Stephanie Read Free Page A

dematerialised, but her possessions were untouched. She dried her feet and looked at the blood oozing from her heel where she had caught it on a piece of half-buried driftwood. Very careless.
    Her body had almost completely dried already, her hair was half dry simply from three minutes’ walking back along the beach. Her heel was stinging. It was nothing, the merest cut. But this being India, did one take extra precautions? Errol had some antiseptic stuff. Worth a walk? It was nothing. And she could see if he was feeling better.
    She climbed the steps to the hotel but disdained the taxis always waiting to whisk guests up to their bungalows, and negotiated the steep path, cutting corners off the conventional road. The swim had invigorated her and she felt ready to try the four-minute mile.
    In the drive outside their bungalow two cars were standing, one an Ambassador, the maid-of-all-work car and taxi that proliferates throughout India, the other a sleek black Mercedes. Such a new and shiny Mercedes is as rare in India as a Rolls in a Welsh mining village. A chauffeur in a dark suit was sitting at the wheel. As she went up the steps she heard voices.
    Errol was entertaining two Indian guests. One she had met in Bombay, and was a business associate of Errol’s, Mr Mohamed, who had visited him at the Taj there. He was a stout bearded silent man who wore too much jewellery. The other man, clearly the owner of the car, was a different and superior type. A tall smooth man with a long neck and an oval head on which the greying hair was slicked back so smoothly that he looked more bald than he really was. He wore a suit of cream shantung silk with a black silk shirt and a cream tie, a diamond tiepin, diamond cufflinks and a black silk handkerchief. He exuded a quiet importance. He might have been the maitre d’hotel at an exclusive London restaurant, or chief adviser to some oriental dictator.
    He and Errol were seated. Mr Mohamed was standing holding some documents, which were clearly under discussion.
    Silence had abruptly fallen at her entry.
    She said: ‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here.’
    â€˜Oh, come in, come in, darling. My friends called unexpectedly. Of course you know Mr Mohamed. Mr Erasmus is a colleague from Hong Kong.’
    Mr Mohamed bowed from the waist. Mr Erasmus slightly inclined his head. She saw the table was spread with maps and what looked like shipping lists, and a wallet was open with some money in it.
    â€˜Sorry,’ she said again. ‘I cut my foot and thought I’d get some antiseptic for it.’
    â€˜In there, darling; second drawer, I think.’
    â€˜How’s your head?’
    â€˜Not too agreeable yet. But improving.’
    Mr Erasmus said: ‘May I please know the young lady’s name.’
    â€˜Of course,’ Errol said. ‘Miss Locke. Miss Stephanie Locke.’
    Mr Erasmus eyed her with cold, polite interest. His skin looked so smooth he might just have shaved, or did not need to shave. He spoke perfect English, but his eyes were too slanted to be European.
    Presently the stinging antiseptic was on, and a plaster, dusted with antibiotic powder, over the cut.
    â€˜You have had a tetanus injection?’ Mr Erasmus asked.
    â€˜Oh yes, thank you. Errol insisted before we left.’
    â€˜Stop and have some coffee while you’re here?’ Errol suggested, dabbing his head with a damp towel. But it was a halfhearted invitation and she smilingly refused. Couldn’t wait to return to the beach, she said.
    â€˜You’ll stay to lunch?’ Errol said to the men, but again it was perfunctory. Mr Mohamed deferred to Mr Erasmus, who said: ‘Thank you, I must catch the afternoon plane to Delhi. Mohamed, I expect, will be returning to Bombay.’
    The fat Indian bowed formally from the waist as she left. The tall man inclined his head.
III
    She spent an hour in and out of the sea and then climbed the hill again to meet