Journey to Death Read online

  CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR LEIGH RUSSELL

  ‘A brilliant talent in the thriller field’

  — Jeffery Deaver, bestselling author of The Bone Collector

  ‘Leigh Russell is one to watch’

  — Lee Child, author of the bestselling Jack Reacher series

  ‘Leigh Russell has become one of the most impressively dependable purveyors of the English police procedural.’

  — Marcel Berlins, The Times

  ‘Taut and compelling’

  — Peter James, bestselling author of A Twist of the Knife

  PRAISE FOR RACE TO DEATH

  ‘Leigh Russell weaves a fascinating tale that had me completely foxed. Whilst the mystery is tantalising the characters also fascinate, so clearly are they drawn.’

  — Mystery People

  ‘As tense openings go, they don’t come much better than this’

  — The Bookbag

  ‘Another first-rate story by the talented Leigh Russell. Highly recommended.’

  — Euro Crime

  ‘The tension is built up cleverly until the final, shocking, denouement’

  — Ron Ellis, Shots

  ‘Full of twists, turns and dark secrets. The plot gallops along creating suspense on every page.’

  — Shirley Mitchell, Creuse News

  PRAISE FOR KILLER PLAN

  ‘a fast-paced police procedural and a compelling read’

  — Carol Westron, Mystery People

  ‘Her previous six novels featuring DI Geraldine Steel marked her out as a rare talent, and this seventh underlines it.’

  — Geoffrey Wansell, Daily Mail

  ‘The plot was excellent with plenty of twists and red herrings.’

  — Fiona Atley, newbooks

  PRAISE FOR FATAL ACT

  ‘a most intriguing and well-executed mystery and . . . an engrossing read’

  — Sara Townsend, Shots

  ‘another corker of a book from Leigh Russell . . . Russell’s talent for writing top-quality crime fiction just keeps on growing’

  — Amanda Gillies, Euro Crime

  PRAISE FOR COLD SACRIFICE

  ‘A top-of-the-line crime tale and a five-star must-read’

  — Take-A-Break Fiction Feast

  ALSO BY LEIGH RUSSELL

  DS IAN PETERSON MURDER INVESTIGATIONS

  Cold Sacrifice

  Race to Death

  Blood Axe

  THE DI GERALDINE STEEL MYSTERIES

  Cut Short

  Road Closed

  Dead End

  Death Bed

  Stop Dead

  Fatal Act

  Killer Plan

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Leigh Russell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  ISBN-13: 9781503951921

  ISBN-10: 1503951928

  Cover Design by Lisa Horton

  For Michael, who is always with me

  Contents

  Seychelles June 1977

  Prologue

  Seychelles Present Day

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  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

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  17

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  20

  21

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  27

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  29

  30

  31

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  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Seychelles

  June 1977

  Prologue

  WHEN HE FIRST ARRIVED in the Seychelles to take up the post as accountant in the Garden of Eden Hotel, George felt as though he had landed in paradise. Accustomed to the grey skies of England, he was bowled over by the beauty of the landscape and the changing colours of the Indian Ocean. The sunsets were spectacular. It was hard to believe anything malevolent could flourish under the tropical sunshine. Young and inexperienced, he soon learned that beneath the surface, life on the island was far from ideal. After two months he was still struggling to learn the ropes in his job. He was even contemplating giving up and going home to England. But that was before he met Veronique.

  One evening he was sitting at his desk writing a letter home when he heard a faint tap at the door. He twisted round to see a woman silhouetted in the open doorway.

  ‘Shall I come in?’ Her voice was low and warm.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I come to clean for you.’

  ‘Oh, all right, come on in then.’

  He returned to his writing. Noticing a faint scent he looked up from his letter. A small vase of white frangipani blooms had appeared on his desk. With flowering shrubs proliferating wherever he went it was hardly necessary to bring them into the house. All the same he was touched by the gesture, and went to the kitchen to thank his maid.

  Whatever happened afterwards, George never forgot the first time he saw Veronique. She was standing in his cramped kitchen, pushing a loose strand of curly dark hair off her forehead. Years later he would experience a similar thrill, like an electric shock, when he saw his newborn daughter’s face for the first time; a visceral knowledge that this encounter would change him irrevocably.

  An oval face looked back at him, framed by hair that tumbled down her back in casual disarray. He felt a sudden intense longing to cup her smooth golden shoulders in his hands. Beneath finely arched brows her black eyes seemed all pupil, as though she could see more than other people. Her small nose was slightly flattened, her olive skin glowed with health and her lips, reddened with lipstick, formed a childlike pout. She lowered her eyes under his scrutiny and when she raised them George gave a tentative smile. Her face relaxed in a momentary complicity, changing the balance of their nascent relationship. No longer the master of the house, he was a supplicant, and when she smiled he felt as though he had received a precious gift.

  He cleared his throat nervously. ‘My name is George.’

  ‘I know.’

  In that instant he had the uncanny impression she knew everything about him, could see his darkest desires, with the understanding only a woman could possess. If he had stopped to think about what he was doing he would never have had the nerve, but it felt natural to follow her into the bedroom without a word passing between them.

  Afterwards he told her he came from England. With a sleepy smile she said she knew that too. He quickly found out that she knew next to nothing about the world beyond the Seychelles.

  ‘The island is my home,’ was her only reply when he expressed surprise at her ignorance.

  ‘Don’t you want to travel and see the world?’ he asked.

  ‘Why?’

  He started to explain that the wor
ld was a large place full of fascinating landscapes and cultures, but his speech petered out. The world beyond the island no longer drew him.

  All his life George had longed to explore exotic places far from home, but it was next to impossible without any money. When the opportunity to work in the Seychelles had arisen, he had jumped at the chance to explore the region. In the weeks leading up to his departure for Mahé he had been busy making travel plans. Veronique’s lack of curiosity about the world seemed spiritual, as though she had discovered inner peace. If he had been born on an island paradise, instead of an island with a chilly wet climate, perhaps he would not have wanted to leave either. By loving a woman from a foreign culture he felt he was learning to know himself. If it had not been true, it would have been corny, the kind of romantic slush his sister liked to watch on television. He could have slept with other women on the island but he needed Veronique. It was so much more than sex.

  Cocooned in happiness, George paid little attention to the gossip that flew from ear to ear at the hotel bar. Rumours spread like lightning across the island. The political pressure was building up until a coup seemed almost inevitable. Yet nothing happened. President Mancham went to England on holiday. On his home territory other holidaymakers carried on snorkelling and burning in the unaccustomed heat and splashing in the pool, oblivious of the islanders holding their breath, waiting for news. The weather remained oppressively hot, bougainvillea still bloomed dark pink and purple, and the sun continued to set in resplendent colours.

  Aware only of his love for a beautiful woman, George hardly noticed the growing political unrest. All he wanted from life was right here on this island. For the first time in his life he felt truly happy.

  ‘We’ll get married and I’ll take you away with me to England,’ he promised.

  Veronique smiled, alluring as the island. ‘Mahé is my home.’

  ‘Then we’ll stay here on the island and never leave.’

  George was driving along the coastal road after work one day when he heard a burst of gunfire. His first instinct was to put his foot down and get away from there as quickly as possible, but realising he might make an easy target, he swung the wheel and pulled in at the side of the road. Bent almost double, he climbed out of the car. Crouching down behind a large boulder he waited, listening. The sound of a gunshot startled him, so that he yelled aloud in fright. Fortunately his cry was masked by shouts and laughter coming from the beach. Terrified, he peered round the rock at a group of young men sprawling on sand still warm after the fierce heat of the day. George dodged back out of sight, and listened to their exchange with growing unease. There was an atmosphere of pent up aggression in the group, and they were armed.

  ‘Shit, he was just giving guns away,’ one of the young men cried out.

  ‘He told us not to use them,’ another voice replied. His response was greeted with laughter.

  ‘What’s the point of putting a gun in a man’s hands and telling him not to shoot?’

  ‘It’s like putting a beer in his hand and telling him not to drink.’

  ‘It’s like putting a naked woman in his bed and telling him not to fuck her.’

  Cautiously George edged forward until he could see the men, chattering excitedly. Only one member of the group remained silent. He sat apart from the others, scowling. A small crab was crawling across the sand. The solitary man watched its laboured progress for a few seconds before crushing it slowly between his thumb and forefinger. His expression of callous intensity made George shiver.

  ‘There’s a world of difference between hearing stories of revolution in the capital, and the cold feeling of a weapon in your hand,’ one of the men said cheerfully, weighing his gun in his hand.

  A thin youth jumped up. Grinning, he aimed his gun straight at the man who was sitting on his own. As the other man ducked his head, the rest of the group roared with laughter.

  The man who was the butt of the joke sprang to his feet. ‘If you make a fool of me again, Jean-Paul, you will not live long enough to regret it.’

  The prankster slapped his angry friend on the back. ‘There is no shame in being afraid of a gun, Baptiste. Your courage is well known on the island.’

  The sullen man sat down again, muttering to himself.

  Another man stood up and aimed his gun at a massive granite boulder jutting out of the clear blue water of the bay. With a loud retort a bullet flew upwards into the air. ‘Ah, shit!’ he cried out, jerking backwards at the recoil. He gripped the gun in both hands and his second bullet hit the grey rock with an echoing crack.

  They all cheered. A second man jumped to his feet, shot, and missed the target. His friends jeered. Then they were all on their feet, bullets cracking against the boulder, water spraying wildly as they embarked on an impromptu contest. Only the sullen man remained sitting apart from the others, watching.

  A scraggy dog came limping along the beach towards the men. It stopped and eyed them suspiciously.

  ‘Must be deaf as well as lame,’ one of the men said, ‘or the shots would’ve scared it away.’

  Still morose, Baptiste rose to his feet and raised his gun. Steadying it with both hands, he aimed at the creature’s head, right between the eyes. The dog jolted as though it had been electrocuted. It let out a short yelp of surprise before collapsing on the sand where it lay twitching for a moment. Then it was still. A thin trickle of blood showed dark against the yellow sand.

  The other men shouted, congratulating their friend on his skill with a gun. Laughing and joking they returned to their boulder. Only the man who had shot the dog stood still, observing the others at their game.

  After a moment he turned away and spat on the sand again. ‘Guns were not made for shooting at rocks,’ he muttered.

  His menacing words terrified George, cowering a few feet away. He needed to get away from there while the men were occupied. Once they lost interest in their shooting competition they would leave the beach and discover him, hiding behind a rock. They might mistake him for a British spy. While he lingered, he risked suffering the same fate as the dog. Silently he stole back to his car and drove off. He did not stop shaking until he was inside his house.

  He had just sat down in his garden among the bougainvillea and hibiscus to watch the sun set over the ocean, when his phone rang.

  ‘It’s happened.’ The hotel manager’s voice was hoarse with excitement. ‘The coup. Over in Victoria. Mancham’s been ousted while he’s away in England.’

  They had been expecting political conflict to break out for so long, it was almost inconceivable when the moment finally arrived.

  ‘René’s henchmen have been handing out weapons like candy to all his supporters. They’ve announced a twenty-four-hour curfew, so stay at home and keep out of sight. It’s mayhem out there. God knows what they’re doing, putting deadly weapons in the hands of untrained men. There’s pockets of violence breaking out all over, not just in the capital, young lads with guns getting drunk and out of control. It’s dangerous on the streets.’

  ‘I saw a group of lads playing about with guns today. They killed a dog.’

  ‘You had a lucky escape. A man was shot dead this evening on Beau Vallon Beach.’

  George laughed nervously. ‘The locals are getting a bit hot under the collar about their politics.’

  ‘Politics had nothing to do with it. A fisherman had a row with his neighbour over a lobster pot and shot him. If enough guns are handed out, some of them are going to fall into the hands of people who want to use them.’

  For several days George waited, not daring to leave his house. As soon as the curfew was lifted, he went back to work. The five-mile journey seemed to last for ever. He prayed his car would not break down as he drove past armed soldiers on the road. Once before, his car had packed up on his way home. As he set off on foot, a low growling had alerted him to a pack of wild dogs trotting along the road behind him. He heard them panting as they drew closer, and forced himself to keep walking. Then
the howling had begun, one dog after another, clamouring to attack. The pack had run with him all the way back to his house, yelping and slavering, but they had not attacked him.

  The dogs were nowhere near as frightening as the men with guns he passed on the road. But no one took any notice of him as he drove to the hotel on that hot strange day.

  ‘You heard about the chief of police?’ the hotel manager asked him. ‘They bundled him into a car and put him on a flight straight to England. Do yourself a favour, George, and get the hell out of here while you still can.’

  George did not answer. He had no intention of leaving the island without Veronique.

  That evening, he joined a group of ex-pats for a drink at the bar.

  ‘They’re much better off without Mancham,’ the fat chef was saying.

  The manager nodded. ‘Corruption was rife when he was president.’

  ‘Too much power in the wrong hands is always a disaster,’ George chipped in.

  ‘They’re much better off with René,’ the chef insisted. ‘At least he’s sober.’

  ‘You really think René is going to be any different?’ George challenged him.

  The others huddled together uneasily as George continued. ‘What makes you think René is going to be any better than Mancham? They’re tinpot politicians in a banana republic and one leader or another makes no difference when the whole system’s rotten. They’re saying it’s an ideological coup, but it’s just a quest for power. First the British, then Mancham, now René – and none of it makes any difference to the ordinary people on the island. Things aren’t going to get any better under René. If you ask me, they should bring back Mancham.’

  George was just getting into his stride when the manager shuffled closer to him.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he hissed.

  The manager looked around the room, smiling, and nodded at an acquaintance, but he spoke sternly.

  ‘Don’t look round now. They’re watching you.’

  Following the others across the poolside area away from the bar, George noticed a couple of brawny men standing by the door, their eyes fixed on him. He turned away and gazed out over the ocean. When he looked round, the strangers were still staring at him. A chill crept down his back.