‘He’s going to be fun,’ Kirby said in Jane’s ear.
‘Don’t you start,’ she said. ‘Besides, it’s only for one night. Once we get to the Manse on the island we’ll be too busy for personality clashes, moody silences or anything vaguely human.’
Kirby chased a leathery steak listlessly around her plate.
‘Not enjoying your meal?’ McKinley said to her.
‘I ordered it rare. This has been cremated.’
‘Send it back.’ He had no patience with poor service, and even less with people who were too polite to complain about it.
‘No. I’m going to take it home and have it mounted; hang it on the wall. A trophy of my first and last trip to the Cleeves Hotel.’
After coffee they retired to their rooms.
Raj Kumar sat on the bed surrounded by cameras and lenses. His lank, long hair was tied back in a ponytail, which accentuated his wispy goatee. With a puffer-brush he cleaned dust from a telephoto lens. There were three cameras on the bed. He had others stowed away with the rest of his equipment, but these three rarely left his side. They were his babies and he cherished them; spending many hours cleaning and servicing them. There was a Hasselblad with a digital back and two Canon SLRs, work horses; one loaded with regular film, the other containing infrared stock. They rewarded his dedication to them by never once letting him down.
Carter was lying on the other bed, reading by the anemic light of a dusty bedside lamp.
‘We went out together, you know,’ Raj said.
‘Sorry?’ Carter had heard what he said but needed a moment to control his emotions.
‘Sian and me. We went out together.’
Carter put the file down. ‘I didn’t realize you two…’
‘Oh, we weren’t. At least, not properly. Just a few evenings for drinks and stuff.’ Raj was concentrating on his lenses, not looking at Carter. ‘She was a good kid.’
‘Yes,’ Carter said. ‘She was.’ He wasn’t sure what agenda Kumar was setting. The words seemed innocent but Carter guessed there was more to come.
Raj lapsed into silence and Carter picked up the files again and started to read. He could wait for Kumar to make his point; he had all night.
‘I wanted to get to know her better,’ Raj said, putting the thoroughly cleaned lens back in its case and picking up another from the bed.
With an inward sigh Carter closed the file and laid it on the bed. ‘Why didn’t you then?’
‘There was no point. I could tell it wasn’t going anywhere.’ Again Carter could tell Raj was skirting round what he really wanted to say.
‘Really? Did you try to take it further?’ He didn’t want intimate details. In truth he was just being polite. All he could think about were the events contained in the files.
‘She knew how I felt about her. But there was someone else.’
‘Too bad.’
Raj stopped cleaning and turned to look at him. ‘She was in love with you,’ he said.
‘Pardon?’ Carter hadn’t been expecting that.
‘Absolutely besotted, she was. She was living in the hope that you might…well, you can imagine…’
Carter was stunned. ‘I had no idea.’
‘No, no you probably didn’t. The rest of us could see it though. She’d get that dreamy look in her eyes whenever she looked at you. Once I tried to tell her she was wasting her time, but hope is a very powerful emotion. She was convinced that one day you’d notice her. Pathetic really. Silly little cow. I could have made her happy…if she’d given me a chance.’
Carter swung his legs to the floor and slipped on his shoes.
‘Going somewhere?’
Carter walked to the door. ‘I’m going to get some air.’
Raj watched the door close behind him and smiled. ‘That was for you, Sian,’ he said to the room. ‘He knows now. Let’s hope he beats himself up over it.’
The night air was warm and sultry, heavy with salt from the sea. The rain had passed over for a while, leaving behind a clear sky, which was turning a deeper shade of blue as the last of the daylight slipped away. Out over the water it was darker, where more storm clouds were slowly massing.
Carter walked through the grounds of the hotel, his mind trying to get to grips with Raj Kumar’s revelation. He’d had no idea that Sian Davies felt that way about him. She had never said anything or done anything to show him that might be the case. Or maybe she had and he’d been too wrapped up in himself to notice. That was the more likely scenario. What was the point of having his gifts, of being psychic, if he couldn’t even pick up on the most basic of human emotions?
He found himself standing by a small fountain in the grounds of the hotel. The fountain was a remnant of a previous time, suggesting that a much grander building once stood in the space now blighted by the stained concrete and glass of the Cleeves Hotel. It was a stone-built circle with three cherubs on the top of an ornate plinth, their faces pointing skywards, lips pursed, ready to deliver their spouts of water. But it was a long time since anything had passed their lips and they all wore yellow beards of lichen.
The water in the fountain was weed-choked and murky. A few straggly water lilies were making a brave attempt to survive in the inhospitable surroundings, but it was a battle they were destined to lose. Three frogs had found the occasional gaps in the weed and were lying partly submerged, eyes above the surface, on the lookout for passing bugs, their next meal.
He felt incredibly depressed. What the hell was he doing here? He was out of his depth; if his conclusions were correct they were all out of their depths, of that he was certain. Perhaps it would be best to just pack his bags and go home. He was sure he wouldn’t be missed. In fact he was sure the majority would welcome his leaving. Damn it! That’s exactly what he would do. He’d go back to the hotel, pick up his things and head back down south.
He sat on the edge of the fountain and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke into the night air. Behind him there was a small splash as one of the frogs ducked beneath the surface, followed by the grinding sound of stone on stone. He glanced behind him. The cherubs had moved; their faces were no longer staring at the stars. Now they were looking down at him; all three faces grinning malevolently. He made to rise, but two arms burst from the cover of the blanket weed. White, clawlike hands grabbed his shoulders and he was dragged backwards, over the edge of the fountain and down into the green, stagnant water.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The iron gates protecting the Anderson house hissed open on well-oiled hinges. The S-Class Mercedes swept through, tires crunching on the wide gravel drive, and pulled up outside the house. The chauffeur stepped out and opened the back door of the car. Jessica emerged wreathed in a cloud of cigarette smoke and Chanel № 5. She walked briskly up the four stone steps to the front door, which opened as her foot hit the top step. A butler dressed in an immaculate black pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt and navy blue tie stood to one side to allow her to enter.
‘Good to have you home, miss,’ he said, a flawless English accent exaggerated but natural.
‘Good to be back, Foxworth. Terrible flight though. Delayed for two hours at Heathrow and turbulence most of the way.’
He smiled sympathetically.
‘Is my father here?’
‘He arrived home just before you. I believe he’s in the study,’ Foxworth said. ‘Would you like me to let him know you’re home?’
‘No, it’s okay. I’ll surprise him. Can you fix me a sandwich? I haven’t eaten since I left New York. You know how I hate in-flight catering.’