‘Was Pima serving?’
‘I honestly can’t say. The main thing I remember about the evening was, well, I brought Howard back here afterwards and we, well, we got together, as it were.’
‘And now you’re two-timing him,’ said Deborah, changing the subject with sudden and surprising ferocity.
Claire flushed. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m not blind, Claire. We live in the same block and I saw you with Drew, in his car, early one morning. I guess it’s none of my business, but Howard is a good friend.’
‘It’s over with Drew. I don’t really want to discuss it. It’s a private matter. Just like your affair with Alex. Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything to anyone about that.’ Deborah suddenly started to cry.
Claire put her arms around her. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to attack you, not now when you’re upset and . . . I don’t blame you about Alex. I’m not criticizing. Please don’t think that. You deserved a bit of fun. But I wanted you to have someone older, more suitable who could take you away from Johnny, look after you and . . . oh, please, don’t cry.’
Deborah said, ‘I guess I’m miserable about Mom, and then there was the long flight and the funeral and all that. And Alex is gone. And my life, my marriage is a mess right now.’ Her shoulders shook as she held on to Claire. Eventually she was quiet.
Feeling inadequate and out of her depth, Claire patted her. ‘Everything will sort itself out. I mean, as far as you’re concerned. It’ll be OK. As I said, I think you deserve some one much nicer than Johnny.’
Deborah smiled a little. ‘You’re a good, kind, supportive friend.’ A few moments later she said, ‘But I guess I should sort out my life myself. I don’t know why everyone assumes a woman needs a man to take care of her. I don’t need taking care of. I’ll manage fine on my own.’
Twenty-Three
Claire could do little about Deborah’s problems, but she felt there must be some action she should take about Pel. When she considered the matter calmly, it seemed extremely unlikely that he was the body on the beach, and yet there had been no word from him since his departure.
These preoccupations had partially taken her mind off Drew, who had not contacted her since their quarrel after the flood. She waited for an explanation, an apology, a reassurance, but none came. It seemed to prove what she had known all along: he was not seriously interested in her. All that semi-romantic stuff he had dished out was obviously just a line. As she should have recognized. Be realistic, woman, she told herself miserably – it was only lust, at least for him.
Twice she’d started to dial his number but had immediately put the receiver down. Then, swallowing her pride, she tried again on two or three different evenings, letting the phone ring for what seemed like ten minutes. Obviously he had left for Australia, to see his wife, without even saying goodbye. So that was that.
In an unhappy moral daze, she’d continued her relationship with Howard as if the three nights with Drew had never taken place, an episode she was determined to bury along with her feelings about him. But she had major misgivings about her own bad behaviour. She tried to concentrate on Howard, who loved her in a proper steadfast manner. Despite these efforts, Drew was still the first thought to enter her head every morning, and every night she brooded about him until she went to sleep, the bastard. She was in a state of guilty indecision and not at all proud of the fact that, having been unfaithful to Howard, she had sunk back into his arms. She knew she should give up all idea of a future with either man, and remain alone and independent. After all, she’d spent many years alone and independent and all the better for that. But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to finish with Howard and hurt him so badly.
Instead she found herself being particularly kind and gentle with him, to assuage her unconfessed sins.
Making an effort to share her problems and thoughts with him – or almost all her thoughts – she decided to ask his advice about the matter of the body on the beach and to tell him about its possible connection with Pel. When she discussed this mystery, however, Howard said firmly that dead bodies were the concern of the local police, happened all the time, she mustn’t take it seriously, that there was no reason to suppose it had anything to do with Pel’s disappearance. Anyway, it was absolutely not the sort of thing she should become involved with, in any circumstances.
Ignoring this sensible advice, Claire went to see Lucy, who confirmed that she did indeed keep records of every party; it was all part of diplomatic life, entertainment allowance and all that. She remembered the evening Claire had in mind because it was the first reception she had given and some agriculture people had come from England.
Lucy began to look through her files, which were not as well organized as she had claimed. Claire watched impatiently as Lucy picked up one set of bills and papers after another, with lots of sighs and sorrys and oh dears.
Suddenly Lucy gave a cry of triumph. Here was the party in question. Claire was on the list, and so were Jean-Louis and Pel. She remembered Pel particularly because he was wearing a red open-necked shirt without a jacket, highly conspicuous amid the surrounding suits. Claire hugged her and told her she was very clever to remember such things, but what about Pima? Was she on the list to serve drinks? Lucy rifled through the file again and eventually found a set of accounts. Pima’s name was down as having received the equivalent of ten pounds for the evening’s work.
Claire thought about the matter all night. Next day, before she went to work, she printed a photograph of Pel and took it upstairs to show Pima. The maid looked worried and said she was not sure. Maybe he was the man on the beach, but maybe he wasn’t.
All the way to the office in the bus (her car, never the same since the flood, had broken down again) she practised what she would say to Jean-Louis.
She waited until he had had his morning coffee and smoked his second low-tar cigarette, then she took a deep breath and spoke. ‘Jean-Louis, I thought you should know that a young Asian man wearing a cross was fished out of the sea near the yacht club last August quite soon after Pel left here.’
A strange expression passed over his pudgy face for a second, and then he smiled. ‘Ah, do not make yourself anxious, Claire. I have received word from Pel since then. He is safe in Thailand.’
She smiled happily. ‘Oh, what a relief! You didn’t tell me.’
‘I am sorry, my dear. I suppose I imagined that he would have communicated with you directly since he was so fond of you.’ These last words were spoken without any sarcastic overtone, but Claire found herself flushing.
‘Well, yes, perhaps he should have sent me a postcard or something. Still I’m glad you’ve heard from him.’
Friendly and calm, Jean-Louis passed the day much as usual, except that he tended to make most of his telephone calls when she was out of the room.
Just before she was about to go home, she said, ‘Can you give me Pel’s address so I can send this on to him?’
‘What is that?’
‘A book he lent me.’
‘Ah, he has removed from his present address. When I hear from him, I will forward the book. Give it to me, please. Now is it not time for you to leave? Au revoir. A demain.’
Claire left by the front door, as normal, but then she changed her mind and skirted round the house to the garden at the back. She would sit for a minute and relax by the pool before going to the bus stop: one needed to be feeling strong to face public transport in Maising. She lay stretched out on the daybed and pulled down the long fringed canopy to screen herself from the setting sun.
After a little while she heard footsteps. She peered through the fringe to see the handsome figure of Meng walking up the steps to the verandah. He did not see her. Her curiosity roused, she decided not to move. She heard sounds above her: Suni bringing drinks for Meng and Jean-Louis. Then she heard Jean-Louis dismiss the maid.
‘Where is your assistant?’ asked the suave, educated voice of Meng.
‘She has
gone home.’
‘A charming woman. And so attractive.’
‘An inquisitive woman. I am thinking of dispensing with her services quite soon, sending her back to England.’ Claire was shocked by the malevolence in his tone.
‘Why? I thought you found her work satisfactory.’
‘She is indeed extremely competent, but she has begun to ask questions about Pel. She is even talking about a body on a beach. A stupid coincidence, but we don’t want any unnecessary scandal.’
She could hear Meng draw in his breath. ‘Ah, that is why you wanted to see me.’ Jean-Louis said, ‘But you have disposed of the evidence?’
‘Of course.’
‘All of it, I hope.’
‘Well, I have got rid of his belongings as you asked. But I’ve kept a little souvenir of the boy.’
‘Imbecile,’ snapped Jean-Louis. ‘What souvenir?’
‘Amongst his possessions I found a small ivory bird – such delicate work, fully articulated, quite enchanting. Japanese, I believe. A collector’s item – I couldn’t bear to destroy it.’
‘And what have you done with this, this souvenir?’
‘I have put it amongst my collection of ivory figurines. It’s not conspicuous there. No one save you or I will recognize it.’
‘What about Claire, or my maid?’
‘You told me that he kept all his possessions in his room. You are not suggesting Claire was in the habit of visiting him there.’
‘Not as far as I am aware.’
‘And the maid is unimportant.’
‘Yes, she is. But . . .’
‘Calm yourself, Jean-Louis. I shan’t be inviting Claire or Suni to my house. They aren’t my type. I see no problem, no risk.’
‘You’re mad. You must dispose of this ornament.’
‘If I try to sell it, or throw it away, I may draw attention. As it is, you may rest assured that among a dozen other pieces of ivory it is invisible.’ She could hear the scraping of his chair as he stood up. ‘Now the mosquitoes are beginning to bite. Let’s go inside, Jean-Louis, so I can examine those papers you wanted to show me. We must ensure that the bus contract goes to the generous Mr Nisaki, mustn’t we?’
As soon as they had gone into the house, Claire tiptoed away. Terrified that they would see her from the window and know that she had been eavesdropping, she ducked down low behind the bank of shrubs until she was safely around the corner. Then she ran down the drive so that she arrived at the bus stop exhausted and sweating.
All the way back to the city in the stifling malodorous bus, she wondered what she should do. She was shaking with shock and anger. Pel really was dead, but would anyone believe her if she said Jean-Louis had had him killed?
It suddenly came to her that Lucy’s husband would be the best person to take action, so, instead of going home, she made her way to the Embassy.
Far from being anxious to help, Lucy became quieter and quieter as she told her the story.
‘Claire, I don’t think I really want to be involved,’ she said. ‘It’s really nothing to do with me – or the Embassy. Pel wasn’t a British subject. Can’t you just go to the police?’
‘I’m a young, foreign female, for God’s sake. They won’t take any notice of me. Jean-Louis is big pals with half the police force – he’s always having one of the chief policemen to dinner. I mean it’s not really my business either, but they might listen to Martin.’
‘No.’
‘I think they’re bound to,’ said Claire, certain that she was right.
‘No, you don’t understand. I don’t want to tell Martin about Meng.’
‘What? Not say he’s involved in murder?’
‘I mean I don’t want to mention him at all. He is, was a friend of mine, sort of.’ She spoke nervously, staring at the floor, her face flushed.
Claire gazed at her. There was something very odd about Lucy’s tone. ‘What do you mean?’
There was no reply.
Claire said, ‘Surely you don’t mean . . . ? You’re not having an affair with him, are you?’
‘No, of course not.’
Claire took her arm. ‘What? Lucy, tell me, what is the matter?’
‘He could blackmail me. No, not blackmail. I mean, he just has a hold on me that he could use if he wanted.’ She could hardly bring the words out.
‘What kind of a hold?’
Lucy walked to the window and stood with her back to the room. ‘I just can’t talk about it.’
After a pause Claire said, ‘I can’t go to the police with no real evidence. If only I could take a photo of the ivory bird at Meng’s or get hold of it, but that would be too risky. Unless you go, maybe. He won’t be suspicious of you if you’re a friend. You could go to his house and get it. I can describe it.’
‘No, I won’t go there again. Not ever.’
‘Lucy, you must help. Someone’s been killed. He’s a very sweet, harmless boy who was kind and helpful to me. I have to do something. I don’t know if there were any other friends but me.’ She gestured towards Lucy. ‘Anyway, if Meng gets arrested for being involved in murder, he’ll be put in prison and then he can’t blackmail you or whatever he’s doing.’
Claire did not seem to be able to get through to Lucy, who would not look her in the eye and remained by the window playing with the fraying end of her woven belt.
‘Meng couldn’t possibly be a murderer, he’s very gentle,’ said Lucy eventually. ‘Maybe he didn’t actually do it, but he knew about it,’ said Claire. ‘I told you about what I overheard. And then there’s this mysterious hold he has over you. There is something very peculiar about him.’
There was another long silence and then Lucy said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I think we could go to Meng’s house – in the morning when he’s at the dig and look for the ornament – and other, er, evidence. It won’t be dangerous, if we go together. I’m sure he’d never harm us.’
‘He must have a maid. She’s bound to let us in, two respectable-looking Englishwomen, but we can’t search the house in front of her.’ Claire paced around. ‘Perhaps we can think up an excuse. Is she a bright kind of girl?’
‘No, an old woman, rather slow-witted, Meng said.’
‘Good,’ said Claire excitedly. ‘You speak enough of the language to communicate, don’t you? You can distract her, lure her into the kitchen or the garden, while I look for the ivory bird.’
‘But what will it prove? I mean Meng could say Pel gave it to him,’ said Lucy, still sounding agitated.
‘No, I remember Pel told me it was his most precious possession – the only thing he had that belonged to his parents. He would never have parted with it. I’m not the only person who knows about it. Suni, Jean-Louis’ maid, she must have seen it in Pel’s room.’
‘But . . .’
‘Come on, Lucy. If you won’t consult Martin about this, then you and I have got to do something. Besides, as you said, we might find other evidence at Meng’s.’
‘Yes, we might,’ said Lucy guardedly.
*
Two days later, Claire rang the office to say she was ill. Then she collected her car from the repair garage and Lucy from the Embassy. The traffic was heavy until they began to leave the city behind.
‘You say you’ve been here before. Are you sure this is right?’ asked Claire, as they found themselves in an obscure northern suburb of Maising.
‘Yes,’ said Lucy, sounding unconvinced. ‘But I can’t even see the road signs.’ Among the shacks and shophouses, Claire’s nerve was beginning to fail and Lucy became agitated, but eventually the road became wider and they found themselves driving past small, solid single-storey houses. At Lucy’s instructions, Claire made a series of turns. ‘I’m sure we’re going in circles. Haven’t we passed that noodle stall before?’
‘Oh, yes . . . and then there’s that poor dead dog again.’ A little later Lucy suddenly said, ‘Turn left and park here. I think we’d better walk.’
Evidently ple
ased she had found the way after all, Lucy became relatively composed. She stopped in front of a large iron gate and rang the bell. An old woman in a white blouse and purple sarong opened the gate. When she saw the novel vision of two quaint foreign girls, she grinned broadly. Lucy, smiling back, asked for Meng, saying she was a friend.
The maid admitted them to the house, speaking in a high squeaky voice, throwing in the odd word of English. Extremely ugly with a snub nose and small eyes, like a cheerful pig, she invited the girls to sit down and brought them drinks of Coca-Cola along with some sickly sweet white cakes wrapped in bamboo leaves. She seemed particularly fascinated by Claire’s blonde hair and kept touching it, talking all the while. As far as they could understand her, she seemed to be saying that her master would soon be home for lunch.
Claire looked at her watch. It was already eleven o’clock. With a slightly later start than she’d planned and then getting so lost, they were well behind schedule.
‘We’ll have to go. I can’t face him,’ hissed Lucy.
‘Surely he won’t be having lunch this early. Try and get the woman out of the room,’ murmured Claire.
The maid smiled and made eating gestures; then she rushed out of the room. Before the girls could move, she came back with a basket. She spoke again, and waddled toward the front door. Lucy smiled back in sudden comprehension and thanked her.
‘What are you thanking her for?’
‘She says she is sure Professor Meng will invite us to stay to lunch. She’s going to the market to get some more food. She’ll be back in twenty minutes, she says. I didn’t know he was a professor. How grand.’
‘I don’t give a damn if he’s Einstein, he’s still a very shady character. But you did well to get rid of her,’ whispered Claire, smiling at the old woman.
As soon as the maid had gone, Claire searched the room. The whole house was like a small, cluttered and disorganized museum. Every shelf, every table, was crammed with ancient pottery, ornaments and objets d’art, apparently grouped at random. She was beginning to despair of ever finding anything when suddenly she saw a low shelf full of ivory figurines and right in the middle of it was Pel’s bird. Taking a quick photograph of it in situ, she put the treasure into her pocket. Then she hurried towards the desk and began to open drawers at random, but the only papers written in English were archaeological reports. Anyway, she had no idea what she was looking for. Meanwhile, Lucy continued to rifle through some large folders in the corner.
Tropical Connections Page 19
