‘You Briddish?’
‘Uhuh. American.’
The old-timer considered this as if the availability of charter pilot Lawrence was entirely down to nationality.
‘Friend of yours?’
‘No. I was thinking of chartering his aeroplane for a flight, if I can find him.’
‘Ain’t been here since yesterday,’ said the old man. ‘Not since they took him away.’
‘Who took him away, my friend?’
The old man shrugged as if the abduction of neighbours was usual enough.
‘The police?’
‘No. Not them. They were white. Came in a rental car.’
‘Tourists . . . clients?’ said McBride.
‘Maybe,’ admitted the sage. Then he had an idea. ‘You could try the airport. He keeps his plane there.’
Fifteen minutes later a sweat-drenched Kevin McBride was heading back to the airport. At the desk for private aviation he asked for George Lawrence. Instead he met Floyd Evans. Inspector Floyd Evans of the Georgetown Police Department.
He was taken back downtown yet again, this time in a prowl car, and was shown into an office where the air-conditioning was like a long-delayed cold bath and delicious. Inspector Evans toyed with his passport.
‘What exactly are you doing in Guyana, Mr McBride?’ he asked.
‘I was hoping to pay a short visit with a view to bringing my wife on vacation later,’ said the agent.
‘In August? The salamanders shelter in August down here. Do you know Mr Lawrence?’
‘Well, no. I have a pal in Washington. He gave me the name. Said I might like to fly into the interior. Said Mr Lawrence was about the best charter pilot. I just went to his office to see if he was available for charter. Is all. What did I do wrong?’
The inspector closed the passport and handed it back.
‘You arrived from Washington today. That seems clear enough. Your tickets and entry stamp confirm. The Meridien Hotel confirms your one-night reservation for tonight.’
‘Look, inspector, I still don’t understand why I was brought here. Do you know where I can find Mr George Lawrence?’
‘Oh yes. Yes, he’s in the mortuary down at our general hospital. Apparently he was taken from his office yesterday by three men in a rented four-by-four. They checked it back in last night and flew out. Do those three names mean anything to you, Mr McBride?’
He passed a slip of paper over the desk. McBride glanced at the three names, all of which he knew to be false, because he had issued them.
‘No, sorry, they mean nothing to me. Why is Mr
Lawrence in the morgue?’
‘Because he was found at dawn today by a vegetable seller coming to market. Dead in a ditch by the roadside just out of town. You, of course, were still in the air.’
‘That’s awful. I never met him, but I’m sorry.’
‘Yes, it is. We have lost our charter pilot. Mr Lawrence lost his life and, as it happens, eight of his fingernails. His office has been gutted and all records of past clients removed. What do you think his captors wanted of him, Mr McBride?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Of course, I forgot. You are just a travelling salesman, are you not? Then I suggest you travel back home to the States, Mr McBride. You are free to go.’