Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

I had to admit that I was quite keen.

‘Do you think I’m well enough to go diving?’ I said.

She laughed. ‘I’d say you were quite well enough, if your exertions in the night are anything to go by.’

‘I won’t be able to carry the tanks when they’re out of the water.’

‘That’s no problem. We always have a dive master and a safety officer with us on the boat. They’ll help you.’

‘Will you be coming?’ I asked.

‘If you want me to,’ she said. ‘As long as you don’t plan to go too deep. Otherwise I’ll stay up on the boat while you and Martin dive.’

‘OK, then. Yes. I’d love to go.’

The carol singing on the lawn in front of the governor’s official residence was delightful. And it was packed with a mixture of expatriate British families and local Caymanians.

Sir Richard and Lady Mary picked Henri and me up from the Coral Stone Club and we drove about half a mile down West Bay Road.

Government House was an elegant colonial-style bungalow set amongst mature trees, close to the beach. A uniformed Cayman Island policeman stood guard at the gate, but there was no other sign of significant security. Indeed, the white-painted wall to the road was only about five feet high and, on the beach side, there was simply a low white-painted picket fence, along with a couple of notices requesting that passers-by should respect the governor’s privacy.

‘Who is the governor?’ I asked Sir Richard as we walked into the garden, which was lit up with strings of festive lights, attractively wrapped in spirals around the tree trunks.

‘The current one is a chap called Peter Darwin,’ he said. ‘The governor is nominally appointed by the Queen but it’s actually decided by the Foreign Office in London. It’s often the final posting before retirement for a career diplomat — a swansong in the sun. Peter is about halfway through his term.’

‘What’s his role?’ I asked.

‘He is Her Majesty’s personal representative in the Cayman Islands.’

‘So he’s quite important, then?’ I said.

‘Formally, Peter calls me Sir Richard , but I call him Your Excellency .’

That was one sort of answer.

I took a glass of thick red liquid from an offered tray.

‘What is it?’ I asked Henri.

‘Cayman rum punch,’ she said, also taking one. ‘It’s the national drink. Either this or frozen mudslides.’

‘Frozen mudslides?’

‘A cocktail made from ice, vodka, Baileys, Kahlua, chocolate syrup and cream, all blended together. It’s absolutely brilliant.’

‘And incredibly fattening,’ I said.

‘It was first created here on the Cayman Islands, at The Wreck Bar at Rum Point. It’s famous for it.’

‘In spite of not having any actual rum in it?’

‘Shut up!’ she said, punching me playfully on the arm.

Martin and Theresa arrived and came to stand with us under the royal poinciana trees as we listened to a large choir made up of children from all the island’s schools singing a selection of the best-known Christmas carols. Everyone joined in for a rousing rendition of ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ as the finale.

One and all were in celebratory mood, wishing each other Merry Christmas , as the crowd began to disperse back to their cars.

‘Jeff,’ Sir Richard called. ‘Come and meet the governor.’

He introduced me to a short slim man with dark wavy hair that was just beginning to go grey at the temples.

‘Delighted to meet you, Your Excellency,’ I said, shaking his hand.

‘Please, call me Peter. I’m not one for formality, especially not on Christmas Eve. This is my wife, Annabel.’ He indicated to the blonde-haired woman with a small mouth and large blue eyes who was standing next to him.

‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ I said to her.

She shook my hand and smiled at me. ‘Is this your first time in the Cayman Islands?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘But I hope it won’t be my last.’

‘That’s what everyone says,’ the governor said. ‘It’s very good for the tourist trade.’

‘Is it the island’s main source of income?’ I asked.

‘It’s certainly important, but our financial services industry is much bigger,’ he said. ‘There are over two hundred and fifty separate banks operating in Cayman. We have almost ten thousand different investment funds licensed to trade here. And we are one of the world’s largest insurance centres, with over seven hundred insurance companies registered.’

‘All of them trying to avoid paying tax?’ I said.

‘Financial institutions and companies will always base themselves in the most tax-efficient jurisdiction,’ he said, as if lecturing me. ‘If it wasn’t here, it would be somewhere else where conditions were favourable, such as Bermuda or the Bahamas. All Cayman financial services are fully compliant with both US and European directives and regulations.’

It sounded to me like a line he had used often before.

‘No suitcases full of dodgy cash, then?’

‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘It is far more difficult to launder illegal money here than almost anywhere in the world. That, sadly, is a reputation that the Cayman Islands has unfairly acquired from the past. Nowadays, it is simply not true.’

I believed him. Thousands wouldn’t.

The governor and his wife moved on to some of their other guests.

‘Come on,’ Henri said to me. ‘Let’s go and have some dinner.’

As we were walking out of the garden, we met Derrick and Gay Smith, also on their way back to the road.

‘Weren’t those children great?’ Gay said. ‘I love hearing choirs sing.’

We all agreed with her.

‘Jeff,’ Derrick said. ‘Would you and Henri like to come for drinks on Boxing Day?’

Henri and I looked at each other and we both nodded.

‘We’d love to,’ I said. ‘Where and what time?’

‘Come to our place around six,’ Derrick said. ‘Then we could all go out to dinner afterwards at the Calypso Grill.’

What could be more Caribbean? I thought. All else it needed was the King of Calypso himself, Harry Belafonte, singing Day-O from ‘The Banana Boat Song’.

‘Henri, you know where we live, don’t you?’ Derrick said.

‘I think so,’ she replied uncertainly. ‘I’m sure we’ll find it.’

Christmas Day dawned sunny and calm, and Henri and I were out on the beach by seven o’clock in our swimwear and T-shirts. Even though the sun had only just peeped over the eastern horizon, the temperature was already in the mid-twenties, which gave every indication of a very warm day to come. As Quentin had said, it really was going to be a hot Christmas.

We walked up the beach towards Martin and Theresa’s place and found the dive boat was already there with a hive of activity going on around it. Bags of diving gear were being loaded on board from the beach, along with eight scuba air tanks. Martin Reynard was directing operations while two other men appeared to be doing all the work.

‘Morning,’ said Martin as we approached. ‘Merry Christmas.’

Henri gave him a kiss on the cheek.

‘This is Truman Ebanks,’ Martin said, pointing at a large dark-skinned man standing on the sand. ‘He’s our dive master. And also Carson Ebanks.’ Martin pointed at the man on the boat. ‘He’s the captain and our safety officer.’

Truman was passing the gear to Carson.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘Are you brothers?’

‘No, man,’ said Carson in a deep resonant voice.

‘I thought both being called Ebanks...’

He laughed. ‘Lots of people hereabouts are named Ebanks. Those that ain’t Boddens.’ I loved the way his local accent gave the words a rhythm, almost as if he was singing them.