Shifting Sands Read Free Page B

Africa would be prohibitive, and at least it was a means of making contact. Provided, that is, she had her mobile switched on, which she probably wouldn’t have for most of the time. He’d give it a try in a day or two.
    As he shelved that problem, more immediate ones returned, threatening to overwhelm him. Trouble was, he’d too much time on his hands. He’d be able to think more positively if he could only land some work.
    For several more minutes he watched the images on the screen, muted when the phone rang, then he turned up the sound and settled down to watch the next programme.
    A couple of hours later, drifting off to sleep, the last face that filled his mind was, surprisingly, not that of his wife or sons, but of the reticent, enigmatic Elise.

TWO
    R eaching her hotel room, Anna Farrell dropped her handbag on the bed and ran her fingers through her hair. She was still considerably shaken – an unusual experience for one who prided herself on her self-control. Even when Miles had died so unexpectedly, she’d maintained her public persona, a rock to her children’s grief, succumbing to tears only in the privacy of her bedroom.
    Which was why, when Beatrice had dropped out of this holiday, and Jon and Sophie worried she’d be on her own, she’d shrugged off their concern. ‘Of course I’ll be all right, darlings,’ she’d told them breezily. ‘We’ll be in a group, after all. I’ll soon make friends.’
    In fact, their group consisted mainly of couples, threesomes and foursomes, and though everyone was friendly enough, she was chary of encroaching. The only other single travellers – a young man of about twenty and two women, one young and one middle-aged – were, unfortunately, the people she least wanted to spend her holiday with. And to make matters worse, the tour manager, determined no one should be left out, was already herding the singles together. On today’s coach trip, Anna had eluded her only by sitting next to the odd member of a threesome, a pleasant woman in her forties.
    But all that, she could cope with. What had disturbed her was her totally unforeseen reaction when, over lunch, the background music suddenly switched to a tune she’d danced to with Miles, and, to her utter horror, her eyes had filled with tears. (What was it Noel Coward said, about the potency of cheap music?) She was pretty sure no one noticed, but it had taken all her control not to break down completely. And God knows what would have happened then. She’d remained on edge all afternoon, terrified some other trigger might set her off again. And it was only the third day of the holiday.
    She moved to the dressing table and studied her reflection. To her relief, she looked much as usual – a tall, slim woman of fifty-five, with short, silver-blonde hair curving towards her face and grey eyes, mercifully untinged with red, staring back at her.
    So far, so good. She drew a deep breath and went to have a shower.
    Her party had again gathered in the bar, and Anna, a smile plastered to her face, ordered a gin and tonic and drifted to the nearest group, which included the tour manager. One of the men smiled at her.
    â€˜We’ve been asking Edda’s help in putting names to people,’ he said. ‘I don’t think . . .?’
    â€˜Anna Farrell,’ she supplied.
    â€˜Hi, Anna. I’m Harry Bell, this is my wife Susan, and our friends Bill and Prue Dyson. We met in Australia four years ago and have holidayed together ever since.’
    Anna was grateful for the clarification; she hadn’t yet managed to identify everyone. ‘I should have come with a friend,’ she explained carefully, ‘but unfortunately she broke her arm two weeks ago and had to cry off.’
    â€˜What bad luck – for both of you!’
    â€˜She insisted I write a detailed diary, to show her when I get home.’
    â€˜I saw you