica whileserving his last term as British Prime Minister. I was assigned thedaytime job of accompanying him everywhere while he painted and dined. It was interesting watching his painting technique.He would spend the first day deftly creating an outline in oils whichin my ignorant view he proceeded to ruin by adding more andmore details during the next three days.

The Prime Minister would arrive around 10.00 a.m., set up hiseasel, and a hefty shot of Johnny Walker Black Label would behanded to him together with a large box of cigars. One fateful day,some underling at Prospect Great House, the home of Sir Haroldand Lady Mitchell, where Sir Winston was staying, forgot to loadthe cigars in the car that led the small parade to the beach. SirWinston had a short temper. He was furious and I immediatelydespatched the police Land Rover to remedy the crisis situation.

When the vehicle returned, a heavily-perspiring driver handedme the box, which I hurriedly took over to the PM. He opened thebox and fondled most of the extensive selection, finally choosing athick, greenish missile, probably a gift from God knows where. Hecut the cigar, and I lit it for him, then backed away to leave him inpeace with his scotch. While I chatted with the PM's own SpecialBranch officer, we both kept an alert watch.

Sir Winston's cigar went out many times and at the end of theday, he still had the same one in his mouth, albeit a mere stub bythen. When he threw it away I was actually tempted to keep whatwas left as a souvenir but managed to restrain myself. Not so one ofmy colleagues.

On a carefully-timed but brief official visit to Kingston, everymoment of the great man's time carefully scheduled, an ominousoversight occurred. To travel from Prospect in St Mary to Kingstontook about three hours; Sir Winston felt increasing discomfortand demanded to use the lavatory. This delay had not been includedin the schedule. The question was, where? Finally, the officialprocession was diverted to the police officer's quarters in SpanishTown, where the crisis was resolved. To this day, a plaque remainsover the toilet proclaiming that Sir Winston Churchill, KC, PC, OM,CH, TD, the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland,had used this facility.

My own Churchillian crisis arose later. One day the PMwith some reluctance left the beach where he was painting,to attend a special lunch. I took the opportunity to slip away andjoin my wife, at the time a stand-in for Betta St John, who wasin Jamaica making a film with Stewart Granger called All the Brothers Were Valiant. Much of the shooting was done on a beach,which one reached by driving on a track through a cattle field.I arrived in time for a box lunch and a quick gape at Hollywoodin action, then returned to wait for the PM.

Next day disaster struck. I woke up covered in red spots, a clearcase of measles or chickenpox. I was sure that instead of protectingthe most famous man in the world, I had infected him with some felldisease, because we formally shook hands twice daily.

Forgetting breakfast, I rushed to the local medical officer, whoasked me if I'd had much experience with 'grass lice'! That was it, Iwas covered in cattle ticks and they had spent the night bloatingtheir bodies feasting on my blood. The MO made his nurse batheme in kerosene.

Wiser, highly-inflammable and smelling like a garage. I returnedto my security duties. Sir Winston and I even shook hands again,and I accompanied him to Jamaica Inn, then the most expensivehotel in Jamaica, where we had a magnificent dinner and the guestsall stood to applaud.

Sir Winston was delighted and responded with his famous'V' for Victory sign.

To this day I can close my eyes and see him, shaded under hiswide-brimmed Stetson, sitting on that low stool in his light jumpsuit with a dead cigar projecting from the corner of his mouth.Somehow, I have forgotten how Eden looked in his pyjamas, themind being such a fickle biographer.

The Man withthe Black Moustache

GIVEN the bloody HISTORY OF THE CARIBBEAN, there should be nosurprise that official and unofficial criminal societies existed, onerejoicing in the title of 'The Caribbean Legion'. This was no group ofbanner-bearing pensioners, but a small secret gang of assassins, setup by President Trujillo of the Dominican Republic. Its leader, an oldMafia hand, ensured that it followed the structure and motivation ofhis Chicago alma mater, 'Murder Incorporated'. Arms were oftensupplied by the Dominican factory Trujillo had thoughtfully set upby importing a number of Czech technicians from the Bren gunfactory.

The islands that were British, later to form part of the short-livedFederation of the West indies, were never involved with suchnefarious organizations, even though on one occasion an alertimmigration officer apprehended one of its assassins. Thegentleman in question was actually in transit, loosely disguised as anun. It was only the weight of his hold-all that gave him away. Thehelpful officer carried the bag and became curious about thecontents, which turned out to be a Thompson sub-machine gun.

The whole affair gave Latins a rather bad name in Jamaica, so itwas with some misgivings that the head of the Police Special Branchlearnt of the planned state visit by the Governor of Puerto Rico,Senor Munoz Marin.

Vicious though the Caribbean Legion might have been untilits founder, Trujillo, was himself gunned down, few terroristmovements were more deadly and effective than the Puerto RicanNationalists, who were all entitled to US passports and could movefreely in the Caribbean. They were some of the first dissidents tomachine-gun United Nations representatives, attack the UNBuilding in New York and commit suicide there and elsewhere,murdering indiscriminately, as any effective terrorist organization iswont to do.

The Governor of Puerto Rico was an extremely popular figure athome, so naturally had been selected as a prime target by theterrorists. The FBI anti-terrorist squad had received clandestineintelligence to the effect that an assassination attempt would bemade during the Governor's forthcoming visit to Jamaica and theUnited States of America.

The head of the Jamaica Constabulary Special Branch began toplan extensive security measures for the visit. From the start, thechief of the Puerto Rican police announced that he would arrivewell in advance to assist in every way he could. Meanwhile, by wayof openers, he enclosed a thickly-bound wad of known terrorists'profiles. The Jamaican police superintendent was surprised to seethat many of them were extremely attractive women, the remainingmales somewhat nondescript.

The security of an island should, by definition, be relatively easyto establish. But this was not the case when tourism was the mainindustry and Americans, including Puerto Ricans, formed themajority of visitors.

As soon as the Puerto Rican police chief arrived, the head ofSpecial Branch compiled a watch list for circulation at the MontegoBay and Kingston airports where the local Special Branchmaintained a nominal form of travel control.

In answer to the question concerning which nationalists mightbe expected to participate in the planned attack, the Puerto Ricanchief quickly selected a number of females from the book.

"More deadly than the male," he claimed.

"OK, which of the males?" the Jamaican cop asked.

The chief simply shrugged.

"Any of them," he replied.

"Well we cannot distribute a list this long, it will be self-defeating."

The chief shrugged again.

"Tell them to look for small, dark men with big blackmoustaches."

The Head of Special Branch shuddered when he thought aboutthe Commissioner's likely reaction, but since no furtherenlightenment was forthcoming, authorized the circulation of awarning to be entered in the watch list to the effect that all arrivingsmall, dark men with big, black moustaches should be the subject ofclose scrutiny.

All he could do now was hope for the best.

The Governor of Puerto Rico arrived and displayed thesomewhat cavalier approach to security that VIPs all too oftenexpress. The Jamaican superintendent wished he was a rural copback in St Ann not troubling anybody; but no such luck. Time, thelast enemy but one, had taken care of that. He was the Jamaicanchief of security, holder of the special imprest fund, innumerablesecrets and top secrets, keeper of the key to the red leather dispatchbox that was couriered between certain secretive offices, plus manyother privileges. So it was that the cryptic 'All ports' addition to theWatch List included: 'small, dark men with big black moustaches'.The warning list was circulated throughout the island.

The visit proceeded without security problems for the first fewdays: the Puerto Rican Chief of Police and the Jamaican Head ofSpecial Branch began to relax, after all the end was in sight. Thatwas until the telephone call from the sergeant in Montego Bay. whogave the dreaded message:

"A man answering the description..." had arrived on a flightthat afternoon from Puerto Rico via the Dominican Republic. Thesuspect was now under observation in one of the larger touristhotels.

The Superintendent could hardly imagine the Montego Bayconstabulary mingling easily with the crowd at the hotel andforced himself to repress the thought. Instead, he conferred with his Latin colleague, then throwing caution and public funds tothe wind, they rushed to the Palisadoes airport where a charteredaircraft was prepared for instant take off. The Special BranchSergeant, a large individual who wore a perpetual smile along witha huge pair of dark glasses and a filthy trilby in the face of alladversity, met the flight at Montego Bay. The trio hastened to theCasablanca, the hotel where the suspect was being kept underdiscreet surveillance.

As the Superintendent expected, there were four people in thedimly-lit bar, two plainclothes police, a nervous-looking barmanand, yes, a small, dark man with a black moustache, who exactlyanswered the description on the watch list.

The Puerto Rican Chief jerked his head in the general directionof the gentleman's lavatory. The security trio followed to conferamongst the gleaming white bowls and metal cubicles.

"Just the type," the Chief confirmed, busily loading an enormousColt revolver. It was very fortunate that he was the holder of nearlyall the amateur shooting awards in his native Puerto Rico and evensome in the US, because the Jamaican constabulary was a paramilitaryforce, brought up to drill with First World War rifles andbayonets. The Superintendent and his sergeant were not farremoved from this primitive form of aggression and on the whole,the results of the Special Branch's recent practice on the range withsmall arms had been disappointing. A spectacular exception was anincident involving an unfortunate laundry lady at the police training school being struck in the buttock by a stray bullet, eventhough, at the time, she had been bending over behind thedetectives using the range.

Armed and ready, the Superintendent and the Puerto RicanChief of Police sat down one on either side of the man at the bar,while the sergeant, as rank demanded, took his stand behind thesuspect. Gently, the would-be terrorist was lifted off his stool as eachof his elbows was taken. A quick frisk by the sergeant revealed thepresence of a concealed automatic weapon, small but deadly. A lookof profound relief crossed the small man's face. With some pride, heassured the three security men that he was proud to be a member ofthe Puerto Rican Nationalist Movement and he had promised hiscurrent ladylove that he would shoot the Governor.

In no time at all, the would-be assassin was whisked to theairport and put on the first plane out, a Pan American clipper tonowhere in particular, whose senior flight attendant stood at the topof the metal stairwell leading to the aircraft and voiced herobjections to having an instant deportee thrust upon her. Authority,both American and Jamaican, over-ruled her.

"Jeez," she remarked stoically, shifting the gum from one side ofher mouth to the other, "do we get them or do we get them?" Towhich there was no answer.

The Governor's tour of Jamaica was completed without furtherincident, but upon his arrival at Dade County Airport, Miami, hewas quietly escorted away by FBI and secret service guards.

It may have been the Mob, or just pure coincidence, that the firstpassenger from this flight to leave the terminal in the normal waywas met by a burst of enthusiastic but inaccurate machine-gun fire.

Champagne TastesAnd Shiny Boots

THE SCENE AT THE AIRPORT WAS CHAOTIC. There were two strangeaircraft on the runway, both bearing the markings of the Haitian airforce and they had just disgorged their passengers. The first planewas filled with the recently-deposed President of Haiti and hismixed entourage, while a stream of soldiers had poured out of thesecond. Wearing American style steel helmets, and armed to theteeth, the Haitian military were on a war footing. The escortevidently intended to make sure that their former President got themessage loud and clear. It was like a sudden invasion as the soldiersswarmed over the airport with impunity causing fright andconfusion among a crowd of assorted passengers and ground-staff.To make matters worse, they all spoke French. The ex-President ofHaiti, his family, his staff and his ministers, had arrived to acceptpolitical asylum in Jamaica.

It was not the first time Magloire had visited Jamaica. Severalmonths earlier he had been invited as part of the Tercentenarycelebrations: along with other heads of state, including PresidentTubman of Liberia, the Governor of Puerto Rico and a couple ofRoyals. The Queen herself had toured the island. Princess Margarethad enjoyed a holiday while schoolchildren waited for her lining thestreets armed with their Union Jacks, and one of the mostconscientious members of the royal family, Princess Alice, hadofficiated tirelessly as the Chancellor of the then University College.

Princess Margaret attracted the most media coverage, but not tobe outdone, President Magloire was accompanied by thirty assorted members of the Haitian press and presidential photographers.The President was a handsome man and cut a striking figure in hisItalian style uniform. The tunic was dark-brown and covered withappropriate decorations, his breeches light cavalry twill. But it washis boots that outshone everything else, so highly-polished theyseemed as if they housed two bright lights, beacons even, instead ofthe President's stockinged feet.

However, after the ceremonies, the visiting Heads of State hadfared badly. Two were subjected to assassination attempts(unsuccessful) as they returned home. Magloire suffered most of all,ousted after his successor, a small grizzled medical graduate fromMcGill University, Montreal, won an overwhelming majority in anelection. 'Papa Doc' Duvalier had immediate popular backing,including from the military, so Magloire decamped with alacritywith all his tribe, kit and kaboodle.

Notice of the arrival was extremely short: in fact the ex-President's flight was already in the air when the Acting AssistantCommissioner (Crime) was notified by the First Secretary. By thetime the ACP arrived at the airport, the Immigration Inspector hadmanaged to restore some semblance of order, displaying theinitiative that was later to be recognized and carry him onwards andupwards to become Commissioner of Police. Somehow the armedcontingent of the military escort was dissuaded from leaving therunway and reluctantly returned to their aircraft, which soon tookoff. Arrangements were made to accommodate all the family andstaff in the Myrtle Bank Hotel. A Haitian fellow-citizen, who hadintroduced himself to Magloire the previous year during the officialvisit, thoughtfully manoeuvred a local resident into 'offering' hislarge suburban residence for the use of the ex-President and hishousehold.

Uniformed Constabulary guards were posted in the spaciousgrounds to prevent any assassination attempts with a few SpecialBranch officers patrolling in plain clothes, cursing the suddenonslaught of night duty.

A political problem remained to be resolved. The Governor of Jamaica insisted on being assured that the ex-President was notplotting a counter-revolution and charged the police Special Branchwith the task of collecting intelligence on the subject. Theunfortunate Head of Security was given the job. In desperation hebefriended the former Minister of Foreign Affairs, who was a relativeby marriage to the Magloires. The information obtained from thissource enabled him to monitor negotiations to find some countrythat would accept the deposed President. The only one was France.However, the Governor of Jamaica was rather quicker to offertemporary asylum than the Quai d'Orsay was in granting it.

At one stage the Governor had assured Fidel Castro that hewould be welcome in Jamaica if Batista drove him out as the CentralIntelligence Agency had confidently predicted. Actually, it was theother way round. Several boatloads of hastily-retired members ofBatista's secret police and security service arrived in St Ann toreplace the revolutionary' 'Twenty-Sixth of July Movement' refugeesin Jamaica.

Soon after Magloire's arrival, a reputable customs broker rang hisofficial government contact and dutifully reported the arrival ofseveral cases of vintage-quality champagne, to be held in a coolplace pending the unnamed owner's further instructions. It sohappened that the Chief of Operations for Customs and Excise wasa drinking friend of the head of Special Branch, who, at the time,was still Acting Assistant Commissioner (Crime). The airport's airconditioninghad broken down as usual so they were enjoying areview of airport security procedures over a couple of deliciouslycold Red Stripe beers while seated on the observation deck. Theyhad changed the subject when the customs man made a casualremark.

"Are you by chance a wine fancier. Superintendent?"

"Not really, I mean not here; we have yet to get round to winegrowing. But perhaps you're right. Maybe a glass of IslandChardonnay would be acceptable if we could grow grapes in theBlue Mountains beside the coffee."

"No, I'm serious. Someone has shipped in several cases of quality champagne. They are in bonded storage right now. I mean evenKing's House doesn't bring in that many. You should know that,you were an ADC, weren't you?"

The Superintendent closed his eyes and suppressed a shudder.His days as commissioned butler he would prefer to forget. TheCustoms officer continued, "Well, someone is going to claim themsoon, I'm sure. Don't you figure it's the Magloire crowd? They areprobably all champagne sippers."

The police officer nodded and tucked the thought at the back ofhis mind. Bad enough that the Commissioner was already claimingthat he had seen one of the uniformed Constabulary guardssmoking an outsize cigar. "Turning the whole b-b-bloody lot into agang of gang-gang-gangsters," he had intoned wrathlully Now wasit going to be champagne, the Superintendent wondered?

He could just imagine the constable on duty at the entrance toMagloire's driveway holding his smouldering cigar in one hand,raising a flute of bubbling golden liquid in casual salute and smilingbenignly at the police chief one morning. He decided to trace theaffluent owner of the bubbly before it was too late. A brief call to thecustoms broker was sufficient to ensure that as soon as the caseswere collected the owner would be identified.

In due course the call came through. It was indeed a Haitian andhe had ordered delivery to a house in suburban St Andrew. Theacting ACP checked the address and a couple of alien landing cards,then decided to visit and, who knows, perhaps even sample thebrew.

The residence was luxurious and occupied. A uniformed maidled the officer into a cool, tiled sitting-room, sheltered by a spaciousveranda. A wizened black man shook his hand and waved him intoone of the spacious cane chairs. His English was almost accentless.The officer introduced himself as a senior member of the JamaicanConstabulary concerned with security.

"I hope you will forgive the intrusion," he began, "but I believethat you have recendy arrived in Jamaica from Miami and that youare a visitor from Haiti. I would be happy to provide any advice my staff and I can offer during your stay at any time, within reasonof course..." he smiled encouragingly. The small man smiled back.

"I quite understand, Commissioner, being in the same businessmyself so to speak." The Jamaican officer profoundly hoped that thisstatement was an exaggeration, but decided on balance to acceptthe instant promotion. He had heard of law-enforcement methodsin Haiti and even of the new President's TonTon Macoute.

"Until very recently I held the position of Chief of Police in theRepublic of Haiti, an office heavy with responsibilities I can assureyou," the little man continued. "But after the elections..." Here hepaused to make a noise that was a cross between a whistling frogand a steam engine, "Pfflffffwwhhheeeeeeeeeeee!... All Gone...everything!!" The ex-Police Chief gave a good imitation of a Gallicshrug. "It will be replaced by something far worse. Hooliganvigilantes, TonTon Macoute they are known as in my country. Therewill be a reign of terror, the black people will slaughter the mulatto.It will happen. Trust me."

The Jamaican officer smiled back, certain that about the lastthing he would do short of jumping into the gleaming pool outsidewith all his clothes on, was put any trust in his host.

"Then I presume that you would like to restore the formerPresident's regime, wouldn't you?" he asked unsubtly.

The Haitian was saved from answering by the click of high heelson the tiled floor, heralding the arrival of a Mrs or Miss ChampagneLady. The acting ACP stood, his eyes riveted on the newcomer.

"This is Veronica, a very dear friend of mine, Commissioner," theex-Haitian Police Chief smirked, waving his hand vaguely in thebimbo's direction. She sashayed across the room, extending a handdecorated with extremely long, extremely crimson finger nails andquite a few large rings. Her greeting and accent were pure Brooklyn.The officer hid his surprise.

The woman's arrival put a damper on any official conversation.As soon as he could the Jamaican police officer made his excusesand left. But driving down Trafalgar Road, his mind was filled withpossibilities.

Clearly the former Chief of Police would be involved in anycounter-coup. Why else would he be in Kingston with hischampagne tastes, even allowing for the fact that he had theforesight to bring all his creature comforts? How could the SpecialBranch people get close enough to have a constant source ofreasonably active intelligence? It was important that Jamaica didnot become the jumping-off point for some sort of palacerevolution. But how was he going to find out what was going on inthe closed Haitian exile community?

He would have to find a source that was acceptable to the PoliceChief. Obviously this must be a fellow-countryman. Haitians, hemused, who do I know? Of course! He had an inspiration. His mindhad suddenly jumped to the Voodoo priestess, 'Horse-and-Buggy'.(see Police-Can't-Catch-Me-Oil). Perfect, if he could just find her.And he did.

Horse-and-Buggy was proprietress of a small plot of coffeebearingland with a stream running though the lush undergrowthand a barbecue to spread out the beans to dry. The Haitian lady hadearned the price of her deposit on the land and journey intoagrarian respectability under the auspices of the police who hadrewarded her generously for her help as an informant on severaloccasions.

She was neither surprised nor overjoyed when a detectiveinspector visited her early one morning. She was less pleased whenshe learnt of the reason for his visit, but calculated that the moneyoffered for extra constabulary duty would enable her to purchasemore land. So once again the Haitian lady with the strangenickname was able to assist the police with their enquiries.

She mingled easily with the Haitian community, met the onetime Chief of Police and became party to many of the plots,counterplots and schemes. In fact there were so many that the chances of any of them succeeding was negligible, but despite thisHorse-and-Buggy had to suborn the Junoesque Veronica to assisther to expand her clandestine surveillance, at no cost to herself. Thefunds of the Special Branch secret imprest fell to an all-time low.

The head of Special Branch was delighted when he learnt thatthe French had at last agreed to accept the Magloire entourage andthe ex-President had purchased an apartment in central Paris. AFrench liner was due to return home to Europe at the end of aCaribbean cruise and there was one more stop: Jamaica. Travelarrangements were hastily made and together with most of hisentourage the ex-President embarked on the vessel.

Several members of the Jamaica Constabulary escorted the partyon board, including the Head of Special Branch. A magnificentlunch was provided before the ship sailed and afterwards the ex-President made a short speech and awarded the astoundedSuperintendent with some kind of decoration that resembled theVictoria Cross but was more the equivalent of one of the VictorianOrders. Evidently one of the entourage had surrendered his ownmedal complete with a red and navy blue ribbon. Mr Magloire evenapologized for having to present the award 'posthumously'. Theofficer was never too sure how to interpret this remark and neverhad occasion to wear it, even on the right breast of his uniform.

One notable absentee from the party happily sailing intocomfortable exile, was tbe former Chief of Police. He and his ladyboth disappeared via a plane flight to parts unknown.

Free Flight

MANY AIRLINES ARE ADMIRED for their safety record, advertisingskills, including in-flight magazines, cheap package tours, freedomfrom adverse incidents, leg-room provided, the courtesy of theircabin crews or the excellence of their food. Unfortunately, most ofthem are notorious for the opposite reasons. Some carriers areincapable of landing on time, others noted for their outstandingability to misplace luggage.

I could go on forever about airlines I have known, loved and evenhated, but there were some that were always fun. Wardair now sadlydeceased; or Bahamasair, which owned or leased an elderly fleet ofGrumman flying boats that hopped from island to island. They onlylanded if there was a signal that someone was waiting for the flight.Sometimes the Goose or Mallard would land in the sea and pick upthe odd fisherman, who would be paddled out to the plane with thesuggestion that he could pay the balance of the fare with a lobstercatch.

Until recently, only Chalk Air, one of the oldest carriers in theworld, still flew flying boats from Nassau to Florida with passengersand the daily take from the casino. Bahamasair and Air Guyanaalso used Grumman amphibians. Some of these sturdy old birds canstill be chartered in the US Virgin Islands, albeit equipped with newturbo-prop engines. The founder of Cayman Airways, RobbieRoberts, started off with a slow but safe Catalina, but now likeBahamasair, has a 737 jet service to Miami to meet the industry'sfierce competition.

My favourite, however, was BWIA - British West IndianAirways - whose Vanguards and Vikings used to island-hopnorthwards from Trinidad. The airline was known locally as'Beautiful Women In The Air', but to be brutally sexist about it, theground staff were just as pretty as the flight attendants I used totrain in early anti-hijack procedures as part of the Special Branchsecurity role.

BWIA also was charged with carrying the 'diplomatic mail',mostly classified Secret, but occasionally even a Top Secret would beslipped in, sealed with a round, red disk that could not be lifted.These vital documents were mostly carried by what was laughinglycalled 'Safe Hand' but more accurately, in the pilot's trouser or shirtpocket. Sometimes the 'dip' mail was too bulky, in which case thecaptain sat on it while the Vikings skipped between the cumulusclouds from place to place.

That was until the day the honourable British Secretary of State,Mr John Profumo, decided to visit Kingston and Belize, then BritishHonduras. The flights to Belize left early in the morning and turnedright around to start the route from Jamaica to Trinidad, calling atvarious islands en route. Mr Profumo had thoughtfully sent hisspeech in advance to the Governor of British Honduras to vet beforethe opening of the Legislature. But it never arrived. Some BWIAcaptain had left the precious document in his shirt pocket and uponarrival in Trinidad sent it to the wash. The Secretary of State's speechwas thoroughly laundered. As a result, officialdom determined thatthe handling of 'dip' mail should be tightened up, inspections to becarried out by travelling security officers, and most hated of all, asmall safe with a combination lock welded into the bulkhead at theback of the flight deck. On the one occasion I checked out thecontents. I found an odd sock and a cracked coffee mug.

It was on a return flight to Jamaica that I inadvertently becameinvolved in what threatened to be a family crisis. When we landed inGrenada, the baggage bashers had changed gear from theircustomary dead slow to an unappreciated stop. They were on strikeand my friend the station manager was removing the luggage for the few landing passengers by hand himself. Sweating as a result of hisunaccustomed exertions, he managed to grind out throughclenched teeth the suggestion that we should meet in the bar beforetake off. I nodded and wandered through customs and immigrationas only a visiting plain clothes police officer in transit can do.

"That is NOT the man!" she shouted. Unmasked, I slunk awayto the bar and hoped the flight would soon be called, where MissTrinidad and Tobago or possibly, an undeclared Miss St Kitts, wouldgreet my return to the bulkhead window seat I occupied nextto an Indian dentist, who took an unnerving interest in the stateof my teeth.

But it was in the Cayman Islands that I confronted my firsthijackers - three Cuban gunrunners. Castro haters in Cuba hadseveral secret airstrips hidden in the valleys between steepmountains, concealed under the leaves of cassava plants duringthe day. The landing strips also had wire stretched from one sideto the other to prevent unofficial use. The three Latins in questionhad had their aircraft shot up when flying low on the approaches toone such airstrip and their gas tank was punctured. Undismayed,the gunrunners headed for Grand Cayman, glided down, anddespite a buckled landing gear, taxied safely on a deserted beachsomewhere near Duck Pond Cay on the north shore of the island.

They stealthily unloaded the guns and ammunition, hidingthem in the nearby mangrove bushes to the voracious delight of the local mosquitoes which abounded there. The Cubans thencrept to the local Owen Roberts Airport, just outside Georgetown,on a reconnaissance tour. They spotted a small, high wing planebelonging to Cayman Airways and attempted to load their cargointo it before dawn broke. But before the three would-be hijackerscould steal the plane, a patrolling police jeep spotted them andthe trio quietly surrendered.

The policemen's immediate problem was; what to do with theprisoners? No court would be held before Monday, there was onlyone cell at the police station - and that was occupied by a localresident. In addition, the Cubans claimed they did not speakEnglish, but they managed to convey with fervour their opinionthat there was no specific law against hijacking or any legislationenabling us to arrest hijackers, and little evidence of theirintentions.

The police superintendent, a wise and experienced officer,decided to send for help. Help turned out to be the Head of SpecialBranch and his indefatigable sergeant from Montego Bay (heroesof The Man with the Black Moustache), the Cayman Islands at thetime being a dependency of Jamaica.

To compound the problem, the Governor of Jamaica had issuedstrict instructions to the effect that the Cubans would not beallowed to land in Jamaica and no representative of the Cubangovernment would be permitted to land in transit to Cayman. Inview of the fact that all routes to or from Cayman passed throughKingston or Montego Bay, this was to prove an inhibiting factor, theexception being direct flights from Cayman to Florida.

Nevertheless, a sinister man from the Cuban secret service soonarrived in Kingston, complete with gun and diplomatic passport.He demanded to be allowed to travel to Cayman threatening thata serious diplomatic incident would occur. To his surprise, the fewBWIA flights to Georgetown were full, but a diplomatic incidentwas avoided, thanks to my favourite airline's ground hostess staff,who smilingly turned the furious security person away. FortunatelyCayman Airways' sole craft was also out of service at the time.

Meanwhile, back in Cayman, the housing crisis had beentemporarily solved. One prisoner was held in the charge room,another in the CID office and the third, a small, swarthy manwith a nasty scowl, in the Cayman Superintendent's car. Wheninterviewed in any language the trio proved truculent, unwillingto reveal their identities or where the flight had originated. Asearch of their crashed aircraft's log book proved equallyunrewarding, but examination of the firearms and ammunitionclearly indicated their American origin. Assuming the illegalflight might have come from the US, telegrams, fingerprints andphotographs were immediately dispatched to the FBI office inMiami.

Next day, three US officials arrived in a Border Patrol DC 3.Two were officers of the Border Patrol, the other from the FBI.They gladly took custody of the three Cubans who were wantedin Texas for kidnapping, gunrunning and various other inter-stateoffences we were unable to understand. It was alleged that theunsavoury trio had Mafia connections. During an inter-gangdispute they had kidnapped an illegal arms dealer who had failedto come across with the goods after receiving payment. In truththere is no honour among thieves.

The whole affair ended in a sort of anti-climax, except that whenI returned to Kingston there was a long cable addressed to me inSpanish from Fidel Castro himself, but even the translation wastotally incomprehensible.

A Day With 'The Chief'

NO COLLECTION OF TRUE FICTION' about the Caribbean would becomplete without a piece on the founding fathers of Jamaicanindependence, Norman Manley, QC, and Sir Alexander Bustamante.

I got to know Norman Manley from court appearances. We werealways in a sort of adversary situation because he was the defendingcounsel and I the witness for the prosecution. But Manley wasalways courteous to witnesses, treating them to a half smile as heturned away to consult his notes or his junior, his wig barelyconcealing his unfashionably long grey hair. But polite as heinvariably was, his cross-examination could devastate any witness.It was like Filleting a fish to reveal the bones. Half-truths were sweptaside to ascertain the actual facts and separate them fromperceptions for the benefit of a highly-prejudiced jury. If he hadpractised in England, Manley would have undoubtedly risen to theforensic heights of Sir Edward Marshall Hall or William NormanBirkitt. As things turned out, I got to know Sir Alexander, morepopularly known as 'Busta' or 'Chief and leader of the JamaicaLabour Party, much better. At this time he was Leader of theOpposition.

One day Busta phoned the Police Commissioner demandingto see "one of them English officers" whom, he claimed, were notso likely to be infected by the scurrilous propaganda of Manley'sPeople's National Party. Of course the Chief was quite wrong; heknew as well as anybody that the local constabulary in those dayswere pro-JLP for the most part, and by way of balance the Jamaica Defence Force traditionally supported the PNP.

By that time, there were only five expatriate officers left out of atotal of about twenty when I had first arrived in Jamaica, that is ifyou discounted a couple of short-term contract men. So I wasdelegated to go to Busta's home on Tucker Avenue and takenote of his complaints, which concerned the alleged politicalmachinations of the PNP.

The Chief lived in a smallish bungalow in those days. After hebecame Prime Minister of an independent Jamaica, and JamaicaHouse was built, he took up his official residence there: later, he wasto retire to the hills near Irish Town. His longtime aide, secretary andultimately wife, Miss Gladys Longbridge, opened the door andushered me into the dining room where the Chief was just finishinghis breakfast. He invited me to join him with a Red Stripe beer andimmediately got down to facts regarding some by-election that heclaimed was being "mashed up" by the opposition.

If Busta could be described in one word it would probably be'flamboyant'. He was very tall, well over six feet and he had a maneof white hair, the inspiration of cartoonists. During a visit to Britainthe Chief had delighted the media and crowds in the East End ofLondon by wearing a top hat and tails while distributing bananasand advertising Jamaican produce. He was always a crowd-stopperwherever he went, but on the day I am telling you about, he wasrelaxing in a colourful Tower Isle shirt, khaki slacks and sandals.

After I had duly recorded all he wanted me to know about thesinister designs and methods of the PNP, he summoned the ever-preparedMiss Longbridge who entered bearing more Red Stripe, bythen the third or fourth of the morning. Busta waved the glassesaway impatiently.

"Miss Longbridge," he intoned, "bring we the case, not bottles."Both Miss Longbridge and Sir Alexander could speak perfect Englishwith the beautiful soft accents of the islands whenever they wished,but by now the Chief was beginning to use his Jamaicanese. Heprobably wanted to confuse the alien police officer in the same waythat he had asked for an expatriate superintendent with the intention of playing on his ignorance of local politics.

Then the Chief began to give me a version of his life story.Curiously enough it did not begin until he was locked up at theoutbreak of the Second World War, after he was arrested and heldwithout trial under the 18B regulations governing the detainment ofdangerous subversives and aliens in the interests of nationalsecurity.

Busta told me how he had been searched and forced to removehis belt. Deciding that acting out the story was more effective thanmere telling, the future Prime Minister unbuckled his belt."They even took my shoelaces," he continued, removing first oneshoe then the other and unlacing them both with painstakingdeliberation. By then it was early afternoon and the beer had beenflowing from morning.

"They lock me up," the Chief declared, disappearing from theroom and closing the door firmly behind him. I wondered if andwhen he would reappear, but need not have worried. Busta spentonly a few moments before re-emerging to continue the saga.

At some point in the narrative. Miss Longbridge came in with ahuge plate of sandwiches.

And just in time, the case of Red Stripe was empty.

The sun was way down when my driver collected me and by thetime I got back to police HQ it was getting dark. As soon as he sawme, the Assistant Commissioner suggested that I go home. I did,but early next morning I wrote an edited account of the interview,full of police journalese, although I never used words like'proceeding' or 'acting on information' - thank God.

The report went to the Governor who subsequently sent it on to the Ministry of Overseas Development in Whitehall; I'm sureit's still there.

Of course there were many other influential politicians butI believe that Manley and Bustamante set the trend to the extentthat the leader's relative charisma became the major politicalfactor determining the outcome of any election in the Caribbean.Even in Trinidad, the supreme oligarch, Dr Eric Williams, was ableto charm the public with his informal meetings. But enough ofpoliticians, I usually steer clear of them as much as possible.

Eccentrics

Eccentric characters abounded in the rural parishes of Jamaica,especially amongst the plantocracy of St Ann, which was oncedescribed to me as 'semi-feudal'.

One of the estate owners always wore his pyjamas, even when heused a cattle whip on some unfortunate agricultural inspector whocame to check the arsenic in the cattle dip. Another eccentric was anEnglish expatriate of so many years standing that he looked andtalked like a Jamaican. He lived in the bush but was once a researchscientist; he constantly urged the creation of forests and plantationsfilled with trees bearing fruits such as mango, ackee, breadfruit,soursop and so on. His obsession was probably a good idea;however, he was never taken up on it.

I also remember one very elderly resident of a rural part of theparish. She was large, very white from the top of her hair to her largebare feet and had the unmistakable air of command which hasalways been the hallmark of the British upper class.

She used a huge trumpet-shaped earphone made of horn, like acommunication frontier to her own advantage. When she wished tohear, it was screwed firmly into the right ear, but when she did notwant to catch an unfavourable reply, it was determinedly removedand sometimes waved in the air.

She drove a half-truck, the back always filled with large dogs. Onone occasion she descended on the St Ann's Bay police station fromthe hills where she lived in relative isolation. Some of the dogsstayed in the back of the truck, barking furiously at any uniform they happened to see. One would invariably jump over the side andaccompany his mistress into the station, while another, the size andapproximate breed of a Great Dane, would carefully inspect theparking area.

She did not listen to me but turned on bet bare feet and paddedtowards the exit of my office. The large and serious-looking animalthat had accompanied her into the office, glowered at me with itsbaleful sh*t-coloured eyes, then lifted its leg and let fly a hugestream. To add to the insult, it used both rear legs to scratch-up thepolished wooden floor before it turned and strutted out of the opendoor to the parking area.

Subsequently, I had a brainwave, visited her at home andsuggested a shotgun, preferably with a small bore. With it she lookedlike Annie Oakley and it would have been a very brave aggressorwho would face such a formidable victim, not to mention theHounds of Baskerville, who made no secret of their intensedisapproval when I drove up in uniform.

St Ann is a part of the island steeped in early history, particularlyon the coast. Taino artifacts have been found in Seville Estategrounds, and at one time my wife's uncle, who was the medicalofficer, lived there. It was justifiably claimed that he cut out everyappendix except one in the parish before he was transferred toKingston. The sole remaining appendix that had survived hismedical regime, followed him there a year later and was removed ina hospital 'Emergency' ward.

There were many other notable characters, like the Gustos, anelderly retired military doctor, who was highly respected; like theJesuit priest (see God's Gambler), who once brought the famousauthor Graham Greene to St Ann police station to obtain somethingofficial. Greene was staying with the priest while writing The Comedians, his controversial novel set in Haiti. Many years later,when I happened to sit next to Greene in his favourite Antibesrestaurant, I told him that his friend, the priest, had died in Cayman,after surviving a kidnapping and a murder attempt.

Then there was the sporting colonel, who fell off his polo pony atDrax Hall as I was watching the game. He landed on his head. To myindignation, he died next day without recovering consciousnessjust when I was trying to buy his beach cottage.

There were also 'the occasionals', who only came during thewinter and added excitement to the local gay community. During alunch parly, one gentleman came downstairs and squeezed pastthe manager of Barclays Bank with an "Excuse me, darling". Thebanker was so shocked that he dropped a whole plate of fish saladcovered with mayonnaise into his wife's lap.

A former chairman of the late lamented Baring's Bank had ahouse near Ocho Rios, which he sold to the Dockers, reputedly oneof the richest couples in Britain. They never visited the cottage butrelied on the captain of their yacht to tell them all about it.

They don't know who they missed.

God's Gambler

WEST INDIANS LOVE WORSHIPPING GOD almost as much as theylove participating in the law. In the parish of St Ann there was aJesuit: an intellectual and like most of his order, a pragmatist. Therich blood of the Levant mixed with a dash of Portuguese and atouch of illicit Africa flowed in his veins. Father was also a borngambler. His parish fund-raising garden parlies included rouletteand other games of chance, all adroitly hand-made by the priest.Chance, a fine thing, was always on God's side, but as someone oncesaid, "You can tell what God thinks of money by the people to whomHe gives it," so this was obviously coincidental. Father was also fondof his large collection of firearms.

It was a strange twist of irony that the new English policeSuperintendent for the parish of St Ann was Father's nephew-in-lawso it was inevitable that Father would sooner or later request somesort of permit from him. The first of these approaches occurred onemorning, heralded by the scream of tortured tyres as Fatherfuriously drove his Citroen through the narrow streets of St Ann'sBay, scattering dogs and assorted livestock.

The Superintendent's long-suffering office clerk. Corporal Bailey,himself a member of Father's flock, recognized the sound and wasable to warn the officer of the impending visit. (Corporal Baileyoffered his usual sage advice: use extreme caution when dealingwith the zealous Father. Bailey's view was biased by local knowledgeand the experience of the current Superintendent's variouspredecessors.

Parking his car in the station yard, the priest marched into theoffice, his stocky figure clad as usual in his crumpled white linensuit, clerical collar, a white straw trilby pulled right down on hishead. He conferred briefly with Bailey, who quite unnecessarilyannounced the visitor and even went as far as making a formalintroduction to the Superintendent.

Family chit-chat completed and normal pleasantries exchanged,the Superintendent uneasily eyed a large, brown paper package thathis uncle-in-law had deposited on the desk between the 'in' and'out' trays.

The Superintendent closed his eyes before speaking: "I hope thatthis firearm is something you were given or came across recentlyand now wish to turn in. How many guns have you got now?I forget."

Father, never one to take a hint and totally unabashed, produceda completed licence application form, although one or two sectionsrelating to the Mauser's origin had tactfully been left blank.

"I wonder if you could just sign this form," he suggested mildly.After an hour of altercation, the form remained unsigned andFather left in a huff. The Mauser, a gift from an anonymousparishioner was added to the police armoury collection ofunlicensed firearms and was much admired by the constable incharge.

But it was in Runaway Bay, part of his parish, that Father bothtriumphed and nearly met his nemesis.

Runaway Bay boasted a police station, several churches ofvarying sizes and denominations, a village shop, some stragglyhouses and not much else in those days, except a superb convertedstone warehouse, the winter home of an expatriate lawyer and hisfriend, a long-term companion. The owner was seldom in residence, being otherwise fully-occupied in assorted foreign butexpensive litigation. He relied on the local staff, a maid, a gardenboy and a part-time lady cleaner, to maintain the place.

For a year or so all was well, the arrangement worked, but onetropic moonlight night, the maid, Gloria, lay in her quarters, beinggradually lulled to sleep by the soft splash of waves on the nearbyreef. She gradually dozed off, after a long day of 'co*cking up foot'in Jamaicanese, or more grammatically, exhausting inactivity.Suddenly she was awakened by a thump on the roof. Fully alert, shelistened again. Another thump, followed by two more. She jumpedout of her bed and ran outside shouting loudly:

"Who that?"

There was no answer so she returned to her bed promisingherself to discuss this mystery with her friend, the Runaway Baypolice 'Corpie' the next day. But when she wandered round to thestation she was disappointed to learn from the district constablethat the corporal had taken the forage horse to inspect some distantspirit licence premises situated in his domain. The DC was a part-timepoliceman and local stalwart. but not one Gloria felt able toconfide in.

The next night she lay awake, listening. Sure enough, the thumpswere repeated for even longer. A quick check outside in the light ofa nearly full moon that threw moonbeams between the coconuttrees and turned the rough crabgrass a delicate silver, revealed onlythe shingled roof. The many night noises, crickets competing withthe whistling frogs, continued uninterrupted. It must be a duppy,the maid thought, or even worse, a Rolling Calf, the sight of whichsignals impending death!

"No good talking to Corpie now," Gloria thought. "Better I talk tothe obeahman in Watt Town." But her second thought was: "It far an'him expensive!"

Then the solution to her dilemma came to her.

"Father! Him can't charge me. It a good t'ing me a regular at himchurch."

So next day Gloria took the bus up the hill to Brown's Town, the nearby market centre, then walked the rest of the way along thedusty, red road to the rectory, where indeed she had parted withsome of her savings, gambling at Father's last garden party. Now atleast, she figured, she would get some value back. As she turned intothe gate the priest arrived in his dusty, old silver Citroen, nearlykilling her in his own driveway. Hot and sweaty, and still in hisoff-duty papal uniform - white suit and hat - Father berated Gloriafor blocking the way. After he had finished, he calmed down andgave her a cup of tea while she poured out the whole story.

"And don't it full moon tonight, Father? Duppy come for sure,"she concluded.

"All right, my love," Father replied, rising nobly to the occasion,"You don't worry. I come to the bay tonight and check it out. But youdon't discuss this with anyone, understand? Or God may punishyou. And don't think I won't know after next confession."

Actually, Gloria attended all the churches, including the SeventhDay Adventist, because she enjoyed the singing, the company andsometimes even the drama of the sermons, especially Father'sdescription of hell, but otherwise she favoured no preacher manand had never been to confession in her life.

"Oh, yes, Father," she said, "It all right, me no tell no one. Duppygoing hear it too."

Greatly relieved, Gloria returned home.

It was after ten the same night when Father arrived on foot at theconverted stone warehouse, having thoughtfully parked his carbehind the police station. He carried a loaded twelve boreshotgun - not for him holy water to exorcise duppies. Still, hereflected, as he crept stealthily through the bush towards the oldstone building, now bathed in soft moonlight and occasionallyobscured by a passing cloud, anyone might be forgiven for believingthe two hundred-year-old building was haunted by the ghosts oflong dead slaves who had laboured there under such grimconditions.

Getting closer. Father crouched behind a tall coconut tree whoseleaves swayed high above him, rustling in the soft 'undertaker' breeze that blows down from the hills at night, chasing away itscounterpart, the 'doctor' breeze that caresses each new day from thesea as regularly as, or perhaps instead of, the tides that are not sodramatic in the Caribbean.

Father crept through the hibiscus bushes that abounded close tothe house, gradually making his way to the back. Rounding thecorner, he kept going towards the sea then sharply bore to his left sothat he could observe the back door to the kitchen. Nothinghappened for a moment or two. Then suddenly a figure rose fromthe long grass, an arm was seen to draw back and a large piece ofrock landed on the roof.

Father fired his shot gun once in the air.

"Hold it man," he commanded, "Take one step, you Dead!"

"NO!" cried a quavering voice, which belonged to the raggedfigure who quickly raised his hands in the air.

Father crept up behind the unmasked duppy, calling for Gloria tocome out but also taking the precaution of pressing the shotgun inthe small of the intruder's back.

When Gloria arrived, she screamed, not in alarm but rage. Thepriest interrupted her.

"You know this man? He's a trespasser you know, so don't tell alie."

"Him no trespasser," she replied, shaking with righteousindignation. "Him Horatio, the garden boy."

Father lowered the gun.

"What happen man?" he asked. The truth came tumbling out.Horatio was a city person and knew full well how superstitiouscountry folk were. IHe had found a new lady love in Runaway Bayand had decided that if he could scare Gloria away, his paramourcould replace her. They planned to move in and save themselvestime and expense looking for alternative accommodation. As simple as that. So it was the proverbial 'dog' that died. The gardenboy was replaced by the local cleaner's young son, Ezekiah, whileHoratio and his pregnant girl friend moved on westwards towardsMontego Bay.

Father went home, pleased that he had solved the problemand had found a use for some of his armoury other than shootingpea doves.

The Road to Hell

THE OTHER DAY I held the door of my Ottawa bank open for an oldlady who was slowly picking her way crabwise through the pouringspring rain. Taking her time, she splashed through the puddles andeventually reached the entrance. She regarded me speculatively.

"Thank you very much," she wheezed, "but this is not my bankand I was not going in. I suppose I'll have to now!"

As I released the door handle, my memory whisked methousands of miles away, to a sun-drenched Kingston street and apoliceman in white tunic and helmet courteously helping a would bebandit to park his getaway car outside the main branch of theRoyal Bank. I was reminded of the old adage, 'The road to hell ispaved with good intentions'.

Indeed it was for Charlie.

A born salesman, it was widely acknowledged throughoutJamaica that Charlie could sell sand to fishermen who live on theshore, make a profit by selling the barman a drink he had justserved, and above all sell insurance. Charlie was the star salesmanfor the British American Insurance Company, an institution thatwas widely acknowledged as a leader of the industry in theCaribbean.

Part of Charlie's success was due to his tendency to empathizewith everyone and everything, no matter what the cost. Early onemorning Charlie saw a shaggy old dog dragging itself home afterwhat must have been a hard night comforting lady dogs all over thecity of Kingston. Charlie led an active sex life himself and at once he was moved to compassion. The dog paused, sniffing a variety ofaromatic garbage at the base of an interesting tree, with the air of awine connoisseur sampling a rare vintage. Charlie went over andpatted the top of its shaggy grey head: the dog looked up irritablythen bit him. The ungrateful animal started to turn away thenchanged its mind. The beast wheeled tightly to get in position withhis back to Charlie, then lifting a hairy leg, let fly a trickle of evilsmelling urine, which left a pale yellow stain on Charlie's newseersucker trousers.

Undismayed, Charlie continued his ill-advised attempts to makelife easier, happier and more insurable for everyone and everythinghe met.

"All right. Come, man," he urged, waving her backenthusiastically then rushing to the front of the car to beckon heron. The huge car crept cautiously backwards, forwards, backwardsagain and forward again. In full control, never once did Charlieallow the Cadillac's chrome bumpers to even kiss its inferiorneighbours. A crowd gathered, applauding and offering advice,peering at the limited space and consulting among themselves.

The plump lady turned the steering wheel as though she wasdrilling for oil. The sweat poured in rivulets down her cheeks leavinga narrow trench of mascara over the heavy plum-coloured rouge.The imitation flowers on her hat waved as though experiencing asevere storm. The lady's jowls shook with the exertion as she swivelled and twisted violently, controlling the contortions of thegiant under her command.

At last, Charlie stepped back, his face wreathed in smiles asthough he had just sold her a million dollar double indemnitypolicy.

The crowd applauded, Charlie beamed even more and gavethem the benefit of a slight bow. Like an evangelist who has justmade a significant conversion, Charlie addressed the driver: "Thereyou are, man. You can park here indefinitely, I shouldn't wonder."He smiled triumphantly at an interested traffic policeman, whohad dismounted from his motorcycle and, sinister notebook inhand, joined the spectators. For some reason he stood directlyunder the 'NO PARKING' sign.

The woman's face was suffused with rage. She seemed either onthe verge of apoplexy or was about to explode. Her ring glinted asshe pointed a fat forefinger at her guide. The finger was tipped witha long nail, varnished a shade of pink that matched the car'scoachwork. For a moment the lady driver had some difficultyspeaking.

"But massa," she finally managed to splutter, "Is why you pul mehere? I DON'T WANT TO PARK!" She gasped for air, gesticulatingwildly towards the traffic policeman. "I want to go! Now look there.The police come already!!!''

At that point the motor cycle cop handed her a ticket with aflourish that was all official.

The Power of the Press

'RAS" IS THE OLD ETHIOPIAN Title Prince, but one of the originaldreadlocks, long before the days of Bob Marley, adopted the lattername instead of the common-or-garden one he was given at birth.In the fifties, the Jamaican media seldom lost an opportunity topublicize the eccentric. The Rastafarian Movement in general andPrince in particular, always provided good copy for the two leadingdailies, especially The Star, whose edition came on the streets everyafternoon and then as now, enjoyed a wide circulation.

This story is about a rasta and the influence of the press on someaspects of Jamaican life.

Often when the House of Representatives was in session. Princewould wander down the street which was closed to traffic, andpresent himself at the police post that controlled the entrance toJamaica's parliament. There he would spend hours airing his viewson political philosophy with the long-suffering sergeant - theuniformed representative of 'Babylon'. Sometimes Prince would be fortunate enough to meet the sergeant's immediate superior, ajunior assistant superintendent, coincidentally a graduate ofpolitical science from some far distant and alien university. With thepatience of Job, Prince would expound his Peace and Love theoriesin a confused kind of way, often quoting lesser-known texts of theOld Testament. Occasionally during the course of his peroration,Prince would become quite excited and wave his long staff in the air,a light froth forming round his mouth.

But Prince was really quite harmless and no threat to the peacehimself. The trouble was that his incoherent rambling attracted acrowd of Rastas, their minds addled by spending more timesmoking ganja than eating. At one of these rallies the Rastafariansdecided they would march: their route, timing and destinationdelightfully unplanned; the purpose unclear. What was clear,however, was that permission was required from the Commissionerof Police to hold a public demonstration. The police do not likemarches, marchers or demonstrations, particularly those downbusy streets during peak shopping hours, traffic was certain to besnarled beyond redemption and angry protests from every anglewould plague the overworked, undermanned traffic department.

So on this occasion permission was refused and confirmed in along, printed and totally incomprehensible form. Prince took therejection lightly. He saw it as typical of Babylon: the children ofJudah would ignore it and exercise their God-given right to freedom.

Prince expressed this view to the short, tubby reporter from TheStar who took the stub of a pencil from behind his ear and wrotedown a complete quotation, which appeared under a carefullyposed, full-length photograph of Prince in that afternoon's edition.

The following day, a Saturday, Prince and some of his followersmarched, in full Rasta regalia, bearing flags, banners andexchanging good-humoured encouragement and insults with thecrowd that idly watched their progress. The police were taken bysurprise, unused to having their authority thwarted so flagrantly, Ateam of a dozen or so constables hastily assembled at Central Station,in full riot gear, steel helmets and gas masks contrasting with their smart blue working uniforms. They scrambled aboard theblack and white half truck, encumbered by the large wicker shieldsthey carried. Once the squad was aboard, the inspector checked thecomplement and, satisfied, thumped on the driver's cabin top. Theydrove through the gates of Central Station and immediately intothe midday traffic melee.

The Rastas' march was slow and leisurely, the ranks of therambling procession gradually swelling with ordinary Jamaicanswho had nothing else to do but watch the world go by and hope forsome action.

Action came at last when Prince's unplanned progress wassuddenly blocked by a line of uniformed Babylon - the police riotsquad. Prince harangued them at length with his usual polemics,but the inspector in charge was in no mood to engage in political orphilosophic exchanges. Prince and half a dozen or so of the other'uniformed' marchers were unceremoniously bundled into thepaddy wagon and carted off to jail, where they were held withoutbail or legal representation for the weekend.

Come Monday morning. Prince and his entourage joined thelong procession crossing Sutton Street which runs between the backof the fort-like Central Police Station and the Magistrates' Court.

Here they mingled with lawyers of all shapes and shades, pettyoffenders, witnesses and litigants, for no nation on earth numbersmore citizens who participate in the law than Jamaica.

Prince rose with great dignity to plead to the charges. He bowedto the judge, the clerk of the court, police and counsel, who were allwaiting on other trials.

"Guilty with explanation. My Honour,'' he announced in his highquavering voice.

The magistrate sighed heavily, the clerk of the court turned andlooked at him, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Yes, yes," snapped His Honour, "let's get on with it or we won'tbe finished in time for the lunch recess." Members of the legalprofession stirred uneasily, exchanging alarmed glances; theirtwelve o'clock break for liquid refreshment in the cool bar of theKingston Cricket Club was seriously jeopardized.

The Bench neither accepted nor rejected Prince's irrelevant pleaof "guilty with explanation". From previous experience the clerk ofthe courts knew there was no point in explaining to Prince that hewas not allowed to qualify any plea, since the Rasta was afreethinker, who did not acknowledge the laws or court proceduresof Babylon. However, the magistrate, a reasonable Englishman witha strong sense of fair play, nodded his consent to hear theexplanation.

With some ceremony. Prince produced an exhibit from beneathhis robe and unfolded the front page of the previous day's Star. I'hebanner headline read:

RASTAS WILL MARCH SATURDAY

"Please, My Honour," Prince intoned, "don't it true dai wise mendem follow de Star?"

There was a moment's silence following this impeccable logic,then an unseemly ripple of mirth ran through the court. TheMagistrate pounded on his raised desk top irritably.

"I find you guilty of all charges - you are bound over to keep thepeace. Admonished and discharged."

To the sound of ragged cheers, the Rasta team left the courtroom,streamed down the broad stairs and straggled out into the street,going their way and rejoicing in the power of the press.

Taffy

Everyone in St. Ann's Bay knew him as 'Taffy' and for all practicalpurposes he did not have another name. He might be Evans, Daviesor more likely Morgan, but Taffy disavowed all surnames, so eventhe local police had officially listed him in both the charge book andmagistrate's court record as 'Taffy'. He could not say when or wherehe was born, although it was probably in some remote part of theparish.

Taffy was very skinny, with sparse hair on his head and his gauntchin. He was hollow-eyed and had evidently suffered from chronicunder-nourishment since infancy. The more he ate, the thinner heseemed, but his appearance did not noticeably change much overthe years. He always wore the same old khaki shirt and pants; on hishead there was an ancient navy blue police cap, now rather greasyand no longer bearing the constabulary badge. The only shoes hehad were sandals made from old car tyres. To conserve storagespace and for effective security, Taffy kept on the same clothes, evenwearing the cap when he was sleeping.

Taffy's residence was his own version of a mobile home. Itconsisted of a large box mounted on four small metal trolley wheels.During the day he used it as a form of transport; at night and duringpart of the afternoon it was instantly converted to a bed, into whichTaffy folded himself with more skill than comfort. The bottom waspadded with an old pillow and a spare shirt and pants, carefullyfolded to add more comfort to the owner's skinny bottom. Inaddition, Taffy kept a small store of cigarettes, matches and a clay pipe together with his small change, some soap and personal effectsin a silver tin hidden under his limited wardrobe. The only otheritem was his tool kit, hammer, nails and a screwdriver, all essentialfor the daily maintenance of his trailer home.

Usually Taffy parked at night in the Police Superintendent'sdouble garage. It was dry, close to his casual employment and fromone angle he could enjoy the unrestricted view of a huge guinep treethrough the permanently-open doorway. Sometimes, particularlywhen heavy rain leaked through the rusty corrugated iron roof anddripped onto Taffy, he would move to the other doorway and enjoythe sight of the guango tree which always had a variety of orchidshanging from its limbs.

In return for unofficial residence, periodic meals, liquidrefreshments and the use of the staff toilet and cooking facilities,Taffy did odd jobs, like carrying bags and boxes for the Super and hishousehold. The unspoken arrangement continued even though thepolice officers came and went over the years. Rut the real advantageof the police quarters was their position, half way up the hillimmediately above the St Ann's Bay police station. This meant thatTaffy could wheel his residence into the narrow road and coastdown the slope at breakneck speeds, his feet dangling in front, capat a rakish angle while he leaned back, holding a loop of string thatcontrolled the front steering arrangement.

At the bottom of the hill there was a junction with the main road,but with consummate skill, Taffy would swerve left or right, hisvehicle tilting dangerously as he ran it up a nearby bank to break hisspeed. Taffy would then emerge with some agility from his bed. andwalk slowly round to the entrance of the police parking lot, dragginghis vehicle behind him until he reached his customary parking spotat the foot of the outside staircase leading to the detective's officeon the second floor.

Here Detective Corporal Fitzroy Hinds, the officer in charge ofthe Criminal Investigation Department, was king. On court days heloaded Taffy with exhibits for the day's procedures. Sometimes therewas something larger that had been stored downstairs and Taffy would be instructed to load that separately. Once he had wheeleda whole door to court - evidence in an obscene handwriting case - and another time he carried a mysteriously heavy contraption usedfor printing money made with banana leaves. Taffy was nothing ifnot versatile and he always managed to manoeuvre his cargo ofexhibits safely along Main Street to the old courthouse.

Taffy knew the building and the lower courts only too well. Hehad, on occasion, appeared before the Justice of the Peace forvarious misdemeanours such as disorderly conduct or disturbingthe peace, and been sentenced to a fine of forty shillings. This wasan astronomical figure that equated with ten days in the local lockup.Taffy always opted for the lock-up: after all, it was free board andlodging, his vehicle/residence was safely impounded and the workwas the same without actual pay. At 8 a.m. every weekday, he and anelderly district constable climbed the hill to the Superintendent'squarters. The maid would let them sit in the kitchen and enjoy somebread and sugar, washed down with a brew of strong tea. Later Taffywould slowly dig or weed the garden, chat to the children andNanny, and sometimes offer his tattered khaki trousers to thewasher-lady to be laundered and pressed, while the districtconstable snoozed rather noisily throughout the morning. Theywould report back at the station for lunch, which Taffy ate sitting onthe step outside the three cells, chatting to the other inmates if therewere any, then he would tidy things up around the station yard inthe afternoon.

Whenever Taffy was a short-term prisoner, it was not consideredappropriate to allow him to transport the exhibits, although at anyother time he was solely responsible for them all, wheeling them to the bottom of the courthouse steps, even important exhibitsdestined to be produced before the superior judge, who wore a wigand a crimson gown.

On those special occasions Taffy pushed his squeaking barrowbehind the police guard of honour drawn up in full dress awaitinginspection. Down at the police station, Corporal Hinds, wearing hisbest suit and cricket club tie in preparation for one of his days incourt, always took time to emphasize the importance of the event toTaffy:

"Listen nuh, Taffy. You doan be around when de judge come orI kick your arse. Don't make the place look untidy. Right man?''

"Hit hall right, Corpie," Taffy would reply. "Me gone like hall detime."

Taffy would load the exhibits as quickly as possible, aided by acouple of detective constables. Picking up the rope he would leanforward and pull his contraption up the slope towards thecourthouse accompanied by the two detectives, while CorporalHinds drove there in his ancient American car. He would personallysupervise the safe arrival of the exhibits and ensure that they wereunloaded and laid out in various courtrooms before the paradebegan. The assembled constabulary guard of honour was called toattention by the Superintendent, smartly turned out for the paradein full dress with sword, crossbelt and spiked helmet, his white tunicstiff as a board, with the distinctive red striped navy baratheatrousers, a uniform worn throughout the British West Indianislands.

Never once had Taffy been anywhere in sight to mar the dignityof the parade when the judge arrived to be greeted by the seniorJustice of the Peace - the Honorable Custos - who was the Queen'srepresentative. After it was all over and the judge had disappearedwith the Custos to share a sociable scotch or gin and tonic. Taffywith the help of the detectives would load his vehicle with thecarefully labelled exhibits and convey them safely back to thestation where they would remain, pending appeals.

In between such onerous duties Taffy would hang around gossiping and running his transport business from the policecompound. The entrance to the car park was reached from a sidelane on which stood a very busy rum shop, one of the leading socialcentres of the town. Taffy would often cross the road and sit near thebar just to hear the news and add his ill-informed opinions to theheated political debates that continuously raged there. For Taffy itwas a second home. Sometimes he even had enough money to buya drink or two and occasionally somebody treated him.

So it was almost routine one day when Taffy shambled out of theopen gate, crossed over the narrow lane to the bar and foldedhimself onto one of the uncomfortable metal chairs just inside theopen entrance. He did not notice the sudden hush that fell over thecrowd round the bar or that he had become the unaccustomedfocus of attention. What Taffy did observe was a plump brown manwearing a tight-fitting striped suit that was only eclipsed by a tieresembling the result of a violent traffic accident. Obviously he wasa Kingston person and probably the owner of the elderly silverPontiac convertible Taffy had observed parked outside.

"Taffy, man, wha 'appen?" Taffy was unaccustomed to suchimmediate greeting by the barman who usually ignored him.

The city man leaned forward and pushed his dark glasses highon his sweaty forehead to better inspect the rumpled khaki cladcreature seated in front of him. He removed a long and slightly bentcigar from his mouth.

"So-o-o," the city person said in a meaningful way, so that Taffy'seyes bulged a little more than usual. "So-o-o - you are Taffy, right?"

Taffy nodded.

The barman indicated the city person with a nod of his head."This is Mr George Day from de big rum company. You must listento him wid respec."

Taffy rose, bowed and sank ungracefully back onto the chair.

"Taffy man, I wonder if you are a sportin' man, for if so..." thespeaker paused dramatically, "this is your lucky day."

The salesperson took Taffy's grin for full agreement. "I going togive you the chance to win a whole bottle for free," he announced, holding up a full bottle of white proof rum for general inspection."All you have to do is drink this glass full without a pause. Right?"

Taffy nodded his head as the barman carefully measured out afull glass of colourless proof spirit and placed it on the table in frontof him. Taffy looked round uncertainly, saw the jeering faces andmade up his mind. Raising the glass to his lips he downed thecontents without a pause, to the round of applause.

But as Taffy drained the last drops he tilted his head back, hiswhole body tipped backwards, and he fell from his chair on to theedge of the road, unconscious.

Across the road the Police Superintendent was exchanginggossip with the local Medical Officer. Hearing a commotion heglanced out of the window to see Taffy stretched out on thesidewalk, and a small crowd rapidly gathering round.

"Oh sh*t," the Superintendent gasped, "Taffy's down."

Both the doctor and the Superintendent ran out of the office,followed by Corporal Walcott and Sergeant Bailey followed by thetwo office clerks.

The Medical Officer knelt beside Taffy's inert form.

"OK, keep him here while I get my car," he ordered, straighteningup and loping across the road to his black Jaguar.

Minutes later, Taffy was propped in the back seat - a moment ofluxury unprecedented in his life. Ten minutes later he was inEmergency having a stomach pump applied.

Later, waking up between unaccustomed sheets in a clean bed,Taffy's eyes fluttered open.

"Why you do a stupid thing like that, man?" the Sister enquired.

"I have no money a pay so-o-o..." Taffy sighed as his lidsfluttered down over bloodshot eyes for the last time and his spiritslipped away from the frail undernourished body. His liver could nolonger keep up with the unequal struggle with alcohol, or his lungswith the poisonous trickle of tobacco. The coroner had no troubledetermining that "the man known as Taffy' had died as the result ofacute alcoholic poisoning".

The problem was how to complete the court records for a man with no known date of birth or full name. In the end the simplegravestone just bore the name 'Taffy'.

From that time onwards, the smart green police Land Rover tookthe exhibits to court. But hanging from a nail in Detective CorporalFitzroy Hinds's exhibits cupboard was a battered plain blue policecap, now with a silver constabulary badge attached. It proudly borethe name 'Taffy'.

Larceny in His Soul

PEOPLE STEAL FOR MANY REASONS, some do not respect the socialcontract regarding property: some do it to get equal, others to getrich or to get even. Not Leonard: he simply had larceny in his soul.

As soon as he was old enough to run, Leonard began a career ofpraedial larceny. He stole guineps initially and sold them to theother children who attended his rural school. Soon he was intobananas, citrus, breadfruit; you name it, he stole it. Thievingbecame his hobby, his profession, his lifelong obsession.

In his early teens he left the village of Bamboo, where he hadexhausted the patience of local smallholders and farmers. Movingto the coast he worked at night, stealing whatever he could sell orbarter. Soon he took to coconuts. Later, he began to specialize in thebright green parrots and parakeets, but also had to keep himself andhis catch in food, which he stole. Leonard's black market in birdsbecame famous throughout the island, even catching the attentionof a US customs officer in Miami.

Summoning his overseer by loudly and repeatedly blowing hiscar horn, he waited at the foot of the tree until the man arrived, thenleft him, shotgun in hand, to guard the tree. The owner swung hisWolseley round and with a shriek of tyres, swished off towards theRunaway Bay police station, soon to return with the local law enforcer.

The police corporal was a firm believer in the right of property,owning a small piece of land himself in the next parish. His stationwas the recipient of goodwill from the properly owner in the form offavours that helped with such important local affairs as the policecricket match followed by Detective Corporal Fitzroy Hinds'sfamous curried goat. The estate also provided the rum for Hinds'shighly-regarded rum punch.

The police corporal ordered Leonard to come down off the tree.No movement. He watched while the landowner loaded his twelvebore and peppered Leonard's backside. Still no movement.

"Goddammit!" exclaimed the trees' lawful owner. "Cut down thef*cking tree. Corporal!" The overseer sent off for an axe, and thepoliceman chopped down the tree and arrested Leonard, who laygroaning on the ground, three ribs broken from his fall and hislacerated buttocks bleeding. He was escorted to the police LandRover and, still wearing handcuffs, taken to the St Ann's Bay Hospitalwhere he was admitted.

When he recovered from shock, his ribs were tightly-bound andhe was able to sit up using a rubber ring to ease the pressure on hissore bottom. That day Leonard had a visitor, Detective CorporalFitzroy Hinds, the head of the St Ann Criminal InvestigationDepartment.

Hinds replaced his battered trilby hat on his head and clamped ahuge curved Danish pipe in his mouth as soon as the ward sister left.

"Now Leonard man, me know you is a miserable tief but Supertreatin' you good," the detective began. "Me, I wud kick your arsebut him think different so..." Hinds shook his head in despair orbewilderment. He took his pipe out and examined it with the criticaleye of a connoisseur. Apparently satisfied, he began the whole refillceremony, taking his time as all real pipe smokers do. He glancedfurtively round the ward to make sure authority was absent, appliedthe wavering flame to his pipe bowl and stomped down the dross.After puffing a cloud of noxious but satisfying fumes into thedisinfected air, the detective crept to the window and threw out theincriminating match, peering suspiciously left and right as he did soin case any of the staff were watching. Satisfied, Hinds returned tosit beside Leonard's bed, opened his briefcase and extracted severalsheets of legal-size Constabulary notepaper.

"So even tho' you is a teefin' rass clott, me goin' to take astatement from you, an doan bother wid no bullsh*t, man." he toldLeonard.

"But Missah Hinds sah...me, Ah never do nuttin, han...han nowme sick so."

Though it was the first time he had been actually caught,Leonard was well-known to the police throughout the parish.

Hinds looked at him pityingly, but said nothing. Rashly, Leonardcontinued to protest his innocence, his case based on the fact thathe had no stolen property on him when he fell with the tree. He triedsuggesting that he had only been practising night climbing, andwas, at worst, a trespasser.

The detective took no notice, formally cautioned Leonard, thenexplained that the Runaway Bay corporal and the estate owner, whowas also a justice of the peace, had been charged with 'assault withintent to inflict grievous bodily harm'.

Leonard's initial surprise and delight were somewhat marred bythe fact that their conviction would probably require an admissionof guilt on his part. But in his obscure way, Leonard confessed to intent if not implementation of larceny. Corporal Hinds wrote it alldown in a laborious longhand, breathing hard, his pipe clenchedbetween his teeth.

Nature and the law both took their course. Bones mended,Leonard was discharged from hospital into police custody. Helearned that the charges against the estate owner and the policecorporal had been referred to the magistrate's court. Leonard wastried for a misdemeanour by a Justice of the Peace and afterpleading guilty 'with explanation' received a sentence of ten daysto be spent in the local lock-up.

The St Ann's Bay lock-up was a rather exclusive club. To becomea member one had to be found guilty of a misdemeanour andsentenced to ten days incarceration, no more, no less. There was noattempt at rehabilitation, free food was provided, usually purchasedfrom a local restaurant but occasionally cooked by female inmatesover the wood stove in the police recreation room. The cells weredry and well-equipped with comfortable straw pallets and there wasrecreation in the form of dominoes, draughts and some off-coursebetting. The baby-sitting was provided by Radio Jamaica Rediffusionand the 'labour' consisted of mild weeding or planting of variousgardens under the far from watchful eyes of a district constable.

It was during this period of recreational rehabilitation thatLeonard came to the attention of the young Police Superintendentwho allowed him to work under supervision in the gardens at thepolice quarters. When Leonard finished his ten-day sentence hetransferred to the quarters to be trained as a butler, with thepossibility of diversifying to cook, barman or housekeeper.

The Superintendent's wife, in her local wisdom, really knewbetter, but she was always hopeful and agreed to teach Leonard allthe niceties of domestic service, without being servile. After all attwenty years old, how can you fail? And even Leonard had yet toleave his teens. A full career stretched before him as he squeezedinto the discarded white uniform jackets that nearly choked him ifhe tried to fasten the high collar. He wore black trousers but bymutual consent, no attempt was made to accommodate the broad flat feet that had never been encased in shoes of any sort.

To give him his due Leonard did try. The problem was thatalthough he was an apt pupil by day, at night his larcenous soul tookover. He closely observed the comings and goings of theSuperintendent's friends, and assessed their worth.

Looking back, it now seems inevitable that he should haveresumed his life of crime. Since the local Barclays Bank managerand his wife were frequent visitors to the Super's house, perhaps itwas also inevitable that Leonard should have selected them ashis next victims. So it was that while still working for thePolice Superintendent, Leonard graduated from parrot-snatchingto burglary and when he was caught, the Super was suitablymortified.

Crocodile Tears

THE POOR FISHING VlLLAGE in the parish of St Elizabeth whereSusan was born was so small it was hardly worthy of a name. Therewas neither school nor church, only a small rum shop.

Susan's mother, Adassa Meikle, had twelve children by at leastthree, and possibly four, different fathers: her social security plan.Susan's father was probably a policeman hut Adassa was not reallysure. It was true, she agreed with her friends, that she had romancedone night with a motor cycle police who had visited the village inpursuit of the one and only vehicle owner, guilty of some minortraffic infringement. The fact that this man happened to be Adassa'scurrent paramour and father of several of her children may haveinfluenced events. By way of a favour to him, Adassa hadentertained the 'cool skin' law enforcer while he waited for the manhe came to see. They never met because the truck owner wasinexplicably delayed out fishing until the policeman had left.

The only evidence of paternity available was physical, for Susan'sskin was pale and she had those strange eyes that seemed to glowgolden in certain lights. By the time Susan was thirteen she was veryconscious of the fact that she was different from her brothers andsisters. Unlike them, her features were Asian rather than African, herhair thick and shoulder length. She was already tall and slender andthe more she matured, her figure filling out, the less like them shebecame.

Susan never felt that she fitted in and to make matters worse shedid not have a nice nature, being vain, lazy and facety. So when a distant aunt visited one Boxing Day, Susan's mother hastened toextol the non-existent virtues of her daughter. The aunt agreed thatSusan was certainly very pretty and smart for her age and toeveryone's surprise and enormous relief agreed to take the girlunder her wing. Now this aunt held the post of housekeeper to awealthy absentee landlord, the owner of a large mansion inReading, outside Montego Bay. The owner and his family onlyvisited for a month or so each year, but maintained a full householdof staff under Aunty's strict command. Susan could come to Readingwith her. Aunty decided, and be an assistant to the nanny.

So it was that Susan excitedly packed her few belongings in acheap cardboard suitcase and climbed into the shiny but agedStudebaker that belonged to Aunty's gentleman friend, a cigarsmoking off-duty butler wearing an amazing three piece suitdonated by his employer and a white Panama hat decorated with asober black band. With a powerful roar illustrated by a puff of blacksmoke, the highly-polished old car took off with Susan seated in theback seat for her ride to the rest of the world. She never looked backat the village as they rattled their way along the dirt road hedgedwith rough grass, bush and cactus.

At first Susan was overawed by the splendours that surroundedher at the villa, by the pool and patio, the extensive garden and eventhe view of a distant sea. But gradually the novelty wore off to bereplaced by her habitual boredom. There were no children to lookafter, the staff squabbled and played politics amongst themselvesand there was nowhere to go. Her nasty nature had also becomeapparent to all. So when the owner returned for his annual visit,complete with children and new wife, there was a distinct sense ofrelief that now they would all have something to do, includingthe intractable Susan.

To everyone's surprise, the newly acquired third wife took toSusan. A teenager herself, Wife Three was some kind of Hollywoodstarlet and she adopted Susan as a lady's maid and companion,teaching the teenager how to use make up, walk, dress and even usea knife and fork properly. She gave her barely-used dresses and accessories and took her to the beaches and hotels in Montego Bay,Then suddenly the halcyon days were over. The husband had aviolent row with Wife Three. Still in a tantrum, she left the followingmorning carrying a vanity case and draft letter of intent aboutdivorce and suggested alimony. She boarded the first available PanAm flight to the States without any luggage, in a fit of pique havinggiven to Susan all her designer dresses and hats, custom-madeItalian shoes, accessories, underwear, and the suitcases she hadbrought them in. Shortly afterwards, the husband put the place upfor sale and left the island, never to return.

Aunty found herself a new position as staff supervisor at a hoteland Susan a job as a waitress there. Being a hotel waitress was adistinct come-down for Susan, so she sought distraction and soonfound it by flirting with one of the guests, a plump Americaninsurance salesman, who assured his wife that he was off toKingston for a couple of days on 'company' business. The wife neverknew the company was Susan.

But the new waitress was to get her come-uppance when shecame back to the hotel after an absence of three working days.Learning of the prodigal's return, Aunty hurried to confront Susan,who showed no sign of contrition, merely pouting and kissing herteeth. Aunty grabbed the girl by the arm and spun her round on thehigh heels which Wife Three always favoured, ordering her to packher things and return to her mother. To make sure, Susan wasescorted to the country bus by Aunty's gentleman friend who, as hepicked up the expensive suitcases inherited from Wife Three, had tosmile wryly as he recalled the cardboard suitcase Susan had startedout with just over a year ago.

The driver started the old diesel engine and the bus left theterminus in a cloud of exhaust and dust. Inside, Susan percheduncomfortably on the cracked plastic seat, tried to decide how bestto explain her return to her mother especially since she had neverbothered to send her so much as a postcard.

As expected, Susan's return was met with alarm anddespondency but there was plenty of room in the house, several older brothers and sisters having left. Adassa now lived withJeremiah, a stranger to the village. Susan found a job in the villagerum shop and things seemed to settle back to normal.

But gradually Adassa became aware of something not beingright, her friends fell silent at her approach then quickly meltedaway. Her puzzlement turned to suspicion when she noticed howSusan fluttered her eyelashes at Jeremiah.

"I think she paint her face for he," Adassa told herself and someof her more intimate friends. One day she returned home early,hoping or dreading to surprise them both. Her bare feet making nosound, she opened the front door and crept silently to the room atthe back. Before she could reach the door, a board creaked andAdassa rushed forward, all pretence at stealth abandoned. But shewas too late. She flung open the bedroom door, to find the roomempty but her daughter's panties forming a guilty silk puddle besidethe rumpled bed. Adassa rushed to the open jalousie window, a faintbreeze stirring the print curtains. She peered into the brightsunlight. Outside, nothing. Or was that a shadow? With a grunt ofrage Adassa grabbed a bamboo switch.

Meanwhile, Susan and Jeremiah crouched against the wall, outof sight below the window. Susan, quite naked but for her suedeFerragamo court shoes, clasped her dress to her bare breasts, whileJeremiah was wearing a garish T-shirt, sandals, a pair of dirty whitesocks and holding his trousers in his hand. Jeremiah decided to takehis chance and made a run for the nearby bushes, leaving the girl tofend for herself. Trembling with fear, Susan crept round the side ofthe house, hugging the wall till she reached her bedroom window.She was just climbing through it when, without warning shereceived a stinging blow to her bare buttocks. She shrieked in painand surprise as one of her ankles was grabbed and she was hauledbackwards. Her feet hit the ground and she whirled round to faceher outraged parent. Beside herself with rage, Adassa beat Susanunmercifully until, her rage abated, she flung down the stick andstrode off, leaving the sobbing girl sprawled face down on theground.

Despite this confrontation, life went on. Jeremiah hadsuccessfully hidden under the dense bush watching Susan beingthrashed. Although he was suspected, he was never accused of anyimproper behaviour. He continued to live with Adassa while Susanstayed on under sufferance, after a tearful promise to behave betterand make an increased contribution to the household.

But things went from bad to worse. In the village, every malehung around the bar and Susan. Now barely sixteen, she flirtedwith them all, wearing expensive make-up and perfume, dressedin Wife Three's fashionable city clothes.

The women of the village, including Adassa, found the situationintolerable and they huddled together and discussed what shouldbe done. Eventually, they decided to seek wiser counsel.

Not far from the village, in the mangrove swamp behind MiddleQuarters lived a very old obeahman, known for his arcane skills.There was no road to Gator's shack, it was easier, and drier, to getthere by boat. He was called 'Gator' because he was known to livewith what were called alligators in Jamaica (though the localcreatures are in fact crocodiles!. He had often been observed talkingto the reptiles with whom he shared the mangrove swamps, but noone had heard them answer back. Gator sometimes earned moneyby guiding visiting sportsmen through the swamps to the pondswhere the migratory ducks parked on their way further south, or bytaking them on 'alligator' hunts. According to Gator, he only pickedout the bad ones that had snatched the odd domestic pet or perhapsan infant or two playing innocently by some swollen pond.

Knowing of Gator's other claim to fame, the village women tookup a collection and drew a straw to select one to seek him in his lairand solicit his advice. It so happened that Adassa was the oneunlucky enough to draw the straw, but after all, everybody said,what goes around comes around. Susan was her daughter so shemust be at least partly responsible. In all fairness, the selection wascompleted without recrimination and Adassa set off.

She had to persuade a fisherman to paddle his canoe through themangrove swamp to the muddy landing place by a rundown wooden hut built on stilts above the dark waters. Gator emerged atthe doorway smoking a clay pipe. He wore an old top hat, hisscrawny limbs clad in a canvas shirt and pants that he had taken afancy to and actually retained after his release from one of his manyprison sentences since he and the authorities frequently disagreedover his philosophy, profession and way of life. All in all, Gator'favoured' Anancy, the legendary spider-man more than a crocodile.Anancy illustrated a boastful triumph of the weak over the strong bythe use of guile, his companions were mostly animals, and Anancytoo always wore a top hat.

Gator unblinkingly regarded his visitor as Adassa nervouslyclimbed out of the canoe and scrambled across the dried mud. Heinvited her into his hut and listened to her story. Then he sat behinda cloud of acrid tobacco smoke and thought about it all.

"Tell me, Missis. You know the girl's father? You ever contacthim?'' he finally asked.

Adassa shook her head.

"I don't know him for sure," she said, "but there is this thing,"And she produced a grubby newspaper cutting from the fountain ofall Jamaican wisdom, the Gleaner, which she handed to Gator,adding, "the photo favour him for true".

Gator unfolded the paper and smoothed out the creases. Undera fuzzy passport-type picture of a man wearing a police cap, was thestory.

"GALLANTRY RECOGNISED," he read out aloud, "Acting CorporalKhouri has been promoted to corporal and recommended toreceive the Queen's Police Medal for Bravery, the highest award forcourage. The gallant officer was off duty from his base in Brown'sTown, St Ann division, when he happened to pass the premises of alocal financial institution. The officer looked through the window,and saw what appeared to be a man gesticulating with a firearm.Quickly reacting to the situation, and without regard for hispersonal safety, A/C Khouri, who was unarmed at the time, pickedup a small rock and stoned the aspiring bandit with deadlyaccuracy. His missile struck the holdup man on the back of his head and felled him instantly, thus enabling the brave officer toeffect the arrest of a would-be robber."

Gator smiled. "You think this police Is the father of the girl - yourdaughter?" he asked.

Adassa nodded and told him of their meeting. Gator chuckled.He put down his pipe and rubbed his hands together. "Lawd, what athing this." he said to himself. "Me can avenge the police them andfix things for this woman at the same time. What a piece of troubleto send him!"

Gator agreed to take the case, discussed terms, collected thedown payment and told his new client to go home and wait. Hewould rid the village of the girl, he said, and teach her a lesson shewould never forget. He instructed Adassa to start talking to herdaughter in the most favourable terms about her father, the heroicCorporal Khouri. Gator would contact her at home in a week, whenhe would also take a look at the girl to 'make sure she ready'.

Before Gator paddled Adassa back to the road in his own canoe,he fumbled under an iron cot that served as bed on top and storeroom below, and produced a survey department large scale map ofthe area. Consuiting with Adassa, he made sure it included correctdetails of the swampy area around her village.

Having set things in motion, Adassa made her way home. Thenext day Gator cycled off to see a friend at the nearest police station.A week later, he arrived on his bicycle at Adassa's house. Susan wasotherwise engaged at the rum shop, as he knew she would be, andas Adassa opened the door he walked in, carrying an old Gladstonebag. He politely removed his battered top hat and produced severalpackages from the bag. Finally, he lifted out a crudely carvedwooden alligator. It was about a foot long, painted light grey withbright red eyes and tongue. Gator set the toy gator down on thefloor, opened one of the paper parcels and produced an envelopecontaining black powder which he poured in a circle round thewooden effigy then lit, creating a 'whoosh' of flame and a sparkle asit went out.

"Come on, boy! GO!" Gator urged, as Adassa stood back gaping.

"You tell the girl about her father?" he asked.

Adassa said she had. She had also given Susan the Gleanerclipping about Corporal Khouri. Her daughter had taken the pictureto her room and Adassa had peeped and seen her comparing theirlooks in the mirror. Gator's wrinkled face was wreathed in smiles. Herubbed his hands together and relit his foul-smelting pipe before heinformed Adassa that he had found out where Khouri was:

"Him transfer on promotion. Him a corporal at Ocho Rios now."Adassa made no reply, still overawed by the obeah magic she hadjust witnessed.

"All right, Missis, I gone. You make sure you and all the pickneythem and everybody in the house except that gal get away from thehouse and stay away. Don't come back till you see that gal leave.After that, everything all right."

Adassa asked no questions but prepared to do as instructed.

Meantime, Gator cycled to the rum shop, noticing the low blackclouds fleeting across the sky. Out at sea there was the sound ofthunder and flashes of lightning. Perfect, he thought, as long as therain holds off till tomorrow. Casting a last look round he went in tothe rum shop and took a seat in the corner. Susan, standing behindthe bar painting her nails, barely deigned to acknowledge his signal,but taking her time, put down her nail varnish, sighed, and comingout from behind the bar, hips swaying in her tight mini-skirt,undulated in his direction.

Gator ordered a Red Stripe beer. When she returned someminutes later he paid her without giving her a tip. She looked at thesmall change in astonishment and scowled down at the wizened oldman. Before she could speak, Gator clamped his bony fingers roundher slim wrist.

"You know who I am?" he whispered softly." No? That is too bad,for I know all about you. I know you is a bad girl. Bad, bad, bad!"

Gator's eyes glowed like red-hot coals. Susan's long lashesfluttered as she tried vainly to jerk her wrist out of his iron grip.Gator half rose from his seat so his face was within inches of thefrightened girl's.

"My friend tell me you going to see your father, the police. Youtaking the next bus to Ocho Rios. That's where he is. You better heedmy words, for if you don't do it, my friend the alligator going to getyour fancy fat arse and eat it."

Her lips parted and she tried again to wrench her arm free butGator held on as he delivered his parting shot:

"Tomorrow," he warned, "things get bad for you. If you still roundthe next day, you gone as alligator food."

As Gator released Susan's wrist, she snatched the money for thebeer and tossed her head, teetering back to the protection of the bar.But there her knees sagged and she placed both hands on thecounter top, closing her eyes. When she opened them, the little manhad faded silently into the night and she wondered if she haddreamt it. She nevertheless rushed home as soon as she could, stilltrembling from the strange encounter. She fell onto her bed and laythere fully-dressed, thinking about the awful threat she hadreceived. When she could bear it no longer, she decided to go andwake Adassa and the others. But she was shocked to discover shewas alone in the house.

Meanwhile, Gator had visited his friends in a nearby mangroveswamp and discovered to his great satisfaction two alligator nestswith eggs. Well before dawn he rolled one egg over the rough grassand scrub to the steps leading to Adassa's house. For good measurehe repeated the trail with another egg from the second nest, andreturned by the same route to leave better tracks that were easy tosee and smell.

Susan woke late, having hardly slept at all, to hear the rainbeating on the corrugated iron roof. She got up and stared out of the window. She looked up at the low clouds, heavy with more rain andsucked her teeth. When she glanced out of the window a secondtime, her heart almost stopped. There, not more than a few yardsaway, was an alligator at least twelve feet long, its eyes hidden underits heavy armoured lids. Susan was petrified. She didn't know muchabout the behaviour of the beasts but had heard they could movelike lightning. If it stayed there until it got hungry, the door would beas much protection as matchwood.

Trembling like a leaf, Susan sank down onto a chair. Gettingcontrol at last, she remembered the horrible man of the night beforeand his strange warning. He had told her to leave and go to herfather in Ocho Rios. But why had he done that? She decided to wasteno more time thinking: she would pack and catch the first bus.

Feeling better, she clambered to her feet and dashed into herbedroom where she began frantically throwing all her clothes intothe suitcases. Then she calmed down. She had never heard of analligator burglarising a house. She took her time getting ready,selected one of her best dresses to put on and sat in front of themirror, taking plenty of time to make up her face and collect herpersonal things. Finally, she picked up her cases and staggeringunder their weight, made for the front door. Cautiously she peeredout and nearly died of fright. The alligator had not moved!

Too bad, she thought, she would have to go through the back.Too bad indeed. For when she opened the back door andprepared to put her bags out, she saw them and nearly died of frightagain. Two alligators even bigger than the one in front dozed besidea damp banana sucker. She was trapped. And it was then that shenoticed for the first time that Wife Three's suitcases were made ofreptile skin that looked like it might once have belonged to analligator.

Susan sank back, the blood draining from her face before sheslumped to the floor in a deep faint. Some time later she was able tocrawl to the front window and peep out. The alligator was still there,and as she watched its eyes seemed to flicker and it stretched itsjaws in a huge yawn revealing a serious set of teeth. Susan's skin crawled. She opened her mouth to scream but checked herselfjust in time. Perhaps if she stayed quiet they would not notice her.She crouched back on the floor and thrusting her fist in her mouth,buried her head in her arms and quietly sobbed.

Gator waited till dark to distract the three alligators who werenow very hungry. He let a chicken run in front of the reptile bythe front door and later a young piglet was dumb enough to runbetween the two alligators at the back who moved so fast theyalmost collided in the yard. Taking advantage of this period ofdistraction. Gator quickly rolled the eggs away.

It wasn't until the next morning that Susan was able to summonenough courage to look out of the window and so discover that allthree creatures were gone! Both back and front were clear.

Leaving everything behind, she ran as fast as she could. Shenever even paused to wash her face, though she did remember tosnatch up her purse with all her money in it. When the first buscame through, she was on it. Even though she bad left all herclothes and other belongings behind, the women were sure shewould never return to the village.

The Corpse thatWouldn't Die

IN A REMOTE PART OF THE PARISH OF ST ANN there was a small pond.Although lush foliage grew round it, the pond was seldom visitedduring daytime and never at night, because the place had notenjoyed a good reputation since a smallholder, of indeterminateage, had drastically discouraged praedial larceny of her crops bysprinkling a generous quantity of arsenic powder over the patchwhere she had planted her yams. A family of five had subsequentlydied.

According to the local villagers, the place was haunted by theduppy of the poisoner. Perhaps it was this very spirit that proved theundoing of a very promising young policeman though there aresome who blame the bewitching girl Susan, with whom he gotentangled. Wlio knows?

The nearest police station was located a few miles away in OchoRios, and it was to the charge room there that a barefoot youtharrived one day to report the presence of a body in the pond. Anhour or two later, the police Land Rover set off driven by auniformed constable who was accompanied by a detective in plainclothes and the young informant. When they drove as far as theycould, the detective peeled off his jacket and set off walking with theguide. On reaching the pond, he found the body of a large blackman floating face down and a couple of crows circling overhead.Still wearing his trilby hat and a silver Constabulary Sports Club tiewith red and blue stripes, the detective removed his new brownshoes and rolled up his trousers. He paddled up to his knees in cool water, his flat feel sinking in the soft mud as he trampled down thewater weeds; it was some time before he managed to get a properhold on the slippery body and pull it slowly to the edge of the pond.Once he landed it, he flipped the corpse over so the wide open eyesstared sightlessly at the cloudless blue sky.

"You know him?"

"NO!... Me no kno nuttin'. Hi doan' know 'im hat all!" the youthcried as he backed away, his eyes fixed on the body, the first deadperson he had ever seen.

Much later the detective used the radio to call Ocho Rios stationand relay his report to the Inspector, who in turn passed it on toDetective Corporal Fitzroy Hinds at divisional headquarters in StAnn's Bay. Hinds informed the Superintendent who grudginglyagreed to go to the scene, picking up the Medical Officer on his way.

It was Sunday and unfortunately, the Chief Medical Officer wasaway for the long weekend and a new, very temporary locum hadbeen assigned to fill in. It was the young MO's first assignment andDC Hinds regarded that fact with well-founded misgivings. He hadobserved temporary MOs in operation before and in his experiencethey fell into two categories. The officious ones who knew it all andthe total incompetents, who knew nothing. Besides, Hinds hadmore serious problems on his mind than a possible murder. TheDetective Corporal's major interest in life was cricket. His obsessionwith the game went far beyond the casual flinging of a ball stitchedlovingly into red leather, for in his way, Hinds was a fanatic: heinvestigated everything, every word or deed that had any bearing atall on the game, including the British character, which he assidouslystudied.

As Captain of the St Ann division cricket team he waspreoccupied with the forthcoming match against the ManchesterDivision to be held away in Mandeville: a rccognized stronghold ofthe British way of life. The challenge of winning the constabularycricket club finals in Mandeville of all places represented thesupreme accolade in Hinds's sporting life. For if anywhere inJamaica was more English than the English, it was indeed the quiet littletown of Mandeville, where the civilian colonels retired, high inthe hills in the centre of the island. In addition, victory there mighteven result in an opportunity to humble Trinidad's formidable team.So the advent of a body at such a critical lime amounted to apersonal insult. The cross that Hinds bore as the chief investigatorand captain of the cricket team, was very heavy indeed.

So that hot Sunday afternoon, a far from happy trio drove from StAnn's Bay to Ocho Rios in the Super's snappy MG Magna saloon andthere collected a body box, and transferred to the green police LandRover for the journey to the pond. When the police party arrived atthe spot the uniformed constable hastily rose to his feel and saluted."Hall's well, sah!" he reported, standing stiffly to attention. TheSuperintendent nodded, his eyes straying to the body laid out in thelong grass. The MO mopped his brow, sighed heavily and picking uphis bag made his way at funeral pace towards his next challenge, hisfirst ever post-mortem.

Sensing the young doctor's unease, the Super sent the rest of theparty away, allowing Corporal Hinds to try and establish identity bymaking enquiries locally.

While the MO fumbled clumsily in his black Gladstone bag, thepolice officer sat on a log some distance away and went through theelaborate preparations of lighting his pipe.

The doctor looked up after five minutes of comparative silence.

"Well, I can confirm that this man is dead," he announcedofficially.

"Yes, I'm sure he is, so at least we are not wasting our time, arewe?" the Super responded testily. "However, what the Coroner wouldlike and we need to know is how, why and where. You see my point?"The doctor nodded and the officer continued. "For example, didhe drown? If so, when and why? Let's try starting with establishingthe time of death, approximately anyway. Then give me a generalpicture, you know, age, health, probable or possible cause of death."He put his pipe back in his mouth and blew a thick puff of DunhillMedium into the warm air. He wondered why a dead body meritedso much more attention than its previous occupant did in life. The MO looked down at the body doubtfully, then hesitantly triedanswering the questions, noting them down untidily on a largeJamaica Constabulary form, dramatically headed SUDDEN DEATH.

Beginning to lose patience, the Super walked over and examinedthe dead face. There was a large contusion on the forehead that wassoggy from several days of immersion.

"Is that a bang on the head do you think, caused by a blow, or didhe drag his face over some stones or a piece of driftwood? He haslost his watch, obviously wore one on his left wrist, so we'll have torely on you to establish if he died before or after immersion and howserious that head injury was."

The MO took a decision. He began emptying gleaminginstruments out of his bag until he found what he was looking for,an operational saw used for forensic trepanning.

"I'm not tiying to do your job, but couldn't that wait till we gethim to the mortuary?" the Super enquired.

"It's a long weekend, we won't be able to do much before Tuesdaythere. I'd better have a look inside here." The doctor had answered aquestion about brain surgery during his medical finals so he wasbeginning to regard it as his speciality.

The Superintendent had no intention of trying to influence anofficial giving his professional opinion. He retreated to the log,wincing as he heard the saw grate as it cut through skin and bone.Two hours later the MO was still hacking at the body with increasingdesperation and the insect community had assembled to feast onthe living and the dead. Corporal Hinds had returned without anyinformation and was sitting beside his superior talking about theforthcoming match.

"We're well placed for fielding but batting isn't so good. All wehave is young Knight." Hinds removed his pipe and stared at itquizzically. "'Trouble is, he is living up to his name." The Superlooked up in surprise, thankful for any chance to change thesubject. He had hated cricket ever since he had been forced to playit at an English boarding school.

"And just what does that cryptic comment imply, Hinds? I thought he was destined for accelerated promotion and greatthings, even plain clothes duty."

"Well he was, Sir, but..." The officer's lack of comment forcedMinds to conclude: "Well, he has a girlfriend."

"Yes, that often happens. Hinds." The Superintendentrecognized with a jolt that he sounded pompous, even to himself.

"It's that girl that came to the match last time we played at DraxHall. THE figure." Hinds rolled his eyes and made a quick butgraphic cartoon in the air using both hands.

"You mean that girl in the short, tight skirt? The one with the hairand heels?" During the socializing that followed cricket, despiteHinds's famous red hot curry, no one failed to notice the stunningbrown skin girl in a white mini dress.

Hinds looked the Superintendent in the eye. "Is CorporalKhouri's daughter."

"Good God! I never knew Khouri was a family man. Confirmedbachelor I thought. You do mean the same man, motorcycle trafficpatrol?"

"Correct, sir. Well yes, it seems he have a daughter now. She fromthe country - St Elizabeih. He got her work at one of the hotels."

"I shouldn't think that would be difficult, she's certainly verypretty. Anyway, what's Knight's love-life got to do with cricket?"

"He tired, sir. All the time he so bloody tired he can hardly stand,never mind run. He dead on his feet."

"How do you know it's her fault? Maybe he's got hookworm."

Hinds dismissed any medical problem with a brief shake of hisbalding head and asked hopefully, "You think we could transfer himto Watt Town or Cave Valley?"

"I'd have to talk to Sergeant Roberts. I don't suppose he'd be tookeen to lose one of his best men. I can hardly tell him about - what'sher name?"

"Susan. Susan Khouri she's called," Hinds mumbled reluctantly.

Suddenly the doctor stood, the flies buzzing around him. TheSuperintendent and the detective went over to inspect the corpse. Itwas an awesome sight.

Silently the Superintendent held out his hand for the postmortemreport. He looked at it and closed his eyes for a long timebefore issuing instructions.

"Constable, put the poor sod in the box and put the top on for thetime being. Stay here and we'll organize a relief for you. We will haveto do this again when Dr Myers returns." Without further commenthe returned one copy to the doctor and retaining the other, turnedand made his way down the track. It was Sunday; Monday would bea holiday so the body would have to stay there until after the postmortemcould be arranged.

When they reached Ocho Rios, arrangements were made for a reliefat the pond. It coincided with the hour when the duty roster for thenext twenty-four hours was being compiled and Constable HoraceKnight had just reported for duty.

"Oh God, me tired," was his first thought, "That Susan issomething!" He padlocked his bicycle to the rack and made his wayinto the station to change into his uniform and find out where hewould be on patrol that night. He slumped down in the recreationroom and closed his eyes. Even though he had only just left her, theerotic image of Susan seeped into his tired mind. His desirematched in intensity, if not durability, Corporal Hinds's love ofcricket. That his dream girl was totally amoral, incurably vain andself-centred had entirely escaped Horace Knight's attention. Hethought of little else except his next assignation with her. From theoutset, Susan had taken every opportunity to claim favours from hernew-found parent, Corporal Khouri, holder of the Queen's PoliceMedal for bravery, but a puppet in his daughter's hands. She hadeven persuaded him to travel to St Elizabeth to rescue from hermother the clothes she had left behind in her flight from home. Herwardrobe restored, the overjoyed Susan had lost no time displayingit in a personalized fashion show to the overawed young constable,who was now reporting for duty after an exhausting twenty-fourhours. At the police station, his reverie was broken by an acting corporalwho was the charge room duty officer and despatcher. The protesting Knight was assigned duty as bodyguard to a corpse,suspected murder victim.

Knight's protests fell on deaf ears.

He was driven up the hill and guided to the pond to do duty forthe next six hours. He made a cursory check of the closed woodencoffin, little more than a primitive box. He did not fancy lookinginside, despite a glowing account of the disastrous post mortemgratuitously given by the constable he was relieving. Knight settleddown with his back to a coconut tree and stared up at the moon. Itwas a calm night, quiet except for the usual rural noises. It waspleasantly restful and soon his eyes began to close. To clear his head,he looked up at the moon which was beginning to slide behind acloud it lightly outlined with a graceful silver edge. The cloud's softcurves reminded him of Susan's shapely bottom and he slid gentlyinto a doze, erotic dreams continuing to flicker through hissubconscious with never a thought for the body in the box whoseprivacy he was supposedly ensuring. Constable Knight fell soundasleep. Half an hour or so passed. He began to snore gently. Maybethat was the sound that woke him. He opened his eyes wide andblinked them free of sleep. Fully alert now, he listened carefully.

"Crack!" it came again. No mistaking the noise this time, therough wooden coffin was definitely creaking. The constable's eyeswidened. He had heard the place was haunted, but he had got hisCambridge School Certificate and knew there was no such thing asa duppy. Only ignorant country people believed in ghosts.

Knight stood up and slowly approached the coffin, his heavytorch waving like a defensive weapon. To his horror, the cracksbecame a groan as the lid slowly rose, gradually freeing itself fromthe coffin. Knight began to back away as the coffin nails screechedagonizingly, the lid came free and toppled to the ground.

Before his horrified gaze, the corpse began to sit up.

But as his panic subsided, they returned, at first hovering faintlyat the back of his mind then more strongly-centred. He wouldcollect her, hide until they could make their way to Kingston wherethey would catch a boat, a train, a plane, anything to put as muchdistance behind him and the terrifying creature by the pond!

Following this line of thought. Constable Knight realized that hewould first have to withdraw all his savings from the bank. Thenwhere would he take Susan and all her bags? To an aunt who lived ina place surprisingly called Elephant and Castle, in London, in faraway England. Or a distant cousin in Islington or another inBirmingham. He would decide when he got there, but Susan wouldprobably prefer London.

When the lights of an approaching vehicle cast his shadow alongthe road, Constable Knight returned to sanity and officially flaggedit down. It was to be his final act of law enforcement. Driven back tothe Ocho Rios police station he crept past the yellow lights of thecharge room where an acting corporal slumbered peacefully, intothe barracks. He changed out of his uniform into civilian clothesand collected his bicycle, wheeling it through the gate beforemounting. By then Knight had realized that Monday was a holidayso he would have to wait until after 10 a.m. on Tuesday beforeBarclays Bank D C & O opened its doors. In the meantime, he andSusan would have to find a place to hide from the 'thing'. Then theywould hitch a ride to Kingston or catch a bus. His mind leapt ahead.Once in London what would he do? He would help Susan be amodel instead of the performer she had recently set her heart onbecoming after meeting a singer who boasted that he had arecording contract. Knight himself might join the English police andbecome an inspector or superintendent.

Meanwhile the Superinlendent in St Ann's Bay had sent hisreport and the medical officer's death certificate of an unidentifiedmale to Highgate in St Mary. There a Senior Superintendent whocommanded three divisions, including St Ann, had his area office.Corporal Khouri took these reports on his motor cycle and hand deliveredthem in Highgate early on Monday morning. At the sametime his daughter was giving Horace Knight a hard time.

"You crazy, man," Susan stormed at her luckless suitor. "Why youthink I would ever want to go to England with you?" Petulantly shethrew one of her father's flower pots at him. Little did Knight knowthat he had interrupted a date with the would-be recording star.

Corporal Khouri returned in the early afternoon and handedback the reports to the Superintendent, with a handwritten footnotefrom his boss, which read; "As far as I can see this man may havedied in childbirth. Get a proper post-mortem."

That evening the regular Medical Officer who had just returnedfrom his holiday weekend, accompanied a small police party to thepond. They were surprised to find the coffin lying on its side, thebloated body tipped out onto the grass. A lone constable heraldedtheir arrival with evident relief and reported how he had found thebody when sent to relieve Constable Knight, who could not be found.A few hours later, the Medical Officer was ready to pass an opinion.

"The cadaver reveals significant symptoms of venereal disease atan advanced stage. Prior to death had imbibed a large quantity ofalcohol. Probable cause of death however appears to be drowning asthere are still some minor traces of fluid in the lungs, despite myyoung colleague's attempts to destroy all the symptoms." He lookedsadly at the Superintendent. "Poor fellow probably got drunk, fell inthe pond and passed out. Drowned from drink you might say."

By the following weekend a disillusioned Mr Horace Knight,formerly a promising policeman and all-round cricketer, was on hisway to England - alone, his dreams nevertheless still filled withthoughts of Susan.

The St Ann division lost the cricket match in Mandeville againstthe Manchester division.

The grizzly case was closed and efforts to identify the bodyabandoned although there was still the hope that someone wouldeventually report him missing and perhaps repay the Governmentof Jamaica for the funeral expenses. There would be no charge forthe police and medical services.

Susan's Comeuppance

AUGUSTUS WAS NOT A JAMAICAN and this added to his mystique.Born on the island of Dominica, he had wandered far and wide inthe Caribbean, first as a seaman, then as a travel agent specializingin emigration to England. This phase of his career was terminatedrather abruptly when he made a hurried departure from Barbadoswith some funds advanced from would-be emigrants meagresavings.

In search of a new life he drifted to Jamaica, where he became apractitioner of magic, a self-styled obeahman. He was beginning toexpand his practice and search for other fields of illegal endeavourwhen he became the subject of discussion between two men he hadnever met in a place he had yet to visit. The two individuals talkingabout Augustus were a police superintendent and a Roman Catholicpriest and the place was an office at the St Ann's Bay police station.

Father O'Shea was an American Jesuit, very much from Boston,He was tall, elegant in a lanky way, always impeccably dressed,indeed his sartorial elegance was privately the subject of commentamongst the priesthood, all of whom had taken vows of poverty. Ofcourse, Father O'Shea was poor too, but he never managed to lookit. His white sharkskin suits were spotless, his Panama hat the soulof discreet opulence. He smoked exotic cigarettes through an ivoryholder and he loved gardens almost as much as he loved God.

Father O'Shea's church at St Ann's Bay and the one beside the seaat Ocho Rios were famed far and wide for the beauty of theirgardens, set as they both were in the midst of lush natural vegetation. The small church at Ocho Rios was especially attractive.A landscaped garden unfolded into the blue clear water of theCaribbean and the open design of the building that had beenconverted from a private house to its present status, allowed thecongregation to gaze out to sea through what were originally thedining-room windows. This doubtless contributed to their piousthoughts during the long sermons Father gave, largely for thebenefit of tourists who were always attracted to the little chapel. Theman called Augustus never attended; he was a seriously lapsedCatholic. Father's interest in him, however, was over another matter.

After his meeting with the priest, the Superintendent headed forthe upstairs room that housed the senior divisional investigativeofficer, to find its sole occupant, Detective Corporal Fitzroy Hinds,practising his bowling. He had placed a full-length mirror, an exhibitfrom an attempted burglary, against the wall so he could practise hisleft hand break, making short dummy runs and whirling his rightarm past his ear. The trick was not to let go of the cricket ball he wasgrasping, but when he realized that the officer in charge of theparish was watching him, the red bound leather missile droppedfrom his fingers. It bounced two or three times on the bare woodenfloor, waking the duty constable who was dozing in the late morningheat of the station charge room immediately below.

Hinds had the grace to look embarrassed. "Sorry, sir, I was just..."

"I know, I know. You were just practising for the next gameagainst Montego Bay."

"Well, sir, it is important that we win the round so we qualify forthe all-island finals." Hinds said eagerly, then frowned. Theyoung Superintendent's pronounced lack of enthusiasm for thegame of cricket was a perpetual source of surprise since Hinds hadbeen led to believe that all the English were born with a totaldedication to the game, as they were addicted to flat beer andsteak-and-kidney pie.

The Superintendent moved across the room and sat on the edgeof the rickety wooden desk, taking his pipe out of his pocket, hefilled it from the Dunhill leather tobacco pouch which he thenpassed to the detective who was as addicted to his pipe as he was tocricket.

"Father O'Shea came to see me this morning," the senior officerbegan.

"Oh, yes sir, I saw his car in the yard," the plain clothes corporalmurmured, slowly filling a huge curved pipe himself and borrowingthe Super's gunmetal lighter.

"He told me there's an obeahman living at Bamboo who'sdefrauding his parishioners. Apparently he's started a practice inOcho Rios now. Father's had some complaints. Heard anythingabout him?"

"Bamboo?" The detective furrowed his brow and drew on hispipe. The office was filling up with acrid life-threatening smokefrom two pipes. "I can't say I know about that, but there's a new manin Ocho Rios, comes from the country..."

"What about him? Have the Ocho Rios people reported it to you?Does Sergeant Roberts know about it?"

"Well, sir," Hinds began, "it's a little complicated. As anobeahman he's not much for sure, just a trickster. But he's intoganja. He's the supplier for Dudney. You know, the taxi driver."

"Oh sh*t," the Super exclaimed, shaking his head. "You mean thatbloody political man in the Ocho Rios Taxi Association again. Drivesa vintage Bentley, or is it a Daimler? A convertible built like abattleship."

"The same, sir, but he just makes a noise like he's political tocover his business."

"What's that, for God's sake, just tourism?"

"Tourists it is, but he's selling them ganja and girls. If Dudney'scaught he'll call it political persecution. And this so-called obeahman's one of his ganja suppliers."

"Have you talked to the Ocho Rios police or what?"

The detective drew heavily on his pipe before replying. "Well, there may be a problem. That girl, you know, Susan, the Ochitraffic corporal's daughter..."

"Oh God! Not her again!"

"Well, she's one of Dudney's girls."

"So let me get this straight," said the Superintendent. "Basically,what we have is a half-arsed obeahman, who is supplying ganja to ataxi driver who caters to tourists in the Ocho Rios area. And wedaren't tell or use the local police because one of the taxi driver's girlfriends is the outside daughter of a traffic officer?"

"That's about it, sir. Susan spends a lot of time at the station...She's very pretty."

"Hinds, have you got something in for this bloody girl?" theSuper yelled. "I'm not surprised she's trouble, she's so bloodygorgeous even if she is only about sixteen. But for the moment,I am not interested in her. I just want to know about this obeahman.Has he got a name? Does he come from Bamboo? Is he collectingganja from cultivators in the bush up there? I'll need to report it tothe area HQ in Highgate and organize some more ganja raids."

"Er, well, there's another problem, if you could just wait beforeyou mention it to the area chief..."

"Why? Oh no, don't tell me."

"Yes, the office clerk, he... well he's Corporal Khouri's brother-in-law."

The Superintendent groaned. "Propinquity, bloody, bloodypropinquity," he thought, shaking his head.

"All right. Let's start at the bottom with the easy part. Sendsomeone from Brown's Town to nose around Bamboo tonight. Findout if this obeahman or whatever lives there and anything else ofinterest. We'll discuss it when we've got something firm to go on."

That afternoon, a plain clothes detective constable boarded acountry bus and got off in the village of Bamboo, where be visited afriend who worked at the prison farm there. They repaired to thelocal rum shop and spent the evening chatting and playingdominoes with a group of locals. After Red Stripe beers had beenabandoned in favour of several rounds of proof rum with stout chasers, the constable was able to justify his expenses bytelephoning Corporal Hinds the following morning, confirming thata foreign person was living in the bush near Bamboo. His name wasAugustus and though he had no job, he was away a lot, often in thecompany of a man from Ocho Rios, who drove a big convertible taxi.In addition there were rumours to the effect that the stranger tradedganja for obeah consultancy. The local district constable had alsoproved to be an extensive source of information.

On Monday the Superintendent and Detective Corporal FitzroyHinds held what Sherlock Holmes would have described as a 'threepipe' conference on the subject to plan the next move in theinvestigation.

"What we need is someone to approach the obeah person,Augustus, with a serious problem. Offer to pay for some magic help,then see where we go from there," the Super proposed.

"What about Dudney and the ganja?'' asked Hinds.

"Let's try and keep it simple. It would be nice to tie that in butdon't get over-eager."

"It would be even better if we could get Dudney for living offimmoral earnings as well!" The detective took his pipe out of hismouth and stared down at it thoughtfully. "What I was thinking, sir,"he continued, "is if we could borrow someone not known aroundhere, he could start by trying to get close to that girl, Susan. He couldbe advised to contact Augustus for a magic love spell, hhat couldlead into the obeah business."

"Yes, but we must be careful about entrapment. You know howthe Crown objects to that!"

Hinds nodded gloomily and the meeting ended after morerandom discussion. Later, Corporal Hinds commandeered theaged Ford station wagon that noisily served all police purposesand set off for area HQ at Highgate. He had arranged to meetthere secretly with another detective who had recently beentransferred from Kingston.

Detective Acting Corporal Hernandel's features reflected theresult of wildly mixed genes that is not uncommon in Jamaica. For some reason, he alone of all his tribe was a throwback to someSpanish ancestor, perhaps one who had perished under a bladewielded by one of Cromwell's men. In any event, his face could havegraced a seventeenth-century portrait of a halberdier crowned by ametal helmet. He was slightly-built, but rather tall, so that he tendedto stoop, bending his head to hear better in a slightly deferentialmanner. His eyes were large and mournful, his despondentexpression enhanced by a drooping moustache that was rather toolong. It was incorrectly suspected by his CID colleagues back inKingston that this was the reason the Commissioner had recentlyordered his transfer to Area 2 in Highgate.

Detective Corporal Hinds was delighted when he set eyes onHernandel. He was perfect for the role the devious detective had inmind, and which he explained in some detail to his new temporaryassistant.

Later that day, Hernandel found he was loaned to the St AnnDivision.

First he went to the local pharmacy and purchased a variety ofbeauty supplies. He succeeded in getting them at a wholesale rate:he added the savings to the fund he had set aside for theinvestigation. He packed a small case with a few clothes, strappingit on the back of his motorcycle along with the cardboard box ofsamples he had acquired. The Norton was indeed a venerablemachine that had provided reliable transport to several generationsof sturdy young men who had to be strong enough to control itsclumsy bulk. When Hernandel started the powerful engine, itsucked up gas and spewed out blue-black fumes. The noise wasdeafening to all bystanders when later that day he set oft forOcho Rios.

When Hernandel began his rounds of the hotel beauty salons hewas far from enthusiastic about his cover story, namely that he wasa travelling salesman. He did not feel at home in the role until hearrived at the hotel where Susan worked. He pushed open the doorand was assaulted by a wave of damp air-conditioning and thearoma of singed hair overlaid with heavy perfume. The click of heels heralded the arrival of a dream of loveliness such as Hernandel hadseldom even imagined. He was awestruck and floundered in a pairof enormous golden eyes. Wavy auburn hair falling to the shouldersframed a clear-skinned brown face, rather heavily made up toskilfully emphasize the owner's slightly Asiatic features. An hourglassfigure was contained in a tight silk dress that looked and wasexpensive despite its brevity. The dress allowed a view of shapelylegs tapering down to a pair of well turned ankles and feet shod inequally expensive Italian shoes with extremely high heels. Althoughstill only a teenager, the girl obviously spent all she earned on herback.

Somehow the disguised detective managed to produce his caseand display his wares to the divine creature who listened attentivelyto his sales pitch.

The girl introduced herself as Susan and of course was quiteinterested in the free samples she was sure would be donated. Andthey were.

It took the detective a while to recover his perspective afterleaving the hotel beauty salon but he sternly reminded himself thathe had a job to do.

After several futile attempts to date Susan, Hernandel confidedin Fitzroy Hinds that it was now time to approach Augustus formagical help. The detective agreed.

So the huge motor bike arrived in Bamboo, scattering chickens,pigs and assorted children. Arriving at Augustus's shack, Hernandeldismounted inelegantly and unstrapped a box containing a largebottle of Captain Morgan rum.

He found Augustus sitting at a battered wooden desk, tryng tolook intellectual and worldly at the same time, peering through apair of wire-rimmed spectacles he did not need but assumed madehim look wise. Augustus was very black and very wrinkled. It was asthough he had acquired new wrinkles every time he moved toanother island and every time he began another career.

Hernandel carefully memorized the map of Augustus's face, ashe discussed his problem. Unrequited love was one of the obeahman's specialities, as Corporal Hinds had discovered.Augustus listened attentively to the love-sick salesman andprescribed a remedy, not a cure.

"Man, the problem is this. She don't fancy you. So all we need tochange is that."

"Lawd Gawd, massa, how we go do that?"

The obeahman considered. "There is two ways," he announced."One, you give her a special love drink, which is inexpensive. But itdon't last."

He paused for such a long time the detective was forced toenquire:

"And the other?"

"The other is much better." He paused for an unconscionablylong time again before he whispered: "Special. Only for you. I havethe magic blades."

Hernandel looked gratified. "Yes man, me hear about thatalready. It famous," he lied. "But is how it stay?"

Augustus produced two smooth boards that roughly interfaced."Man an' woman belly to belly," he announced, rubbing the objectstogether. "Every night you strap them to you jaw. It ensure you ladycome for you after three days."

"I wear two piece of wood for the night? Strapped to me jaw?"Hernandel asked incredulously.

"Yes, man, them magical you know."

Hernandel and the spurious obeahman haggled over the price,Augustus in the end reluctantly agreeing to accept half down withthe rest payable if the magic blades worked. If they failed, he wouldreturn the deposit. Normally he would not enter into any sucharrangement but he was charging Hernandel much more than hisvillage clients and he needed the money desperately. Plus, he stoodto gain more from this man for the working of the magic blades wasa sure thing. He had only to ask Dudney to speak to the girl, Susan.But then, he thought, he would also have to pay Dudney for his helpand the girl would probably want her cut too.

Taking a small delivery of good quality marijuana later that night from another client, Augustus took the bus to Ocho Rios. He beganby visiting Dudney where he dropped off a parcel wrapped in brownpaper. He rather diffidently broached the subject of his new client'sobsession with Susan.

Dudney showed a rather tasteless interest in the wholearrangement. He asked what son of spell Susan might be expectedto encounter. Dudney's red-rimmed eyes widened when Augustusreluctantly told him about the two pieces of board he had soldHernandal. The taxi man was middle-aged, large and fat. His neckwas a series of heavy jowls, which began to shake like a jelly as helaughed. He laughed and laughed till the tears rolled down hisplump brown checks. He threw back his head and roared with suchuncontrolled mirth that his hat fell off, revealing a bald head.

"Why I have to romance a fella like dat?" she pouted. "Him haveno money an is jus' a buffuto jump-up nayga."

Dudney sighed. "You owe it to me."

Susan looked at him in outraged astonishment. "I owe it to you?I owe it to you?" Her voice rose higher and higher. "You mean youowe it to me. Don't is I who send the tourist to you for the taxi an theweed?"

"Don't is I who send you the tourist boy dem?"

"I not going to sleep with that fella," Susan announced withfinality. "I not going out with he."

"Him don't want fe go out, him want fe go in," Dudney yelled.Susan stamped her foot indignantly, breaking her stiletto heel.

Further enraged now, she attacked Dudney, who easily held her off."Now look what you do," she wailed. "I have to go barefoot or you drive me back to the hotel. And pay for the shoe repair," she addedas an afterthought.

After some hard bargaining, Susan reluctantly acceptedDudney's method of payment to ensure her co-operation. Heinvited her to act as his agent and distribute ganja directly totourists staying in the hotel, for a fat commission. When Susanwalked through the hotel lobby early next morning, in her handbagwas a sealed brown paper parcel filled with dried marijuana.

Meanwhile Detective Corporal Hinds had a conference withHernandel, then contacted the district constable at Bamboo andarranged for Augustus's movements to be reported.

Augustus spent the next few days collecting ganja fromcultivators in the bush and Hernandel mooned around Susan asmuch as possible, till she agreed to attend a dance with him. Afterthe dance she pleaded a headache and made the disappointed'salesman' pay for a taxi to take her home. The cab was none otherthan Dudney's. As usual there was some altercation during thejourney, Susan demanding compensation for her evening'sentertainment in the form of a greater share of the weed, her initialdistribution having proved successful. Dudney reasonably pointedout that as she had been given a good dinner of black crab, washeddown with Red Stripe beer and then been taken to a dance, sheshould compensate him for the entertainment value.

In the end Dudney arranged for her to be at his house the nextevening when the obeahman was due to make a delivery.

following Hinds's instructions, Hernandel visited Bamboo toreport failure of the magic charm and demand his money back. Heeven produced the receipt Augustus had unwisely given him, whichspelt out the name D.A.C. Hernandel in a rounded handwriting.Augustus was assured the initials stood for Desmond AnthonyCharlton, never dreaming that in fact they were short for DetectiveActing Corporal.

Augustus was quite alarmed by Hernandel's altitude, just asHinds had hoped, since he had no money to repay him, and hereacted as planned by telling the policeman he was due to collect payment for something in Ocho Rios that night and would then beable to refund him.

The DC reported to Hinds in St Ann's Bay. Hinds rubbed hishands together gleefully and arranged to gather a raiding party foraction later that evening. Hernandel managed to make another datewith Susan and this time he hoped to take their relationship a stepfurther. He was understandably put out when he was instructed todeliver his companion to the taxi driver that night as soon as hecould and then rendezvous with the rest of the police.

That night, shortly after Dudney had collected Susan andreturned to his home with her, Augustus furtively opened theunlocked door of the taxi driver's rather grand house and crept inwith a suitcase full of the weed. The house was located on a sandystrip where a small dugout canoe was beached when it was notbeing used for clandestine purposes, like smuggling ganja to cruiseships.

Inside, the three conspirators gathered round a large mahoganytable and argued about the division of the ganja the obeahman hadbrought. Eventually Susan accepted a package small enough to slipinto her purse, which she did without further delay. Dudney thenreturned her patent leather court shoes, which he had collected thatafternoon from the repair man. Susan pouted and slipped the shoeson, partly mollified. She stood up and bent her head down tosilently examine her neatly-shod feet. Her distraction was broken bya knock on the front door which immediately opened to revealDetective Corporal Fitzroy Hinds of the St Ann's Ray CID.

"Evening all," he announced, politely removing his hat andbowing slightly.

The new arrival was greeted with absolute silence save for thesymbolic crowing of a distant co*ckerel, the ensuing pause followedby the surprised barking of many local dogs.

The trio were stunned by the horror of the moment; the suitcaseoccupying pride of place in the centre of the table before them. Theywere as rigid as lot's unfortunate wife when she was turned to apillar of salt, as more plainclothes police poured through the door.

The police officer waved a search warrant in the air. "I havereason lo believe you have contravened the Dangerous Drugs Actand are in possession of..." Having broken the spell. Hinds did notfinish his speech or even have time to issue the usual caution. Thethree scattered with one accord. Susan was first out, running intothe adjoining bedroom as fast as her high heels and light skirt wouldallow. She swung her legs through the window and jumped rightinto the open arms of Acting Corporal Hernandel, who held her upbodily, one arm round her shoulders the other under her knees.Sobbing with misplaced relief, she flung her arms round his neckand clung to him as she recognized her saviour.

"Thank God you here, darling," she gasped, forgetting in herhour of need all previous rejections. She pressed against himtrembling, her breasts hard against his chest. The detective inhaledher subtle perfume, a free sample from the hairdressing salon. Hesavoured the ecstasy of her sensual embrace for a blissful moment.Then he firmly returned to duty, swung Susan round and loweredher feet to the ground. As she stood trembling in front of him, heremoved her hands from the back of his neck. Unaccustomed tobeing rebuffed, Susan glanced down and to her surprise, saw a pairof metal handcuffs being snapped round her slim wrists.

Later, all three prisoners were led outside to the waiting policevehicles along with the exhibits taken from the house. A loudly protestingDudney was taken to the Ocho Rios police station wherehe was formally charged by Hinds and his cab impounded. Hedemanded to see the Prime Minister, the Leader of the Opposition,the Commissioner of Police and a lawyer, in that order and all invain. The other two were driven to St Ann's Bay along with most ofthe exhibits. They were marched into the charge room, their rightsread out and they were led away to be searched before being lockedup for the night.

Next day, Detective Corporal Hinds interviewed the obeahmanfirst, in deference to the Superintendent's sense of priority. Hedecided to offer a plea bargain regarding the ganja on the groundsthat the court just might regard Hernandel's evidence as inadmissible due to misinterpreting it as a form of the dreadedentrapment. Augustus gladly accepted the suggestion that amagistrate might agree to issue a deportation order if he pleadedguilty instead of waiting in prison for a lengthy trial, followed byserving a sentence, all at the Jamaica taxpayer's expense.

Hinds's ploy was to ensure that Dudney's co-defendantsreinforced the almost watertight case against him, by pleadingguilty. So he decided to concentrate his best efforts at persuasionon the girl, to get her to agree as well.

He sent down for Susan, who was escorted upstairs. On enteringhis office, she snatched her arm free of the senior policewoman'srather too-possessive grip.

She paused in the doorway and tossed her head defiantly atthem all. She glared at Hinds with her huge golden eyes, thensashayed into his office, hips swaying as she minced across the floorto stand in front of the detective's desk. She was careful to stop farenough away to enable him to have a full view of her shapely legs.The detective examined the 'force ripe' teenage prisoner carefully.

Despite himself he was impressed. No wonder she attractedtourists like bees round a honeypot, he thought. Hinds gestured forher to sit on the straight-backed public works chair. Susan complied,pouting at the detective, pulling her skirt down and crossing herdimpled knees demurely. Hinds waited for the inevitable openingrequest for a lawyer. It came.

"Me want Lawyer Tuck."

Hinds was not surprised. Tuck was a lawyer who rejoiced inshowing up the police and decrying their methods. He was aconstant adversary, a pain in the law-enforcement's backside and abudding politician.

"You can't afford him, or any other lawyer," Hinds said brutally.Susan recrossed her legs and tossed her head scornfully. Fathercan," she responded. "And I want bail."

Corporal Hinds shook his head sadly. "I know your father is amotor cycle police," he told her. One of his pet hates was the trafficdepartment, but still, the Force was the Force. "Your father has a career in the police. He's already recognised with a high decoration.You think he is going to sacrifice his career for you?"

Susan's eyes widened, this possibility had never occurred to her,but she knew it to be true and immediately changed tactics.

"Mr Hinds, sir. I am innocent."

"If you are innocent, mongoose mate wid goat," Hinds saidirreverently.

Still, Susan did not give up, she kept uncrossing her shapely legs,hoping to distract Hinds. But she did not know he associated herlegs with cricket, and that hardened his heart for he had alwaysblamed her for the defeat at an important inter-divisional matchand he strongly suspected that she was responsible for the loss ofhis team's star batsman.

"Susan, you plead guilty to having the ganja," he instructed her."I will ask the judge to treat it as a misdemeanour and you appearbefore the justice of the Peace on Monday. The worst that canhappen is ten days in this lock-up. If you are lucky, you will get areprimand and be bound over. Otherwise, I don't know." Hindslooked grim. "And when we finish search your room at the hotel..."He shook his head sadly, "...you gone to Kingston Woman's Prisonfor sure."

Susan signed the statement. Hinds noticing her carefully manicuredfingers and long pink nails, wondered how they wouldsurvive in custody when he had refused her request for bail.

"If I let you go, Dudney will get you for sure," Hinds flatly stated.Susan shuddered but resigned herself to be taken back to her cellpreparatory to spending at least the weekend in protective custody along with Augustus. It would certainly be preferable to facingDudney, who, she well knew, was prone to violence.

Susan stared at her interlocutor, wondering what came next. Shewas quite surprised when Corporal Hinds came round the desk,handcuffed her, then took her downstairs and into the space wherethe police vehicles were parked.

"Now we go and look at your room in Ochi," he announced.

Once in her room, Susan pulled her case from under the bed andsomewhat meekly handed over a small parcel of ganja."Is Dudney make me keep it," she whined.

It suited Hinds to accept the lie, he even rewarded Susan byallowing her to recover all her personal things before she was takenback to the station and locked in a cell.

Susan and Augustus remained safely locked up at nights for therest of the weekend, despite the obeahman's earlier boast that hewould use his magic powers to escape.

When the President Magistrate heard the full story from theCrown Prosecutor on Monday morning, he reluctantly agreed toSusan's guilty plea being dealt with in the lower court. She had stoodin the dock before him with her co-defendants while the Crown'sprosecuting counsel was presenting the charges against all threeaccused. Susan somehow did not manage to substantiate the'tender years' bit Hinds had in mind for her defence. The judgethought that she was over-made-up, her skirt too short, her blousetoo low cut, and her heels too high. A disinterested observer,however, would have noted that he appeared to enjoy everysalacious moment of her presence. The cases against the two menwere deferred for three weeks, Dudney was granted bail, andAugustus was remanded in custody pending sentencing anddeportation. The charges against him had been reduced and nomention was made of obeah, which pleased the Superintendent butrather annoyed Father O'Shea who attended the hearings.

Later that day Augustus was shipped off to Kingston pendingDudney's and his own trial hearing. Susan was sent down to appearbefore a Justice of the Peace, who deliberately prolonged her sentence by remanding her in police custody without bail, until areport could be submitted by the probation officer.

It was Susan's bad luck that the IP hearing her guilty plea was ahom*osexual. Hinds did his best for her, but after hearing anunfavourable probation report days later, the presiding IP told thecourt that he regretted he could not give "this depraved youngwoman" a longer sentence than ten days. He went as far asreprimanding the prosecuting officer for lowering the chargesagainst her.

Susan wept as she was driven back to the police station to beginher sentence. She tearfully submitted to an intimate strip search.Afterwards her fashionable clothes and jewellery were removed, tobe replaced by a coarse calico prison gown, like all short-termprisoners, she was allowed to keep her underclothes and shoes, butshe was no longer allowed to sit outside doing nothing as she haddone before. When not locked in her cell she was kneeling on allfours cleaning the station floors, polishing the door knobs orcleaning windows, while all the St Ann policemen ogled her.

Almost every one concerned was satisfied with the outcome ofthis case, especially Detective Corporal Hinds. Susan had got hercomeuppance, as had Dudney and eventually poor Augustus.Corporal Hinds was able to officially 'close' the case file. TheSuperintendent signed it off and wrote a rather smug thank youletter to his Senior Superintendent at Area 2 HQ Highgate to whichDAC Hernandel had returned after the night of the raid, neverseeing Susan again except in the witness box at Dudney's trial.

The Great RoyalMail Robbery

Every morning a rather elderly canvas-topped van left Kingstonand headed past SpanishTown, across the plains to May Pen thenwheezed its way upwards towards Mandeville. To the tune ofgrinding gears and the gnashing of metal teeth, the van would climbover the spine of hills that forms Jamaica's backbone to Spaldings,then rattle its way past Cave Valley to Brown's Town. With a relievedseries of sharp cracks and creaks it would coast downhill till itreached the north shore and its final destination of St Ann's Bay.Whenever the van was in motion, the tailgate was largely obscuredby a cloud of black smoke that belched from a leaking exhaust.

The van was painted bright red, and in defiance of its shabbyexterior, was emblazoned with the royal coat of arms. It was throughthe same back of the van that the mail was secured, distributed and.on one occasion, misappropriated.

Stamford Calder, the driver, was in his way a veritable aristocratof the road having distributed mail on behalf of Her Majesty for thelast twenty-six years. He was an artist, keeping alive the tired oldengine, coaxing it to manage yet one more drive up the hills, easingthe screaming brakes down the winding roads, caressing the wobblygear shift all the way and mewing his feet on the worn out clutch,brake and accelerator with the dexterity and muscle-control of aprima ballerina.

His team mate was Ezekiel, the sideman. Stamford was thebrains and had the technical skills; Ezekiel provided the muscle.When the mail van stopped at a post office, the 'captain' sat in the driver's seat, the ripped plastic covered with several comfortinglayers of the Gleaner, smoking a Marlboro, while Ezekiel used hismuscle-power to sort the bags which were scaled with metal tags,delivering them according to their labels.

No one ever thought about it, but Ezekiel actually was theadministrative manager, Stamford merely the technician. After all, asideman was considered just a sideman, a common labourer.Stamford was the captain, in charge of Ezekiel, the vehicle and all itscontents. Besides, Ezekiel was almost illiterate and dirt-poor.

Nevertheless, as he sat in the passenger seat beside Stamford,Ezekiel reflected about life. How come he did not have 'quattie tohim name' while there was so much money in the van? BecauseEzekiel had overheard the clerks checking out the contents of thecanvas mailbags he was picking up and knew that the bags were fullof enormous sums of money. Ezekiel told himself that even a'wutless' mailbag was richer than he. So he decided to even thescore. After all the politicians were always telling the people that therich got rich by 'teefing from dem, de poor people'. So now he wouldbecome a hero by robbing de rich mailbag'.

Ezekiel might have been ignorant in many ways, but he was nofool. He planned systematically what he would do. He began bygradually acquiring some empty bags which had been thrown onthe floor pending further use. Next, he pocketed a few blank labels.Then one morning he stuffed the bags with blank paper to makethem 'favour de mail dem'. He finally committed himself byaddressing some blank labels in rather untidy block letters andattaching them to the dummy bags, which he managed to load intothe back of the van while Stamford remained in the driver's seat,smoking and reading the newspaper.

Ezekiel's home was Cave Valley and he was dropped off there asthe mail van passed through, Stamford going on to his home inBrown's Town where he spent the night. It was here that he hadjoined the postal service as a boy, delivering mail on foot, then lateron a bicycle, before he graduated to driving the van. In the morning,Ezekiel would rejoin Stamford in Brown's Town and they would resume their journey down the hills to their final destination,the St Ann's Bay post office. Here Ezekiel off-loaded the remainderof the mail. Later in the day they would take on another load for thereturn trip to Kingston.

It was always dark long before the van reached Cave Valley. Onthe fateful night of the theft, Ezekiel had carefully arranged thebags so that when he was dropped off he could jump out of the van'scabin, run round to the rear and collect two of the genuine mailbags along with his coat and battered holdall. As usual. Stamford didnot move from the driver's seat and could not see what Ezekiel wasdoing. A loyalist through and through, it did not occur to the longservice driver that anyone would even think of interfering with theRoyal Mail.

After alighting, Ezekiel spent most of the night digging holes tohide the mailbags in different locations. One was in the graveyard,another not far behind the courthouse building, on a steep hillinfested with rat-bats and seldom frequented. Ezekiel figured hecould safely visit the hiding places whenever it was dark,meanwhile, he would behave normally and pretend to knownothing at all about the missing money bags.

So early the next morning he caught the bus to Brown's Town andwalked across to the post office as usual. Stamford fired the engineas soon as he arrived and they set off to complete their journey.

The loss of the mail was quickly discovered and very soon bankmanagers and several others were angrily calling the policeSuperintendent's office. A rumour went round St Ann that theQueen had been robbed and by midday a calypso had beencomposed about it and was being recorded by the well-knownsinger, The Mighty Fly.

Upstairs in the St Ann's Bay police station. Detective CorporalFitzroy Hinds was sitting at his desk, lovingly oiling his cricket batand wondering if it would be worth getting it bound once more. Ithad split again during the disastrous inter-divisional match againstthe Manchester team the year before, when Hinds had desperatelytried to make up for the loss of his star batsman (see The Corpse that Wouldn't Die). His thoughts of cricket were interrupted by theoffice clerk summoning him to the Super's office. Hinds sighed andreluctantly locked his bat away in the exhibits cupboard where itwas kept along with his boots, cricket pads and gloves.

He clambered down the wooden stairs and stood at attention infront of the Super's desk, hat clasped to his stomach with one hand,the other resting respectfully against the seams of his well-creasedgrey trousers. The Superintendent waved him to a chair.

"Sit down, Hinds, for God's sake." In Hinds's experience this wasa bad sign and meant a lengthy conference and/or a seriousproblem. He was right, for the Super continued:

"Some stupid ass has robbed the bloody mail van and everyoneis screaming at me that if we don't find out who it is there will beno more written communications in Jamaica, or out of it for thatmatter."

Hinds raised one eyebrow and smiled quizzically. "Would that bea bad thing, sir?"

"Depends where you stand. How many letters do you send outfor the cricket club asking for illegal donations?" Hinds's smiledisappeared as his senior officer continued.

"Anyway, I've spoken to HQ and there have been no otherreports, over and above the usual theft and losses due toincompetence. So it seems at first blush, that it's a local job.Probably a new sideman or something, though why it shouldsuddenly happen here today, God only knows. Go and find out whothey are, what their routines are, route and all that, then check theirbackgrounds out locally." He raised his hand. "And yes, you canhave whatever resources you need, within reason. Better getsomeone to talk to the main sorting office in Kingston too. Keep meinformed so I can tell Area HQ how we're getting on."

Hinds called together his three detectives and co-opted a coupleof uniformed men to take statements from the staff at the postoffice. He sent two plain clothes officers to bring the driver and thesideman to the station and take their statements, then he strolledacross the road to hear the rumours in the local rum shop, which was the social centre of St Ann's Bay.

By the time the driver and sideman had been brought to thestation, Corporal Hinds had phoned the Cave Valley and Brown'sTown police and now knew more about the two men than they knewthemselves. This was the price they paid for living in a smallcommunity where everyone knew everyone else's business,especially in places where DC Hinds arranged the curry socials thatfollowed the local cricket matches.

Stamford was ushered into the detective's office, shook handswith the policeman and sat down with some dignity. Hinds movedfrom behind his desk and placed a chair beside the driver. Hecarefully read Stamford's statement out loud, checked all theprocedures and established that Stamford had worked for the postoffice all his life and could produce any amount of evidence tosupport a hitherto unblemished record of loyal service. Thedetective treated the older man with courtesy and understanding,dismissing him in time for him to have a rest and a meal beforedriving back to Kingston.

Ezekiel was a different story. First, he refused to go up the stairsto Hinds's office and had to be marched there by a large constable,who used the traditional police method of propelling him forwardwhile holding Ezekiel by the back of his pants and half lifting him sohe walked on tiptoe. This humiliating posture did not preventEzekiel from hollering so loudly that the Super emerged from hisoffice to see what was going on.

When Ezekiel was released from the embarrassing grip on hispants, he was sat down in front of Hinds's battered wooden desk.The constable stood behind him as the detective read his statementout loud and flicked it across the desk with his fingertips.

"Yu mus' believe I am some kind a quashie police. What kind ofrubbish is this?" Hinds demanded, tapping Ezekiel's statement.

"No sah, I nevva take it; is not me take it; I nuh take nuttin,Massa Hinds, sah. Not I."

Hinds shook his head and pointed the stem of his pipe at Ezekielas if it was an offensive weapon.

The detective jabbed the air accusingly with his pipe stem toemphasize his point. "De Judge, he sit on the Queen's bench and heis going to put you in Spanish Town prison for life. When you comeout, if you do come out, you will be too old to enjoy the money yousteal."

Hinds paused to let this sink in, then said in a much friendliertone: "So if you tell me where you hide the money, I tell the judgeyou make a mistake with the address. You stupid fe true, but youdon't want to tief from the Queen."

Ezekiel was bewildered by the unfairness of the accusation andthe suggestion that the rich mail bags belonged to the Queen, whoas everybody knew, was far richer than even the Americans andlived in a palace. He could not understand why she had a bench forher judges to sit upon. Ezekiel raised his eyebrows till they nearlytouched his curly black hair. His eyes opened wide as he shook hishead to show his astonishment and innocence, but said nothing ashe knew it could be used as "evidence against him".

Hinds scowled at him. "All right, Massa, I will catch you, for sure.Yo g'wan nah. Get yo' rass out." Hinds relit his pipe, the woodenmatch flaring, then he puffed heavily, filling his small office withblue smoke as Ezekiel hurried out of the door and stomped downthe wooden stairs.

That evening Stamford was even more silent than usual as he drovethe mail van back to Kingston. Ezekiel talked almost non-stop,proclaiming his innocence and his outrage at the way the police hadtreated him. Even the mail van seemed strangely subdued, apartfrom occasional squeaks and the odd explosion.

The next day they repeated the journey back to St Ann, Ezekieldisembarking at Cave Valley as usual, leaving Stamford to drive onto Brown's Town for his overnight rest in the company of his wife ofover forty years. As she gave him his dinner they discussed theshameful robbery and Stamford's interview with the policedetective the previous day. Both of them felt quite humiliated and hoped the Queen would not learn of the theft. They knew that shewas a real person; she was not just a picture on a stamp: they hadboth seen her when she had stopped to open a road during a royalvisit (see Royals & Not So Royal).

By the time Ezekiel had jumped off the mail van, DetectiveCorporal Hinds had been to Cave Valley and had personallysearched the small shack where Ezekiel lived with his woman.Ignoring her outraged screams. Hinds had supervised the ruthlessdigging of the yard, which so upset the scrawny fowls that livedthere that they did not lay a single egg for over a week. In addition,any crops Ezekiel and his woman had planted in the thin soil werealso ruined.

As soon as Ezekiel learned that the police had searched his houseand yard, he began to panic. He decided to transfer the contents ofone of the mailbags to his holdall and take it with him next morning.He would hide the money in Brown's Town, he decided: DC Hindswould never look there. He went and dug up the mailbag he hadhidden near the courthouse, emptied it into his holdall and buriedthe empty bag again. Carrying his holdall, he then dug up the otherbag he had hidden in the graveyard and stuffed the cash into twocrocus bags, burying them far apart in the same graveyard.

While he was digging it got darker and darker as heavy rainclouds veiled the moon, the only light coming from the peenywalliesflashing in the dark air. It was quieter too in the graveyardbefore the rain fell. Ezekiel's machete scraped the dry earth, hittingan occasional rock and drowning out the night noises, the croakinglizards and whistling frogs. IHe took so long digging up the originalcanvas sacks and reburying the crocus bags that now contained theQueen's money that he overslept and missed the early morning busto Brown's Town. He started walking in the rain, hoping to be pickedup by some van driving higglers to the early morning market. Hecursed his bad luck, mentally tracing DC Hinds in the mostunflattering terms, even cursing Stamford for leaving him if, for thefirst time, he should be late arriving.

So when the only vehicle to pass him on the lonely dirt road slowed and slopped, Ezekiel ran forward eagerly, his delightinstantly turning to horror as he recognized DC Hinds opening therear door of the police station waggon. Hinds politely invited theunlucky mail robber to get inside and as Ezekiel climbed into theback seat, he was relieved of his battered holdall.

Hinds placed the case on the front seal, switched on the dashlight and opening it, examined the bundles of bank notes itcontained before they resumed driving.

"I'll give you the receipt when we get to Brown's Town," was hisonly comment. He lit his pipe despite the risk of an explosion, as allthe police, including the driver, were basking in the rich fumes ofAppleton Estate rum which they had been consuming all evening asthey waited for Ezekiel to make his move.

At the station, the money was counted and placed in the CID'sexhibit locker. Ezekiel was cautioned for the first time, charged withtheft, searched and given a receipt for the money, which wasretained with his belt and other personal effects. He appeared incourt later that morning and was remanded in custody by themagistrate who was unimpressed hy his explanation that he hadjust found the money and was on his way to return it to the police.

When he was taken back to his cell, Ezekiel found there anotherinmate sitting disconsolately on the wooden bunk, Ezekiel did notespecially care for the look of the man but he decided to make thebest of the situation.

"Wha' happen, man?" he asked.

"Me doan do nutien but dem say I cuss de Inspector im. 'Im is awicked mon fe tell lie pon me! Me no cuss 'im at all. I jus' call 'im ared rass an' 'im make de corporal lock me up.''

The fellow prisoner said he was known as Ackee-eye, adding thathe was an unemployed carpenter and part-time labourer. Neither ofwhich was true because Ackee-eye was a full time police informer,and in fact, Corporal Hinds had arranged for him to be locked up inthe cell so that he could save them all a lot of trouble and earn a cashreward by finding where the rest of the money was hidden.

Ackee-eye waited till after the evening meal before he began to reason with Ezekiel.

"I hear you tief de mail money dem dat belong to de Queen," hebegan. Ignoring Ezekiel's denials, he continued. "Corporal MassaHinds gwine frame you fe life if him no find do money."

Ezekiel remained silent.

"Tomorrow I gone, but you still lock up," Ackee-eye continued,"if you tell me where the money is, I will find it and keep half fe you.More than that, I give you the biggest half."

Ezekiel laughed. "Why should I trust you?"

"You doan have fe trust me. But if the police find the moneywhen they bulldoze the whole of Cave Valley, you get nothing,fo sure. If I find the money, you have a chance to get something.It stand to reason, man." Ackee-eye paused and stared at Ezekiel,trying to determine if his offer was succeeding.

"They going to bring the bauxite machine, you know," he addedin a moment of inspiration. There was no way the police couldinduce anyone to lend them a bulldozer to be transported to CaveValley. But Ezekiel's judgement was clouded and instead ofregarding the indomitable Corporal Hinds as his pursuer, he nowbelieved the Queen to be his opponent.

Ezekiel stared back at his fellow-prisoner, debating with himself.Ackee-eye had shiny jet black eyes that reminded Ezekiel of amongoose. He did not trust him, but there was truth in the fact thatif anybody else found the money he could be sure that he, Ezekiel,would never see any of it again. He had no choice because theQueen would order Corporal Hinds to bulldoze the whole of CaveValley in search of it.

By morning, Ezekiel decided to take a chance, reminding Ackee eyein layman's terms that he was already compounding a felonyand would incur the Queen's rage if he were caught. And caught hewould be unless he behaved honestly and kept his word to Ezekiel,who would otherwise be forced to report him to the law-enforcers.So Ezekiel gave Ackee-eye a roughly-drawn map using the paperand pencil thoughtfully provided by the detective Hinds. Ezekielswopped it for a receipt signed by Ackee-eye.

On his release the next day, Ackee-eye was escorted straight tothe CID Office, where he gave Detective Hinds the map of the CaveValley graveyard, which was desecrated that very afternoon and theremaining cash recovered.

Ackee eye was rewarded. Detective Corporal Fitzroy Hindscongratulated and promoted, and Ezekiel sentenced to six years'imprisonment. The presiding judge remarked that it was abhorrentto him that an employee of the Crown would stoop to such depth asto rob the Royal Mail and damage its long established credibility. Hewent on about the general public's right to place their confidence inthe loyalty of the postal staff. Therefore he had no alternative but tosend him to prison and so forth and so on.

The old van continued to ply its prescribed route, coaxed byStamford and a new sideman; the banks were reassured. Hindsbought himself a new cricket bat. The Superintendent was includedin the Queen's Birthday Honours List and received the Queen'sPolice Medal.

Everything was more or less as it should be once more.

All the Queen's Horses...

"You beat us again, Fitz! It's like you do nothing but play cricket,"the middle-aged captain from the Jamaica Defence Force exclaimedas he shook hands with the policeman who had just led his team tovictory against the soldiers. Captain Wellington Jameson was stillwearing his khaki battle fatigues and beret. "What happen to crimein St Ann? Maybe when I come to settle down here I should take torobbing banks, or is it the Royal Mail?" They both laughed asDetective Corporal Fitzroy Hinds allowed himself to be guidedtowards a large red cooler filled with bottles floating on blocks ofhalf-melted ice. Hinds gratefully accepted a Red Stripe beer. Allaround him beside the improvised pitch near Moneague where theJDF had their training camp, thirsty cricketers from both teams weredoing the same.

Hinds lowered the bottle at last. "So you're going to settle in StAnn when you retire?" he asked. "How long have you got to go?"

The captain shook his head. "I'm not retiring, I'm leaving. Myparents have that place outside Discovery Bay and we're going to fixit up a bit and put up some self-serve tourist units beside the water.Six of them actually. The wife and I will run it."

Hinds looked surprised. "I know your people have a place therebut I never knew you were married."

"I'm not...yet," Jameson said with a smile. "My fiancee is stillworking - she's with Arawak Air in New York, but she'll be movinghere after we're married."

The captain, clad in a pair of ragged khaki shorts, a brightlycoloured striped shirt and leather sandals, met the police officerand, as anticipated, invited him in for a drink. He led the waythrough the old bungalow, then out to the side facing the sea. Hindsshambled after him, across the original veranda and down to anewly-paved patio that surrounded a kidney-shaped swimmingpool. There was a small bar at one end and some steps leading downto the sea where a small boat was pulled up on the sand. Jamesonturned from the fridge holding two glasses filled with ice andreached under the counter to pour two stiff drinks.

The men were chatting and the captain about to pour a seconddrink when Juanita made her entrance. Her appearance took thedetective's breath away. She certainly was a stunner, he thought,as he took in the voluptuous curves framed by a casual butexpensive silk sheath dress. As she acknowledged the introductionthen sank gracefully into a chaise and lifted her neat Italian platformsandals, the detective mentally noted that Jameson might havea problem keeping up with her wardrobe requirements. And hecould not help wondering about the contrast in their attire forthe evening.

The new Mrs Jameson was originally from the DominicanRepublic, he learnt, but had relocated to New York when she joinedArawak Air. She was explaining that as she was the localrepresentative, she and her husband would still get free flights onevery route.

"I can travel wherever they go," she said, with a soft Hispanicaccent. "And there are quite a few marketing meetings in the Statestoo, so..."

The detective would have cause to remember this particularitem of information a year later.

Then Juanita stood up in one fluid movement. "Would you like tocome and see our guest units?" she invited, waving well-manicuredpink nails towards the new block that had just been built.

Hinds was impressed by all he saw on the tour; the Jamesons hadcertainly put in a lot of work, he thought, but he was also vaguelyaware of an undercurrent of tension between the couple, Juanitawas not only beautiful but looked at least twenty-five years youngerthan her husband. As he drove away feeling the warm glow of therum, Hinds knew in his bones that something was wrong. Apartfrom the fact that the couple were oddly-matched partners inalmost every way, there was an uneasy sense of role-reversal: he wasthe housekeeper, she the entrepreneur. The detective could notquite put his finger on it, sensing some latent hostility betweenthem. But he did not speculate on the outcome.

The months went by. Hinds spoke to the Jamesons on the phone butdid not see them. At the end of a hot dry summer, winter wasintroduced by an irritating series of severe 'northers'. When theblustering of the winds abated enough, the most optimistic of thefishermen put to sea again to lay their pots off the coral reefs.

One of the fishermen was called Monkey Ears. Scrounging,stealing and smuggling were all part of his stock-in-trade, and hemade a point of investigating anything unusual in the hope ofsecuring some benefit. So when one overcast grey dawn he noticeda flock of birds swooping and fighting over a point of sharphoneycomb rocks inside the reef, he paddled towards the spot.

His curiosity was rewarded with a sight he would never forget.High on the surf line something was wedged into the honeycombrock. Something dark and fleshy, swollen and putrid in a damp sortof way, like a human torso that had been in the water for a week.

Monkey Bars stood up, nearly tipping his canoe as he franticallystarted the outboard engine and headed for the nearest haven.

At the St Ann's Bay Police Station, concealed behind a thickcloud of tobacco smoke, Detective Corporal Hinds and ActingCorporal Walcott, one of the office clerks, were discussing tacticsand going over the batting order for the next inter-divisional cricketmatch when the call came through. Hinds swore at the interruptionof serious business, but took up the phone and listened to anexcited corporal calling from Discovery Bay, raising one hand toscratch the top of his crinkly head of hair with the stem of his pipeas his eyebrows rose higher and higher.

Ten minutes later, the old police station wagon was rolling out ofthe parking area behind the St Ann's Bay station, turning sharplyinto the main street, tyres screaming excitedly as the driver gunnedthe Ford engine and noisily changed gear. Inside, the detectiveconstable charged with behaving like a one-man scene-of-crimeexpert, was untidily packing film into a large camera case.

Two hours later, the officer in charge of the St Ann Division wason the phone to area headquarters reporting the grisly find andsoon after lunch the telephone rang in an air conditioned office ofthe Jamaica Constabulary in Kingston. It was answered by the youngSuperintendent who was acting as Assistant Commissioner (Crime),familiarly referred to as the ACP. He listened carefully until theofficer at Area 2, Highgate, finished his report then gave hisinstructions:

"Right, St Ann's probably going to need some help. First, we'dbetter get some back-up for the local medical officer becausesooner or later we're going to need expert forensic advice." The ACPfurrowed his brow, then continued. "So first, if we can be sure ofthe cause of death, it will be a help. We must establish how thehead was removed. If it was chopped off, it is probably a case ofmurder, but may not be, so we can't jump to conclusions yet."He listened for a while. "Any chance of finding it? Yes I know. Howabout hands and feet?" The telephone crackled some more in shortbursts of static. "No! I was afraid of that. I suppose the body waswashed up during that norther. Any ideas how she got there?Pitched from a boat or what?"

The Jamaican telephone system was notoriously unreliable inthe country parts and the officers had to speak quite loudly to eachother while the phones alternated between gradual fades and loudstatic. The senior officer continued to give instructions thenannounced that he would drive over. "Better meet me in St Ann thisevening and I'll bring Sergeant Brooks and a couple of others fromthe scene-of-crime section, " he announced, "I'll call forensic too, sothey can send a specialist to the post mortem. Make sure the MOholds off till he gets there."

The ACP was delighted to be able to turn his attention to aserious crime despite the fact that his weekend plans for sailingwould he cancelled. He was well aware that the discovery of anunidentified corpse posed special problems. He contacted thegovernment forensic office and requested the help of someone whocould give technical advice during the investigation and expertevidence in the event of an arrest. Then he went home to pack a bagand reorganize his weekend.

That evening three senior officers attended the post mortemexamination. Afterwards the body was packed in ice and driven to alaboratory in Kingston for further examination and there was aconference in the St Ann's Bay police station. The search of the areawhere the body was found was abandoned for the night.

A week later, little progress had been made by detectivesthroughout Jamaica searching for missing persons. The ACP wastempted to institute a check throughout the Caribbean and even ofpossible visitors from the US, but he was discouraged by theimmensity of the task. Somehow he felt that the mystery would besolved in St Ann, possibly even in Discovery Bay.

Every experienced investigator knows that if a case is not clearedup within the first twenty-four hours, the chances of solving amurder diminish daily. So far, all that had been established was theresult of the post-mortem: the body was that of a female aged in herlate twenties to early thirties. She was five feet four tall, small boned,in good health with average physical characteristics, no scars oridentifying marks. The amount of water in the lungs and stomach indicated that the cause of death was probably drowning, but thiswas circ*mstantial and would be difficult to prove under theconditions in which the body had been found. The head had beencut off by a sharp implement, the ankles bound together after death,as indicated by the slight marking the rope made on the cadaver'sskin. Six feet of rope dangled free of the body, which appeared tohave been attached to a weight, anchoring it until it broke free in theunderwater turbulence and rough seas, caused by the surfacewinds. The estimated five or six days immersion in a rough sea hadresulted in serious deterioration of the flesh, which wascompounded by fish nibbling at extremities before and after thenorther subsided. The subsequent result was the destruction ofidentifiable finger and palm prints. The investigators were left solelywith a female body whose dimensions they could accurately record.

Little progress was made during the days that followed. Theinitial problem of lack of identification persisted, although theinvestigators kept pressing the forensic laboratory for facts.

Then they had one of those sudden breaks. The pathologylaboratory at last confirmed their suspicion that the body had beendyed soon after death, they identified the dye used as a fluidresulting from boiling the heart of logwood chips. The informationwas passed down the line to the detective office in St Ann's Baywhere Corporal Hinds was desperately attempting to close the casefile in time for the forthcoming cricket match. When he heard thenews he was simultaneously elated and downcast. Pleased that henow had something to work on and might even be able to solve thecase; distressed because his hopes of being able to complete theinvestigation in time for the game were irrevocably dashed.

He sat down with the local Superintendent and discussed thestartling development.

"Well sir, you know the Jamaican saying, 'Every John Crow tinkhim pickney white'?" Hinds asked. The Superintendent nodded. "Itwould seem that somebody doesn't want us to think on those lines.So the question is, what sort of complexion did she have, dark brown to white? She might not even be Jamaican, you know. Can'tthe forensic people be more specific?"

"I doubt it at this stage," the Superintendent replied. "The onlything they added was that the body seemed to have been dipped inthe dye rather than dabbed, and the toe and fingernails still hadsome naked polish on them. It's puzzling why the killer, or whoever,took off the head, left on the hands after taking the trouble to dyethe body."

"I would guess he was pretty sure we would never find the body,and if we did, it would be far too decomposed to matter. He mayhave been in a hurry, or thought it would be more dangerous if hecut her up into too many parts. It really depends on who she wasand the circ*mstances. We can't be sure it was even murder."

The Superintendent groaned. He had recently been transferredto the division and was very conscious of his lack of localknowledge. "You're right of course, Hinds, I wonder if the lab cananswer your question at all. But obviously someone wants us to lookfor a missing woman with a dark complexion, or as the ID forms putit, 'dark black', So we had better start from the assumption that thedead woman originally had a white or brown complexion."

"Or was Chinese, or part Chinese, or..." and here Hinds had aflash of inspiration, "maybe she was Hispanic."

"I suppose you're right. Maybe we'll find the head and be able toget dental records or some features reconstructed. But we can'tcount on any such luck. Better step up the search for missing ladiesof the right age and build with lighter complexions. I'll talk to theACP about it again. The search will probably have to be expandedrather than shortened. You gut any ideas?"

"Well, maybe...just maybe," Hinds said distractedly, "Let mecheck something out, sir."

Ten minutes later Hinds was back in his own office upstairs, wherehe lit his pipe and called for the CID station wagon.

The corporal in charge of the police station at Discovery Bay wassitting at a battered public works desk, thumbing through a pile of buff-coloured files when he heard the unmistakable sound of theold Ford's engine and was delighted when the detective walkedthrough the charge room door. He was a back-up bowler on thecricket team and Hinds was an old friend.

After they had exchanged greetings and talked briefly about theforthcoming divisional match, Hinds sighed, lit his pipe and sankdown on a rickety wooden chair.

"You know the IDF Captain - Jameson?" he demanded. It was arhetorical question. He knew the corporal knew everyone in his areaand particularly those who were applicants for a licence to sellspirits.

The corporal nodded.

"You seen Mrs Jameson lately?"

"No, they're not there. I know because I called round the otherday. The only person there is the captain's old mother."

"Where they gone?"

The corporal shrugged. "Off the island, that's all she told me."Hinds sighed. "I want to look at the place while you talk with themother."

The corporal was stunned as the implication hit him. "My God,you don't think is she?"

"Corporal Faulkes," said Hinds dramatically, "I don't think.I feel!"

So while the uniformed corporal interviewed the old lady. Hindswandered round the property, not sure what he was looking for. Hestood in the bush at the back of the main house and staredunseeingly at some scraggy-looking cattle standing in the shadeunder a clump of coconut trees. Hinds pushed his battered trilbyback on his head and mopped the sweat off his brow as he tried tofocus on his task. The body had been totally immersed, but in what?He began by looking for a cattle dip. He knew all the farms usedarsenic dips to keep down the tick population on livestock. When hefound the dip, with a ramp cut in either end and sealed with cement,it was surrounded by a mud patch bare of the crab grass that grewall around in the paddock and half-filled with a muddy dark brown liquid. An old sump petrol-driven pump was beside it. He shook hishead. There was no sign of any dye but the fluid was so filthy it washard to tell.

The detective turned and looked towards the sea, a shining silvermirror that seemed to merge into a cloudless grey-blue sky. Thenorther was still around, he thought, early for the time of year. Heglanced back at the cows. They were moving at a leisurely pacetowards an old bath that served as a water trough. A midday drinkbefore lunch, he idly thought, Then it struck him. A bath! The watertrough was an old bath! He hurried across the rough crab grass thatsprouted through the red soil and stood gazing down at themahogany-brown depths of the once white bath, now filled with adark oily fluid. Corporal Hinds ran his hand through the liquid anddisturbed the water level so he could see the solid rim of dark stainunder the surface. He withdrew his dripping hand and stood backthoughtfully staring at the tub, absent-mindedly pulling out hispipe, reaching back to his hip pocket and producing a tobaccopouch. He lit his pipe with a battered metal lighter and puffingsmoke like an old tramp steamer, ambled back to where the CIDvehicle was parked, climbing in beside the corporal who wassweating profusely.

"But it hot, man," he groaned, wiping the back of his stripeduniform shirt collar with a huge crimson handkerchief.

Hinds's only response was to explain that after dark he intendedto come back with a sterilized bottle or two and a machete to collectsome samples to be sent to the government chemist for analysis.

Early on the Saturday morning following these events, theSuperintendent who was acting as ACF was interviewing the chiefexecutive of Arawak Air in Montego Bay who was at first reluctant togive out information, until he was told the police wanted toeliminate Juanita Jameson as a murder victim. "We merely want tolocate her and establish that she is alive," the Super assured him.

The executive agreed to discreetly check whether the womanhad taken a flight anywhere on the airline or if anyone knew of herwhereabouts. Consulting a thick file which his secretary brought in, he was able to say she was not travelling on company business."But that does not exclude a free pass to any of our routes," headded. "Juanita could have left someone to run the agency in OchoRios for a couple of days and not informed us here. I'll get thereservations people to check on that next."

He also revealed some facts about Juanita that were new to thepoliceman; that she had had to leave New York because the FBI hadcontacted the airline and informed them that she was involved insome sort of investigation "which had the whiff of organized crime".The policeman immediately thought this gave him a new angle onthe case.

"The Immigration people took away her green card and Juanitawas demoted after her immigration status had been changed. But," - and the executive raised a cautionary hand - "as far as Arawak Airwas concerned it was all unsubstantiated rumour. We continued toconsider her a very effective employee. But as she could not workany more in the States, well, we had no alternative but to move orfire her. At about that time, she met this army captain, got marriedand moved here. So it all worked out."

"Very conveniently," the policeman thought but did not say.

The airline official paused to draw on his cigar. "She's a goodemployee, an achiever, no doubt about that." He paused again andthought for a while. "The FBI thing really concerned her live-in boyfriend, some son of diplomat at the UN who blotted his copy booksomehow and it rubbed off on her." He looked up and took the cigarout of his mouth, delicately flicking the ash.

"It's going to take a while to see if any free passes have beenissued and used, so you had better come and see me on Mondaywhen I should have some information. But all this is strictlybetween us as far as your source is concerned. I'm sure you knowthat we can't be seen as police informants."

That suited the ACP perfectly.

Corporal Hinds spent the weekend the way he liked: playing cricket.The burdens of criminal investigation fell from his shoulders as he bowled out one opposing batsman alter another, then supervisedpreparations for the curried goat feed while his team was batting. Thewhole thing was a great success and on Monday morning thedetective was ready to devote himself unreservedly to the 'HeadlessCorpse' enquiry as the media had dubbed the case.

The ACP had spent the weekend in Montego Bay and arranged tostop in St Ann on the way back to Kingston. When he arrived soonafter lunch and convened a meeting with Hinds and the divisionalSuperintendent, Hinds was able to hand around the notes he hadspent the morning painfully typing out.

Logwood, originally imported to Jamaica from CentralAmerica (Honduras). Common in Caribbean, evergreenbrownish, used in dyes and for charcoal. Containsmetallic mordants & glucoside also salt for blue & blackdyes. Factory Spanish Town. Blends with fabrics.

Hinds added the notes made from interviewing the Jamesons'servants which confirmed that the couple had recently been on badterms with each other and that they both had left suddenly withoutany announcement of their departure or indication of where theywere going or when returning. The maid had noticed that someclothes and toilet effects were missing.

The ACF brought them up to date. He began by announcing thatArawak Air had come through with a little more information. Nofree passes had been issued to the Jamesons. In addition he hadbeen told on the phone that morning that the immigration branch'sefforts to locate any sort of departure record from the island hadproved fruitless. He himself had cabled the FBI and requested all background information concerning Juanita's stay in New York andany immigration records of recent entry to the US from Jamaica.Then he took an official huff envelope out of his briefcase andhanded Hinds a collection of twelve-by-eight inch glossies - photosof Juanita given him by the airline.

"Assuming she is the same person, Juanita Jameson, the one onthe left? Has she changed much? You've met her, I gather?''There was an anxious hush while the detective studied thephotographs, which were in full colour and showed two youngwomen in Arawak Air uniforms.

Hinds nodded. "Yes that's her on the left, the shorter one, in thedress, without the wings on her blazer. She looks exactly the samesir. Beautiful. It a shame if she's the one."

He sighed heavily and passed the photographs on to theSuperintendent, who studied them intently as the ACF continued:"Yes, she certainly is - or was - quite lovely. That may have beenthe problem. Anyway, now we have to get the lab people to workout the height, approximate weight and measurements, thenmatch them with the body. When we have established her identity,and if she was murdered, we then have to convince a hunch ofcynical lawyers, a judge and twelve jurors, all of whom may he quitehostile to the police. We know how reluctant judges and juriesare to convict in murder trials because of the death sentence. Then,she was from the Dominican Republic so probably not muchsympathy for the foreigner. We all know what a Jamaican jury is like.You can bet that if we find the killer he will claim it was an accidentall the way to the gallows."

The speech was followed by a gloomy silence since they all knewit to be true. Like most experienced law-enforcement officers, allthree had in the past been mauled by juries' verdicts.

The ACP resumed his summation. "But we are nowhere near thatstage. All we have is some very circ*mstantial evidence. We musttake one step at a time and establish it beyond reasonable doubt,then move on logically to the next step. Do not presume or concludeanything unless you have made sure we can prove it. If you have any doubts, for God's sake discuss it with me before you leap in withboth feet. Deal in facts."

The meeting dragged on for another hour, Eventually, on thebasis of Hinds's report, and regardless of the ACP's homily, theyconcluded that the logwood lady was probably the late JuanitaJameson and that if the forensic evidence backed up the theory,there were just about sufficient grounds to issue a search warrant.

With the ACP's agreement, the following Wednesday a searchwarrant was signed by a friendly Justice of the Peace. Hinds andthree detectives and a policewoman in plain clothes drove toDiscovery Bay to execute it. But first they visited the police station,where Corporal Faulkes was co-opted. Ten minutes later the searchparty parked the Ford wagon in front of the main house. To theirsurprise, they were met by Captain Jameson himself. Coming downthe steps, he shook the detective's hand then expressedastonishment and some irritation when the warrant was read tohim. With an obvious effort he controlled himself and waved theminside. The captain showed Hinds into the room he used as an officeand after some hesitation went to the desk, opened the drawer andheld out a letter which he invited the detective to read, whichpurportedly had come from Juanita announcing she had left him.The paper it was written on bore the heading of a hotel in MiamiBeach, the date recent, but there was no matching envelope. Thecaptain said he had thrown it away.

Hinds made a note of the Miami Beach address then began tosearch the room while his colleagues went through the rest of thehouse, the guest units and the grounds. Depending on the results ofthe initial search, a more extensive examination of the cattle troughwas tentatively being planned which would include forensic expertsfrom Kingston.

The police group took particular interest in various lengths ofrope, found stored in the back of the outside bar. The bar waslocated between the pool patio where Hinds had sat talking to theJamesons months earlier, and the nearby beach. A rough path led from the patio down to a sandy beach where small waves lappedgently as the fresh water of a shallow stream met the sea. A canoetugged at its anchor as if anxious to escape over the reef and avoidthe search. A speedboat was pulled further up on the beach out ofthe water. One of the detectives went to summon Hinds, who raisedhis hand to hold the others back as he walked down the steps andexamined the two craft without touching either of them, eventhough he had to paddle out to the canoe and squat over the water.

Hinds and the policewoman spent a long time in the bedroomgoing through clothes and drawers, watched by Captain jameson.They pushed aside hangers bearing dress after dress in a walk-inclothes cupboard. To one side hung a rack of shoes all bearingnames like Ferragamo, Chanel, Charles Jordan. The detective knewhe could never reckon how many thousands of dollars hung on theracks or sat on shelves.

By way of contrast, the captain's walk-in closet was almostempty, a few old military dress uniforms, long retired from activeservice, hung beside three or four tropical suits, some casualpants and colourful shirts. Boots and shoes were piled untidily atthe back.

The policewoman examined the dressing table to see if she couldlocate anything that no woman would leave home without. Therewas a formidable array of cosmetics, a few pieces of jewellery and inthe drawers, wispy lace underwear, stockings and accessories. Asearch of the bathroom revealed the same. Spare toothbrush, ratherworn; cosmetics appearing casually abandoned hut no firmevidence of interrupted usage. The captain quietly pointed out thathis wife had taken an airline hold-all and a large suitcase with her.The paradox that ran through the officers' minds as they executedthe warrant was, how could a prematurely retired army officerpossibly pay for all this?

Three hours later the police party left, taking with them ropes,samples of Mrs Jameson's dresses, uniforms, underclothes, severalpairs of shoes and jewellery. Hinds gravely issued a receipt toCaptain Jameson, who smiled wryly.

"Need anything else belonging to my wife, Mr Hinds?" hesarcastically enquired.

"Yes sir. I need an address where she can be reached."

Jameson did not reply.

The old wagon drove away bearing the search party's trophies.The items collected were taken to Kingston for further examination.A forensic specialist went back to the Jameson place and made athorough examination of the two boats to try and determine if therewas anything at all to link them with the body. The grounds werethoroughly searched again but there was no sign of the missinghead.

Hinds was put on a flight to Miami after a briefing by the ACP. Hismission: to talk to the FBI and the Dade County police.

A few days later, the Attorney-General of Jamaica and one of thecrown counsels were discussing the 'Headless Corpse' case with theActing Commissioner of Police.

"The results of our enquiries in the US have been negative,rather as we expected. I'm afraid." he informed them. "The law enforcementagencies have been very helpful but they can find notrace of Juanita Jameson and there is no immigration record of herentry into the States during the last three months, certainly notunder her own name. The FBI have been unusually informative,presumably on account of the possible connection to a New Yorkcrime cartel, but there does not appear to be much there. She wasonly guily by association through her job at the airline. Herboyfriend may have been more involved, but at the time he wastransferred to Central Africa, Mauritania to be precise, as a UNlabour adviser, so we can count him out."

"It seems that all we have now is circ*mstantial evidence,Superintendent," said the Attorney General as he raised hiseyebrows far above his heavy, horn-rimmed spectacles. He was afleshy Jamaican of European stock.

"Well we have a body. We have some forensic evidence and wehave opportunity," the ACF replied. "We also have motive. Captain Jameson's life was the army, his career could hardly be described asspectacular, but he was about to get his majority when he marriedher and resigned. A confirmed bachelor whose ambition was toreach field rank. He takes out a huge mortgage on his parents'estate, shoves them aside and sets her up as partner/manager/director of their new business, renting self-contained units totourists. She is quite a sophisticate. Her upkeep costs are high, veryhigh. Within six months he is financially crippled."

He paused to note that he held their interest.

"The business does not take off, but she does, announcing thatshe expects alimony and a hefty settlement. He must sell upeverything or let her have it as a settlement - debt free. He can't.Being a military man, he thinks attack is the best method of defence.He plans to kill her and dispose of the body rather than fake anaccidental death. Too risky in his view. Better just let her memoryfade away, who will care to involve themselves in a police enquiryanyway? She has no relatives to speak of, apparently not even in theD.R.. He forges a couple of letters, collects the logwood chips and isnearly ready when something happens. Maybe she announces thatshe is off that day and he will hear from her lawyers. On the spur ofthe moment he drowns her, probably in the new swimming pool,then puts the rest of his plan into action. The servants were off forthe day, so it was a Sunday. She had an open ticket to Miami with theairline, a staff pass to be used any time like a flight attendantdeadheading. But now we know she never used it. She disappeared."

The Attorney General shook his head. He took off his glasses andwiped them with a white handkerchief. The crown counselscratched his head. He had made copious notes, but said nothing. Ifone word could be used to describe the AG, it would be 'bland',while the crown prosecutor's would be 'frayed'. His clothes all haddelicate fringes of worn cuffs, cracked shoes, a frayed collar.Sartorial elegance was definitely not his forte.

"Let's just go over the evidence we have again, shall we?" The AGran his tongue over his lip. "I know that the forensic people and themedical faculty at the University have built a mould that exactly resembles the torso which you are preserving as evidence. How doyou propose to bring that into the Circuit Court or even thepreliminary hearings before the Resident Magistrate?"

"The plastic model has been recreated from life-sizedphotographs and has been compared to the actual remains," thepoliceman explained. "We intend to produce the original hands andfeet, then introduce that part of the model and match the rings andshoes. Finally, the torso mould to fit the clothes on. There is also thecomparison of the marks left by the rope that anchored the body tothe sea bottom till it was frayed right through during the norther."

The AG steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the desk. Heclosed his eyes, seemingly lost in thought. Finally he spoke:

"Before we can issue a warrant for the man's arrest, we must besure of our facts. Also, as things stand, even if you charge CaptainJameson with his wife's murder, you would have a hard timeopposing bail."

The ACP sighed, but made no further comment until themeeting was over and he was walking down the corridor with thecrown counsel without a warrant to arrest Captain WellingtonMontgomery Jameson until he had been duly cautioned and askedto make a statement.

That evening he visited the mortuary at the University CollegeHospital and saw the plastic replicas of the body, hands and feet,watched while the torso was dressed, the stockings and court shoespulled on and the rings fitted on the plastic fingers. He did not stayto view the original remains but accepted the assurance that themeasurements were exact.

The next day Corporal Hinds invited Captain Jameson toaccompany him to the Discovery Bay police station where theywould discuss the law-enforcement agencies' inability to locate hiswife in the USA. Jameson was formally cautioned and invited tomake a statement. He did so, but it was at variance with the versionthe ACP had outlined to the Attorney-General.

One Sunday morning, Jameson said, he had been finishing breakfast by the pool when Juanita, fully-dressed in her blue andgold Arawak Air uniform and carrying an airline holdall, came andannounced that she was leaving.

"You will hear from my lawyers," she had announced.

Jameson said they had had a row the night before, as usual overmoney and the surrender of his career to meet her demands. Heclaimed that in a fit of rage, he had grabbed Juanita and flung herinto the pool and immediately stormed off inside the house. After awhile, he calmed down and hearing no sound, he had returned andfound her inert body floating face down in the pool. He had draggedher out and tried to revive her, without success, and had noticedthat she had a wound on her head. He surmised that she had beenstunned by hitting her head going into the pool and that had causedher to drown since she was a good swimmer. He had panicked,Jameson admitted, his only interest then being to hide the body. Hehad cut off her head to hide her identity in case the body was foundand for the same reason he had dyed it, then dumped the remainsin the sea. Later, he forged the letter and hoped that Juanita wouldbecome a fading memory. She had no dependents or close relativesand worked by herself. He had planned to send a letter announcingher resignation to Arawak Air.

Sitting, facing the accused as he told his story. Hinds had toadmit to himself that it all sounded quite logical. He leaned back asJameson lit a cigarette.

"How come you happened to have logwood chips around whenit happened," he asked.

"I was making some dye to paint over the new units. The salt gelson them and it has to be renewed all the time. It's not hard to boillogwood chips on a farm you know."

"Where did you get rid of the body and the head? The suitcasetoo, I suppose?"

"God knows. I took the canoe and paddled beyond the reef thensank the torso with a lump of concrete tied on the end of a rope,paddled further out and dumped the clothes in a crocus bag withrocks, the head in another. I thought that would be the end of it all."

"Was your wife bleeding when she hit her head going intothe pool?"

Jameson shook his head but did not reply.

Hinds took his pipe out of his mouth and said harshly: "Let metell you how I think it went, Jameson. I think you took a machete andchopped off her head because there was no head injury. I think youplanned the whole thing. When she told you she was leaving, youhad to act quickly. You threw her in the pool and held her there byher legs till she had drowned, then you tied her ankles and let herdangle there. That's why there were rope marks on her ankles."

Jameson jumped up and paced furiously up and down. "No...noman, nothing like that. I was mad, yes, but I didn't kill her. I thoughtI loved her... but later she showed what a bitch she really was... Inever really knew her. She ruined me. I know that's a motive, butyou'll find out anyway. She was a bitch, you know."

Hinds made no comment as he passed the written statementover for Jameson's signature. He knew in his bones that his ownversion of events was the correct one. But if Jameson stuck to hisstory, there was no way they could prove it,

Jameson, to his surprise, was allowed to go home.

Despite the repeated cautions of his lawyer, who had arrangedfor a leading Queen's Counsel to come from Trinidad to plead for thedefence, Jameson made a full statement immediately after his arrestwhich was essentially the same as the first. His solicitor then urgedthat the charges be dropped or reduced to the illegal concealmentof a body or, at worst, manslaughter. On the strength of thisargument, the Resident Magistrate who presided over thepreliminary hearing, allowed bail.

Captain Jameson returned home. It must have been just beforedawn that he took his service revolver, placed it against his temple,and shot himself.

Police-Can't-Catch-MeOil

WILLIE WAS BAD. Had he been born a hundred years earlier hewould have been hanged as a brigand or perhaps a pirate,depending on the circ*mstances of his capture.

Willie's band of twentieth-century rogues would set forth fromKingston in a stolen car or truck equipped with bogus licence plates.Driving deep into the countryside, to the rolling pastures of St Annor the flat savannah of Westmoreland, they would follow up earlierreconnaissance trips to spot potential targets. There, amidstpastoral surroundings, late at night or in the pre-dawn hours, theywould park their vehicle. Sometimes they ignored the furiousbarking of local dogs, sometimes they silenced them with druggedmeat. Then taking their razor-sharp machetes, they would slash theleg of a sleepy cow, almost severing the hoof, and wrap the woundin a sack before the animal could bleed to death. The small holderor farmer hearing the agonized bellows of one of his livestock,would rush out to find out what was wrong. In his dismay, he wouldfall an easy victim of the smooth-talking city slicker, who offered animmediate solution to the problem. Cash, always less than half thebeast's real value, free slaughter and transportation of the carcass.The dead animal would be driven back to the city fordismemberment and early sale to butchers willing to deal with theblack market and pay the price.

As time went by, Willie's villainous gang became bolder, despitethe formation of a special police anti-black market squad and theoccasional scuffles with the law. The price only went up and there was an increase of police raids on butchers' shops.

In addition to his black market meat empire, Willie owned asinister black cutter of some fifty tons, the flagship of his marinebranch. Although it had huge, rust-coloured sails that sagged in anunseamanlike manner and were seldom furled, the vessel wasdriven by a noisy diesel engine. The engine belched black smokefrom an inadequate chimney, situated aft over the wheelhouse,whose wooden deckhead had long ago been replaced by sheets ofcorrugated iron.

Not a keen sailor himself, Willie despatched his cutter and itsmotley crew to raid the Booby Cays, some thirty nautical miles fromKingston. It was here that the local fishermen camped on the sandyshore, and using dugout canoes equipped with high-poweredoutboard engines, blew fish out of the water with dynamite (a highlyillegal practice). Willie's piratical crew simply dynamited thefishermen and their craft, then collected the catch.

During the season when the booby bird eggs (which areprotected) were collected to provide a special delicacy, the waterpolice would borrow the harbour master's barge. the MV LadyHuggins, and patrol the Cays. However, the Lady Huggins, despiteher name, was an old wooden workhorse whose main function was to replace buoys and tend to various harbour navigation lights.Whenever she hove into sight, Willie's cutter would disappear hulldownover the horizon.

Willie lived in some splendour in the shanty town off the SpanishTown Road. He had joined several ramshackle houses togetherunder one tin roof to form one dwelling, where he lived with all histribe. The floor was covered with imitations of rich oriental carpets,the chairs and couch consisted of overstuffed plastic in the worst oftaste. Willie's bar was stocked with every conceivable and someinconceivable beverages. Willie himself held sway behind anenormous mahogany desk, and ruled his family with an iron fist.

Willie had a much younger brother called Cho-cho. Cho-cho wasalso a bad lad, but in a different way. He was as thin as Willie was fat,tall as Willie was short, handsome in a gigolo kind of way as his elderbrother was ugly. In addition, the meaning of the so-called workethic had entirely escaped Cho-cho, whose passions were gambling,ganja and girls, in that order. He represented a financial drag as faras Willie was concerned and so was the recipient of frequenthomilies about settling down and earning money instead ofspending it. These fell on deaf ears.

One day Cho-cho was indulging in two of his favourite pastimes:gambling and ganja. He was playing dice in one of the many illegalgaming establishments that consisted mainly of an unfinishedbuilding, bare except for a concrete floor and tin roof held up bywooden poles, Chicken wire formed the walls, with privacy assuredby the spread of flattened cardboard boxes tied to the wires.

Cho-cho sat with a group of three others, smoking pot from achillum pipe, drinking and throwing dice. They made a lot of noisewhich got louder as they got higher. (The chillum pipe is a stubbyclay affair with marijuana stuffed in the thick end and a small roundstone jammed into the thinner end.) When the pipe became hotthey wrapped it in a dirty cloth and passed it from hand to hand atdecent intervals, enabling each of the four young men to inhale thewicked weed.

Unfortunately, Cho-cho's concept of a decent interval was at variance with that of his neighbour who, in Cho-cho's view, heldthe pipe for too long. Becoming more and more impatient forhis turn, Cho-cho eventually drew a sharp knife and stabbed theman. Mortally wounded, the man fell off his chair and sprawled onhis back, eyes staring sightlessly at the tin roof. Recognizing a crisis,the other three, together with the proprietor and a couple ofspectators, vanished like snow in a heat wave. The body lay thereundiscovered for a day or so, until rumours of the crime reachedthe Denham Town Police Station.

Two uniformed constables, despatched by a bored dutysergeant, were quick to call in and hand the whole matter over to thespecialists of the Criminal investigation Department, who in turnpassed the buck to the inspector in charge. With some foresight, theinspector, an elderly grizzled police professional, decided to avoidthe responsibility of having another unsolved murder on his booksso referred the killing to headquarters at Central Station.

Long before other more enlightened police forces had set upSWAT teams, the Kingston division had created a special groupknown only as the 'Flying Saucers'. This hand-picked body hadoriginated as the Water Police vice squad, whose activities andinterests gradually expanded under the enlightened leadership oftwo junior assistant superintendents. So it was that since nobodywanted it, the case of the unidentified gambler was passed to theattention of the Flying Saucers.

The two Supers conferred with the senior Superintendent incharge of the Kingston division and it was agreed that some guilewas needed to crack the case. Guile often costs money and takestime. The first step was to identify the victim, then the killer andfinally to catch him or her. A wide net of informants spurred on bypromises of reward, began to make discreet enquiries in Kingston'swest end. It was not long before the victim and assailant wereidentified by various girl friends, who had been recipients of pillowtalk and subsequent cash rewards. Needless to say, it was alsoestablished that the alleged murderer had disappeared.

At that time, nearly a million people lived in Kingston and the suburbs of Si Andrew. Somewhere among them Cho-cho washiding, aided by his brother who had many connections, includingseveral on the waterfront. Rumour had it that his big brother wasalready in the process of arranging for Cho-cho's transportation toBelize, the Bahamas or another Caribbean island. The prospects didnot bode well for the Flying Saucers. But they had initiative.

First, they assembled everything known, supposed andpresumed about Cho-cho and his immediate family. Burning themidnight oil, the two Superintendents sifted through all thematerial, sorting fact from Fiction. They noted Cho-cho'sweaknesses and decided to exploit them: he loved women, liked toback the odds in a game of chance and was superstitious.

They needed an obeah woman.

The two police officers agreed that it should not be difficult forthe Flying Saucers to set up a sting but any old bag would not beaccepted by Cho-cho. They needed to find an informant who wasboth physically and professionally attractive. As it happened, justsuch a person fell into their hands, having been scooped up onHanover Street, the heart of the red light district. In Jamaican andHaitian patois she had put a curse on the entire police plain clothesteam that had arrested her, then followed up by adding the officersin the charge room when she was brought in, prior to being lockedup in all her finery. She was being detained in the cells pending trial,Those cursed had been nervous enough to charge her with 'usingabusive and calumnious language'.

The self-styled witch of Haitian origin went under the strangename of Horse-and-Buggy'; no one knew why, and she refused tooffer any other when escorted to the CID Office.

One of the Flying Saucer Superintendents made a deal withHorse-and-Buggy: all charges dropped, cash payment in advance,bonus on delivery of the target. The Superintendent was in a weakposition because the evidence against her was pretty slim.

Her slanting, green eyes flashing, Horse-and-Buggy shook herdark brown locks and haggled, only accepting after she had driven ahard bargain. She was certainly a very attractive woman, a mulatto, who had escaped the misery and poverty of Cap Haitien in a fishingboat, only to find that life was no better as an illegal immigrant inthe Bahamas. Somehow, taking advantage of her outstanding looksand speaking passable English, she had made a marriage ofconvenience to a Jamaican seaman and drifted to Jamaica, settingup shop in one of the brothels. She had been standing outside theestablishment getting a breath of cool air and puffing at a welcomecigarette, when the Flying Saucer jeep drove up. Several large menhad jumped out and bundled her into the black and white wagonthat followed close behind.

The task of baiting the trap for Cho-cho became a researchproject for the Saucers. Everything needed for a practitioner of theblack art had to be supplied. Rumours were floated and circulatedabout the superior powers of the newcomer from Haiti. The wordspread throughout the tangled slums of Kingston and St Andrew,that a high-powered obeah lady of great skill and beauty hadrecently arrived and was a specialist in evading the law with herPolice-Can't-Catch Me Oil, as well as providing solutions toproblems of potential matrimony or revenge, good fortune, badluck and the rest of the obeah practitioner's stock-in-trade.Unfortunately, it was also soon established that her fees wereextraordinarily high; more than the average slum-dweller couldpossibly afford.

Horse-and-Buggy rented a simple dwelling in the newdevelopment of Trench Town paid for with CID secret funds.Meanwhile, the medical faculty at the University Hospital obliginglyprovided a human skeleton. One large glass demijohn filled withgreen liquid, another with red were also loaned. A good supply ofproof rum, sugar and finally a live co*ckerel were added, to ensurethat all the essential ingredients were ready for the concoction ofthe powerful Police-Can't-Catch-Me Oil.

Several long candles were provided along with a white sheet toact as a tablecloth. A medium-sized wooden table, which could beconverted into a sort of altar and an iron cot were included asfixtures in the otherwise unfurnished shack. Horse-and-Buggy's equipment also included some finely-bound illegal publications,those of a questionable Chicago publishing house, which theSuperintendent found amongst the old court exhibits, long after theowner had been tried and sentenced. These works explained indetail how to weave spells, and included a catalogue of potions,magical talismans and charms. No self-respecting obeah personwould leave home without them, even though they were heftyvolumes and on the list of banned publications.

For a week or two, Horse-and-Buggy waited as the Flying Saucersspread word of her powers. She moved around the crowded shantiesof nearby Admiral Town and Denham Town. Occasionally she madeappointments, but there were no follow-up deals made for herservices after the price was announced.

Cho-cho, meanwhile, relied on his brother for intelligencereports submitted by informants who were instructed to relate howthe police were progressing with their enquiries. The news was notgood, and the reluctant fugitive moved restlessly from hide-out tohide-out, waiting anxiously for a boat to arrive that would smugglehim to safety. He could not forget that the sentence for murder wasdeath by hanging. Meanwhile, Willie had heard the rumours aboutthe Haitian voodoo lady and he advised Cho-cho to seek herassistance. Cho-cho was only too happy to do so when he heard thatshe was also quite attractive.

So contact was made at last and detailed arrangements,including payment, were completed in great secrecy. Date, limeand place were agreed upon, Horse-and-Buggy immediatelyinforming the Superintendent. The trap was set.

The night of the rendezvous, dark clouds obscured the moon asCho-cho cautiously bicycled down the straight but totally-desertedstreet, trying to recall the directions he had been given. To add to hismisery, it began to rain and water was soon trickling inside hisupturned collar, soaking his grease-stained brown trilby, a symbol ofKingston's gangster community.

Feeling lonely and not a little apprehensive, Cho-cho pedalledslowly. The whole area had been bulldozed flat and left a muddy terrain bereft of topsoil and so was without vegetation. The flatdeserted streets all looked alike. The small dwellings were identical,each provided with an outside lavatory, consisting of a woodenbench raised over an open trench, all hidden behind a clapboardscreen. There were no street names or street lights. Only a fewwindows glowed with the flickering light of kerosene lamps.

Horse-and-Buggy had taken the precaution of hanging a lanternat her door which enabled Cho-cho to locate it, although the cabinitself was in total darkness. With some relief, he stopped cursing,dismounted, and guided by the light of the lamp, approached thedoor. He gave the agreed password. A softly-muffled voiceresponded correctly and the door opened. Bearing in mind thecrime rate in the neighbourhood, Cho-cho prudently wheeled hisborrowed cycle inside.

In the dark room, Horse-and-Buggy struck a match and lit thecandles, now placed beside the two demijohns. By their flickeringlight, Cho-cho saw a bare iron cot in the shadows, with a humanskeleton stretched out on one side of the uncovered mattress. Theyoung man could not repress a shudder when he was ordered toundress and get on the bed beside the skeleton. Having a keenly developedsense of survival, Cho-cho quickly took stock of the roombefore complying. Apart from the bed the only other piece offurniture was the altar-like table. He noted the window, privacyassured by a heavy blanket draped over it. Despite his nervousmisgivings and the dim candle-light, Cho-cho was just able to seethat the witch was even more attractive in the flesh than she wasreported to be, despite the shapeless white robe that concealed herfigure.

While he obeyed her order to undress, she prepared thesacrificial co*ckerel, mumbling incantations in a strange tongue,repeating spells memorized from the banned Chicago publications.Her excited client stripped naked and replaced his battered trilby hatbefore putting his revolver under the thin pillow.

Covertly eyeing Cho-cho, Horse-and-Buggy took stock of hisarousal and decided not to waste time. Quickly she strangled the chicken, cut its throat and let the blood drip on to a pile of sugar. Shecontinued to murmur incantations in English and French, as shemixed proof rum, chicken's blood and sugar in a tin bowl then tooka match and set the proof rum spirit on fire. It sizzled out when sheadded some of the red and blue liquids from the demijohns. Shepounded the whole messy concoction into a sticky paste and beganto rub the famous Police-Can't-Catch-Me Oil on Cho-cho's nakedbody, carefully avoiding the more private parts. Next, Horse-and-Buggy smeared the substance on to the skeleton, explaining to Chochothat by this means she was passing the guilt from his body tothat of the skeleton.

Cho-cho was galvanized into instant action. Grabbing his gunhe fired at random, jumping towards the window beside thebed where he had been stretched out. In one giant leap hecleared the windowsill, still firing his revolver, thereby ensuringthat everyone kept their heads down, including ConstableMurphy and the witch, while the fugitive escaped into the darknesswearing only his hat. Dogs continued barking, co*ckerels crowed,all the many night noises were heard throughout the wholeentrapment.

One of the radio cars, responding to the alert, screeched to ahalt beside a dark figure, huddled in a crouched position besidethe road. Questioned, the man gestured vaguely eastward. Thecar started, stopped, reversed. Too late, once again the figure haddisappeared. But the location was containable.

This time using dogs, torches and a reserve of uniformedmen, a house to house search was organized. And there in an outside toilet, up to his neck in sewerage, they found Cho-chohiding, still with his hat on his head.

Which way did the spell of Police-Can't-Catch-Me Oil really work?Who can say, but when Cho-cho was tried, he was found guilty ofmanslaughter and escaped the death penalty.

The Man from Moscow

It was the habit of the Head of Special Branch to ensure that hisresearch officer, who was his general executive assistant, read theGleaner from page to page, first thing every morning. This saved himtime, effort and the possibility that the Commissioner would seesomething that attracted his attention first and question the SpecialBranch, who are supposed to know everything that goes oneverywhere. This particular morning the aggressive click of heelsalong the-highly polished tiles of Police HQ heralded somethingimportant. Breathlessly, the research officer entered the office andslapping the morning's paper on the desk, tapped the centre of theback page with a long crimson nail.

"What do you make of that?" she asked, her voice filled withexcitement.

There was indeed a startling advertisem*nt in the personalcolumn. The Superintendent read it out loud:

"Robert Robinson, formerly of Kingston, Jamaica, now residentin Moscow, USSR. Anyone with information regarding this person,please contact Mrs Smith at..."

He noted the name and the out-of-town address.

"Actually," he said, "I don't make a bloody thing out of it. But Iknow who will." With that, he got out of his swivel chair and pulledhis jacket off the hanger behind the door. "I'm going home," heannounced. "Tell Nigel I'm out for the rest of the day." And with thathe was gone.

The research officer was left to tell the Deputy Superintendent that the boss had gone home for the day - without a word ofexplanation.

Meanwhile, the Head of Special Branch had quickly recovered fromhis astonishment, aided by a fortunate coincidence. He hadrecognized the person who had placed the advertisem*nt in theGleaner as the mother of his next door neighbour. The families werevery good friends, even sharing an elderly eighteen-foot 'O' classsailboat which they raced across Kingston Harbour every Saturday.He lost no time in contacting his neighbour, who had no idea whather mother was doing, other than offering as a possible clue, the factthat she represented the The Quaker Movement both in Jamaicaand abroad. The policeman knew only that Mrs Smith was originallyfrom the United States herself but had married a Jamaican and livedin the island for many years. He asked her daughter if she wouldtake him to see her at her home in St Thomas. Which was why, laterthat day, an unmarked police car drove up the steep driveway to alow bungalow sprawling comfortably on top of a hill in that parish,its veranda overlooking the ocean below. Mrs Smith warmly greetedher only daughter and received the Superintendent with goodhumoured resignation. She had often met him and his family whenvisiting her daughter in Kingston, though never in an officialcapacity. But she was happy to offer an explanation of theadvertisem*nt she had placed.

She told him that a group of Quakers visiting Moscow had beencontacted there by an elderly man named Robert Robinson whoclaimed to be a Jamaican and who wanted to go home to die. He hadapplied to the British Embassy as a naturalized Soviet citizen andbeen refused a visa to visit Jamaica, where he was allegedly born. Inthose pre-independence days, the British Foreign Officerepresented Jamaica's interests overseas, though the island at thisstage enjoyed full internal self-government. Rebuffed by the British,Robinson had learnt of the visit to Moscow by the Quakers andthought it worth a shot, so he arranged to meet them.

The Soviets were far from displeased and may have manipulated the whole thing. They incorrectly anticipated that the US wouldfollow the official British line, thus providing the bonus of anti-USmaterial, as well they might have if Robinson had been a US citizen,but he was not! The problem was that Robinson had renounced anyclaim to citizenship other than that of the USSR. He had appealed tothe Americans to help him, as it was a well-known fact throughoutthe Soviet Union, that although much resented, even hated in manyAsian and Iron Curtain countries, Americans will help anybody,often for the wrong reasons. But in this case, the Quakers did notrush in, being commendably cautious people. On returning home,the US delegation had contacted their Jamaican representative. Asan initial step, they asked her to make enquiries locally to find out ifthe Russian-Jamaican had relatives or was even known to anyone.

The visit from the Head of the police Special Branch was the onlyresponse so far to her enquiry. So the Quaker and the policemanagreed to collaborate on research to establish if Robinson's claimwas valid.

The Quakers had very little information other than a few blurredSoviet newspaper cuttings and photographs of Robinson disguisedas a Zulu warrior during his career as a Soviet film extra. Lengthyresearch of records was the only remaining means available to MrsSmith if she was going to further her enquiry, unless there was someother response to her advertisem*nt.

The police requested the UK Foreign Office and the securityservice to provide some background information about Robinson.After the usual transatlantic and bureaucratic delays, word filteredback from Europe and some of Robinson's unusual history wascollated. The official enquiries produced a good deal of information,including date and place of birth, the number and issue date ofRobinson's Soviet passport, photographs and some personalmaterial.

Robert Robinson had left Jamaica for the United States whenvery young and found a job with the Ford motor company. WhenFord signed a short-lived contract with the Soviets to build cars inthe USSR, Robinson was sent to Moscow as one of the manufacturer's technicians. It was not long before Soviet publicrelations experts spotted this lonely man of African origin,"labouring in inhuman conditions that were an essential part of theCapitalist system". No longer would he be exploited; the freedom lovingpeoples of the Socialist Republics would rescue him from thechains of bondage and embrace their brother as one of their own'honoured workers'. And honoured Robinson was, no doubt to hissurprise.

He played bit parts in a variety of films, depicting the nobleAfrican warrior being crushed by the white colonialists, evidentlykeeping his nose clean, this unusual Jamaican was appointed to bea member of the Moscow Soviet, roughly the equivalent of amunicipal councillor. But when Robinson's propaganda valuebegan to wane, the Soviets seemed to lose interest in him. Besides,at the Patrice Lumumba Freedom University there were now manystudents with distinctive African features who could play parts infilms, so Robinson disappeared into obscurity again. Years later, inthe so-called golden age of his life, the Jamaican felt the need to gohome. He evidently obtained approval from Soviet officialdom, whodoubtless presumed they would get some propaganda value out ofthe anticipated reaction of the British Embassy.

AIl of this background information was shared with the Quakers,together with the discouraging news that the Jamaican governmenthad decided to uphold the British Embassy's position. RobertRobinson was not going to lay his weary bones in Jamaican soil.Officialdom had decreed that he would never be allowed to return.

The matter might well have ended there, but Quakers do not acceptdefeat so easily. Not for nothing did their fathers leave Europe toestablish the sort of society they could live with in the new world.When the news reached Philadelphia there was some indignationand a suspicion that human rights were being trampled underfootor at the very least being ignored. A journalist was selected and sentto Jamaica to try and change the government's mind, or at least getthem to reconsider Robinson's application.

The Quakers had unsuspected allies, the Jamaican Intelligencecommunity, who supported Robinson's application for an entirelydifferent reason. They saw it as a way of obtaining information onsubversive persons in Jamaica, if indeed there were any. Some inhigh places thought that this was a figment of the Cold Warmentality.

There was a small and ineffectual Communist Party in Jamaica,led by an old trade unionist whose history parallelled RobertRobinson's. The party leader had emigrated to the US, joined themerchant marine and become a senior executive of the Seaman'sUnion. Communist elements had long sought to penetrate, thendominate the union, as they had successfully done in Australia. So itwas with some delight that the US immigration department haddiscovered that the union official was a Communist Party memberand a Jamaican. His appeal against deportation was not even heard,except by the Soviets. Many years later, this same activist managedto become a high official in the World Federation of Trade Unions(WFTU), whose head office was based in Prague. WFTU was anactive communist front organization and engaged in the usualactivities, including the extension of 'fraternal guidance' toorganizations on the other side of the Iron Curtain. Its publicationswere on the banned list in Jamaica.

The day for retirement came, and the unionist was sent home toJamaica. He may have used many passports, but unlike Robinson,he had never renounced his citizenship which in those pre-independence days was British. His union pension was also senthome to Jamaica along with some expenses to be used at hisdiscretion. Eventually, he managed to establish two feeble politicalorganizations. They did not thrive because, although Jamaicanshave always been keenly interested in politics, they tended to go infor charismatic leadership and flamboyant personalities. Thediscipline required of a Communist Party member also did notappeal.

Unlike some other pan-Caribbean parties, the Jamaicancomrades never presented a serious security problem, although the potential was undoubtedly there, especially during the volatile yearsthat led up to full self-determination for the British West Indies andthe Bahamas.

The police Special Branch had an intelligence-collecting andcollation function which included the preparation of a monthlysecurity report which was sent to the Commissioner of Police andHE. the Governor of Jamaica. An integral part of the JamaicaConstabulary, the Branch's major function was to provide warningsof trouble, such as armed uprising by extremist movements, labourunrest leading to riots, and the investigation of subversion andcertain related types of crime. The Branch also assisted vitalfacilities, such as local airlines and public and government-ownedutilities, to maintain a reasonable level of security. Passport controland alien registration also reported to the Head of Special Branch.

When the advertisem*nt about Robinson first appeared, therewere reports from reliable sources that the local Communist Parlyleaders were confused and apprehensive. They were not sure of hisstatus or intentions, but had obviously received some sort of'fraternal guidance' that put them on their guard.

A warrant was issued by the Chief Minister's office andconfirmed by a Magistrate, authorizing the Branch to take specialmeasures. This took the form of the most sophisticated technicaloperation ever mounted in Jamaica up to then, although technicalaids had been used fairly extensively elsewhere in the region.

Communist organizations loved secrecy: simple political actswere plotted in secret, like conspiracies, which of course they usuallywere. Some of the Jamaican comrades had been trained in Marxist-Leninist theory and practice. As a result they were understandablyvery security-conscious. More often than not, they took so many self-defeatingprecautions that they actually attracted attention.

It was known to the Branch that clandestine meetings of whatpassed for the political committee of the party were held at variouslocations throughout the Kingston area, and sometimes businesswas combined with pleasure. One very private meeting place, used exclusively by the most senior party leaders, was a small privatehouse in a middle income suburb of St Andrew.

The occupants were two young Chinese sisters whose politics,if any, were unknown, although their sympathies probably laywith the Chinese mainland and the local representative of theMin Chi fang, a left wing political group based on a secret triad,with extremist tendencies in Jamaica, strong ties to the ChinesePeople's Republic and some nasty anti-social habits. The two youngsisters were regarded as trustworthy enough to provide a 'safehouse' for party stalwarts, who also socialized there. The SpecialBranch maintained occasional surveillance on the premises. Tailingone of the visitors, a nondescript individual, they were surprisedwhen the target led them directly to the St Andrew police station.They soon discovered that the man they had kept undersurveillance was a district constable, reporting to the local policeafter going off duty. The ladies had arranged for the services of theDC at night as part of their security precautions. This was notunusual. Although they shared some police powers, DCs in urbanareas like Kingston were basically watchmen, armed with a badgeand a baton, and the police were often requested to provide themfor this purpose. They were trained and supervised by the regularpolice, whom they supplemented.

It was relatively easy to recruit the DC: and give him some basictraining in the art of duplicity. His status for the Branch's purposewas formalized by signing him on as an aide to the criminalinvestigation department with appropriate remuneration includingallowances for plain-clothes duty.

Intelligence communities the world over love to code theiroperations, ostensibly to protect their sources. This particularlyapplies when technical aids are used; their raw products are always'adjusted' so that they appear to originate from a human source.Raw intelligence and procedures relating to this particularoperation were code-named Nightlife, the doctored and re-editedproduct was Daybreak, and the DC whimsically bore the code nameDragonfly.

Operation Nightlife was now in the advanced planning stage,which involved the use of a sophisticated technical aid in the formof a transistor radio, inserted into the end of a hollowed-out baton.It was indistinguishable from a normal lignum vitae baton issued toall the police, but was slightly heavier. The first step was to equip theDC with one that weighed the same as the doctored version. He wasinstructed to get into the habit of leaving the baton hanging by itsleather loop from various doorhandles.

Regardless of the sort of equipment used by secret agents in films,all technical aids have their limitations. One is the source of powerneeded for transmission, A radio can be plugged into the mainelectric supply, which provides a constant means of transmission,but this was obviously impossible in this case. Batteries are theother source of power, but even the most advanced transistors havea limited life and are not powerful enough to transmit signals for adistance at a reasonable audio level. While changing the batteriesdid not present a problem, the receiver of transmissions did. Tohave a car driving around equipped with a radio receiver wouldsoon attract attention and the reception would be affected byinterference and movement from place to place even within alimited radius. So it was essential to set up a static listening base,where the recorders could he housed and the tapes replenished.While it was not difficult to rent a room and hide the equipment, theoccupant had to be acceptable enough to avoid gossip.

The Head of Special Branch had many contacts, particularly withthe Catholic Church and through one such he was soon having atalk with Monsignor John. The Monsignor had a flock that consistedmainly of Chinese and East Indian Jamaicans and knew the familiesintimately. After they had met in the Monsignor's office and theSuperintendent had explained his requirement in very generalterms, the priest came up with the name of a suitable candidate, ayoung parishioner whose parents were of Cantonese origin, born inHong Kong. She was a graduate of a Catholic boarding school whereshe had been a school prefect, and was described by the cleric as one hundred per cent reliable. She was employed as a secretary toan established law office. A routine background check soonconfirmed that she was discreet and had all the right qualifications.A more formal clearance to 'top secret' would follow but this wouldrequire personal detail.

Early one evening a few days later, the Monsignor met theSuperintendent again, this time by pre-arrangement, in the mainbody of the cathedral. He was accompanied by a very attractive girlwho was introduced as Deirdre Chen. The Monsignor had no desireto learn more about the clandestine operation and left. TheSuperintendent surreptitiously examined Deirdre and realized shewas more than just pretty, she was stunning. She returned his gazeand he smiled encouragingly.

"Miss Chen, as you know, I am a police officer and we often needassistance outside the Force," he began. "Jamaica is a small placeand I am pretty well-known in Kingston, so are a lot of my staff.Father has suggested that you might be willing to help us with anoperation we are planning?"

The delectable Miss Chen smiled.

"Well, it all depends. I mean...er, I'd like to help but I don't reallyknow much about the work the police do, except traffic of course,and in the office it's mostly civil stuff, not criminal. So I'm not surehow..." Her voice trailed oft and she looked faintly embarrassed, aslight flush rising to her cheeks.

"It doesn't require any special knowledge," he assured her.

"Really it's just time we want and some corning and going, sort ofcourier really. And a face that's not normally associated with any ofus." He paused then added: "I would be grateful if you keep this justbetween us, regardless of whether you agree to go ahead or not.""Oh, of course. Father told me that this is very confidential. Likea confessional."

"Right. We do require a signing of the official secrets act. thensometimes we put our assistants on a contract and pay them."

"Oh no, I don't really want that." she protested. "Besides, it wouldmake me a sort of employee and I'd rather not. But if you think I can help you in some way, I'd be happy lo do it - even just for theexcitement." She beamed at him displaying delightful dimples andcrossed her slender legs.

After they had parted, the policeman had reservations. He didnot care for excitement as a motivation, though in fairness toDeirdre, he concluded that she had just said the first thing that cameinto her head. He was by no means opposed to employing pretty'girls, quite the contrary. His real concern was that Miss Chen was fartoo pretty and well-turned-out; she had been a close runner-up inthe Miss Chinese Jamaica competition. Her appearance wouldalmost certainly attract attention.

The Superintendent had both attended and conducted 'watcher'courses. One of the basic principles was to tone down anything thatmight attract attention during surveillance, particularly attractivemembers of the team. They all had to blend easily with every daysurroundings, subject to exceptions such as official functions, whenthe teams were dressed appropriately. On such occasions theSuperintendent himself had been forced to don his own mess kit, awhite monkey jacket, miniature medals and wing collar.

That line of thought led to his inspiration. Appear natural, bepart of the scenery. Of course! Airline staff were renowned for theirgood looks, and management was always cooperative. A smartly dressedflight attendant was always good advertising for thecompany. If management and the lady would agree, Deirdre wouldbecome an off-staff member of an airline. It was an ideal cover.Wearing the attractive uniform she would arrive by cab from theairport carrying a small in-flight bag. She would spend time at theroom she had herself rented, switch the tapes, collect the new onesand leave, wearing her own clothes, to be changed back to uniformduring another visit. The timing would be staggered to roughly fitpeak flight times, but allow for reasonable electronic coverage andthe use of the magic baton.

Deirdre Chen's designated code-name Firefly and unusuallyattractive photographs were added to the new 'top secret' file retained in the drawer marked Nightlife. It was all hidden andprotected by an alarm system and the four-wheel combination lockof the class 6 safe. The weight of the safe was one of the reasons whythe Branch was located on the ground floor, the immediate areaaround it having been reinforced to spread the load and prevent anysudden plunge into the basem*nt.

The identity of all agents, the raw intelligence in the Daybreakfile, like all details of the Branch operations, remainedcompartmentalized on the need-to-know basis. Only those directlyinvolved at various levels, such as the young second-in-command,and the research assistant had total access. Handling officers hadlimited access and the surveillance team supervisors knew some ofthe sources. The doctored product containing information aboutthe local Communist Party's attitude regarding Robert Robinsonreceived limited circulation. The Commissioner was not madeaware of the details of Nightlife, nor did he possess or want to know,the combination of the safe.

At their third rendezvous, this time late at night outside apopular night club where Deirdre had gone in her brother's car, theSuper briefed his newest agent and gave her a book on tradecraft toread and absorb. She was also introduced to her alternate handlingofficer, Nigel, Deputy Head of Special Branch. The Superintendentnoticed the couple's reaction to each other as they formally shookhands and decided that for the time being he would limit contactwith young Nigel, who was on his way to becoming the perennialbachelor.

Before operation Nightlife began, there were several dry runs.Firefly again refused any remuneration other than expenses, sayingshe enjoyed the 'drama' of being a secret agent. An advance wasmade from the secret imprest fund so she could be outfitted withher airline uniform. In her new ensemble. Firefly was ready tostretch her wings.

She began to visit the room where the radio receiver and taperecorder would be installed. According to the deep cover informants within the Party, there was no indication of alarm amongst thehierarchy. When the electronic baton was ready, the ranges and thevarious strength tested again from different directions, Firefly puton her uniform, and carrying the receiver in her flight-bag, installedthe radio.

After this success, a special security committee meeting wasarranged and a report submitted by the police to members, whichgave no details regarding Daybreak's sources.

The Assistant Permanent Secretary, who had called the meeting,chaired it.

"It's about this bloody man Robinson," he began. "We have toagree on our line of approach for the Chief Minister. Has therebeen any change of view since last time?"

As usual, there was no reply from 'Military', who seldomcontributed anything but presence, looking uncomfortable out ofuniform, despite the regimental tie displayed beneath a well disciplinedmoustache.

The UK security adviser, Northern Caribbean, frowned andlooked secretive. He did not like to offer early opinions andpreferred them to come from his head office, but London was threethousand miles away.

The Head of Special Branch looked at his boss, the AssistantCommissioner who nodded. "Right," he said. "We are in favour.The police feel they can handle it. We've spent a lot of time andmoney making sure that Daybreak works. Or my young friendhere will be transferred to Claremont or St Elizabeth." TheHead of Special Branch shuddered. The St Elizabeth division included the punishment station Black River.

The security adviser decided that it would be fairly safe to throwin his lot.

"We more or less support that position, with the proviso..." hebegan.

The chairman interrupted him and reported that the Quakerjournalist had been to Moscow, seen Robinson and was nowrequesting a meeting with the Chief Minister of Jamaica.

"Right, then we're all agreed," the chairman concluded. "TheChief Minister sees this journalist person and we recommend a visafor Robinson." He stood and shuffled papers, then took off hiswrinkled white linen jacket and loosened his Jamaica Club tie toindicate the meeting was over.

It was with considerable disappointment some days later thatthe Assistant Permanent Secretary informed the security committeemembers that the Chief Minister had met with the Americanjournalist representing the Quaker interest in Robinson'sapplication and that after 'sympathetically' considering thesituation, had decided to stick with the original decision. Nosunshine for poor old Robinson.

The crestfallen Head of Special Branch obtained the AssistantCommissioner's concurrence for the next step, a personal cards-on-the-table meeting with the Chief Minister. But first he decidedto check that Nightlife was in full operation, all componentsworking, especially Firefly. In a sense, the contribution of Dragonfly,the district constable, was completed. He had successfully achievedthe objective his controller had previously outlined, which was toensure that a slightly heavier baton was accepted as a kind of fixturehanging from door-handles in various rooms. His final task was toreplace the dummy baton with the real thing and after thatoccasionally change the batteries.

Fully-satisfied that operation Nightlife could work, the SpecialBranch Head made an appointment to see the Chief Minister, withwhom he had had several previous meetings in the course of duty.This meeting was held, one on one, in the mahogany panelled room at Headquarters House where the Chief Minister had his office. Asever, the Chief Minister was friendly and carefully listened to thepoliceman.

"You can do that, Superintendent?" he exclaimed from time totime. "The Branch can do that?" He shook his head, the lion's maneof hair for which he was famous and loved by cartoonists flying fromside to side. "You're sure?"

Then he would sit with his head between his hands, elbows onthe table, ears covered, as he thought.

Finally, he stood, and walked round the large mahoganyconference table. A wave of optimism surged through the Head ofSpecial Branch. He was going to succeed, he was sure, they wouldget official blessing for the operation.

The Chief Minister sat down heavily and shook his head again."No," he finally said. "I simply cannot risk it. It's not you. It's theopposition. They'll crucify me. Call me a fellow traveller, say I'm aMarxist, even though they themselves... God knows I'd like to helpthe poor fellow, I believed that American journalist, but I'm apolitician and the answer is no. Think what the President of theUnited States would say. What would Her Majesty the Queen thinkof me? Categorically no."

The disappointed Head of Special Branch took his leave. A rareintelligence opportunity lost, he thought, sacrificed on the altarof political expediency. An operation ruined, his carefully developedsources demolished. It was all over. And Robinson?He would have to stay in Moscow till hell froze over. He probablydid too, because he faded from vision and the annals of theIntelligence world, a forgotten star. Even the Quakers accepteddefeat. After all, they too had done their best.

There was one happy ending though. Nigel, the young Deputy,was allowed to take out Deirdre Chen in public as she had retiredas an airline' employee, her flying time completed. Six monthslater she became Mrs Nigel and the Branch helped celebratethe marriage.

The wedding was a grand affair with the slim, confident groom infull police uniform, including dress sword and medals. When Davidand Peggy came out from the church, a ten-strong guard of policeSuperintendents and Assistant Commissioners, all with spikedhelmets and silver spurs, raised their swords to form the customaryarch under which the newlyweds walked.

The splendid reception was held at the home of the bride.Strawberry Hill at Irish Town, high in the mountains of St Andrew,today a most beautiful retreat created as part of Chris Blackwell'sunique Island Outpost resorts. Few brides could have rivalled thebeauty of the bride herself, the spectacular venue for the receptionor the bevy of stunning young women in attendance - friends tothis day; Audrey Jackson (Bynoe), Helen Rose (Davidson) andShirley 'Midge' Browne. Those present on this auspicious occasioncould little have realized they were being introduced to many froma cast of rare characters who would emerge almost fifty years laterto grace a small book of reminiscences.

Another of Peggy's famous uncles at the wedding was Dr OwenTrinlinson of Seville in St Ann who, in fact, did take out everyappendix in the parish (including my husband's!) except that ofAli Dougall of Llandovery Estate - which he got later in Kingston(see Eccentrics). But it was the stalwart, Dr Lenworth Jacobs, in hiscapacity as Medical Officer for St Ann, who performed the finalpost-mortem in The Corpse That Wouldn't Die. But if I were todivulge the true identity of all Godfrey's dramatis personae, wemight fill yet another book or, worse, be held for libel.

Suffice it to say that the 1950s was a period of global 'Cold War';the Caribbean was agonizing over Federation and Jamaica wasgestating its awesome new baby - finally birthed in August 1962 - called Independence. At the time of the Godfrey wedding, IanFleming, already a devotee of Jamaica since 1942, was just writingCasino Royale and creating his world-renowned sleuth, JamesBond - from whence my husband and I, and many others, havealways referred to David as "007". However, it was not until a fewyears later that Godfrey himself was introduced to Bond by DorisDuperly, who had a tiny bookshop in Water Lane in Kingston.Indeed, this was after he had been assigned to Goldeneye inOracabessa (now another of Chris Blackwell's picturesque retreats)for the protection of Sir Anthony and Lady Eden. When Sir Anthonywas recovering from a nervous breakdown, just prior to hisresignation as Prime Minister of England.

Born in 1926 at Orpington, Kent in England, David Godfreycomes illogically from a line of renowned English symphonyconductors. At age six, he was condemned to one of the traditionalEnglish boarding schools designed to toughen small boys by meansof cold baths followed by early morning classes and one mile runs.After a stint at Blundell School in the West Country, which laterentitled him to be part of the universal English Old Boys fraternity,he became a cadet at age sixteen in the Royal Naval Reserve.He survived bombing in England and five years in the Far East - nearly being murdered during a naval mutiny in India - then hefollowed the liberation into Shanghai and 'won' the war fromSydney Harbour where the great invasion fleet had gathered.After being blown up in the Palestine police sergeant's mess, hedecided to join the Colonial Service, hoping to be posted withthe Marine Police in Singapore or Hong Kong.

Instead, he was sent to Jamaica.

It was late in 1949 that David Godfrey, accompanied by hisMorgan 2-plus-2 motor car, arrived in Kingston on the Elders andFyffes banana boat, SS Ariguani, to take up his colonial duties asAssistant Superintendent in charge of the Water Police. Betweenturning that division into the Vice Squad/SWAT team (nicknamedthe 'Flying Saucers'), being seconded to King's House as ADC to theGovernor, and being the youngest ever (at twenty-six) to bepromoted to the rank of Superintendent of Police (for the parishof St Ann), he read for the Bar and completed sessions at thePolice College, Bramshill, and MI-5 at Leconfield House. Later,in his capacity as Head of Special Branch, he spent five years beingan 'executive spook' during which time he frequently acted asAssistant Commissioner Crime. This portfolio included the CID,Security and Immigration. Thus he was responsible for theprotection of many VIPs and the foiling of attempted hijackingsand other spurious endeavours.

In 1960 he was transferred to New Zealand and for the nextseven years was a member of the New Zealand Security-Intelligence Service, during which time he also furthered his university studies.From New Zealand, he was transferred to Canada and the frozenNorth where he participated in the formation of the CanadianSecurity Intelligence Organization.

As a result of his success in combating international terrorism,hijack and kidnap extortion. David Godfrey set up his own highlevel security business with offices eventually in Switzerland,Monaco and Ottawa from which he lectured widely, conductedoperations for important banking and other institutions, wroteinternationally accepted security guideline textbooks, did securitystudies in Africa, Asia, the USA and Canada, and - until thetime of his recent retirement due to illness - inter related withgovernments, high profile individuals and companies. Due to thenature of his work, few specifics can be given in the interests ofsecurity and the Official Secrets Act.

By cutting his sleuthing teeth in Jamaica, David Godfrey waswell schooled as a private eye to face the 'ginnals' and rogues ofthe rest of the world. This series of semi-autobiographical talesis but the tip of the iceberg. Hopefully we can look forward tomany sequels.