‘There’s so much stuff, but I can’t find anything else interesting,’ said Claire urgently. ‘I think we’d better go now before the maid gets back – or Meng for that matter. What were you looking for? Did you find anything among those photos?’
‘No, nothing. Claire, you didn’t see any negatives, did you? I suppose there must be a dark room somewhere.’
‘We really have to go. Quick, I’m getting nervous. I’ve got the ivory bird, that’s the main thing.’
‘But I need to find something else,’ said Lucy, staring around.
‘There just isn’t time. Come on.’ Claire suddenly heard the garden gates clanking open. ‘Oh my God. Listen, a car. Quick, it’s him.’
Lucy stood transfixed, white in the face.
‘Go to the front door, stall him,’ hissed Claire, intending to replace the ivory bird.
But it was too late. Handsome and godlike as ever, Meng appeared. He’d met the maid in the road and was delighted to hear that they were staying to lunch. Beaming at them both, he stood in the middle of the room. ‘Make yourselves at home. I always take a shower as soon as I get back from the dig, but before I do, can I get you a drink?’
Lucy opened her mouth and shut it and then managed a whispered, ‘No, thank you.’
‘No, I mean, yes please . . . er, lime juice or water or anything, please,’ stuttered Claire, convinced that he was staring past her at the shelf of ivories. While he was out of the room, she rummaged in her pocket and put the precious ivory bird back with the other pieces. She was too agitated to remember whether or not it was in the same position as she had found it.
Twenty-Four
‘What a ridiculous, terrifying and pointless expedition,’ said Claire, putting her foot on the accelerator. She wanted to get away as fast as possible.
Lucy did not speak.
A little later Claire said, ‘At least Meng didn’t seem to suspect anything. All that risk for nothing. I didn’t even have the guts to carry my great plan through. Wouldn’t have been any good as a spy or a private detective, would I? Sorry, Lucy, hope you’re OK.’
‘I’m OK,’ said Lucy, but her voice faltered. ‘Um, I’ve been thinking, was it dusty?’
‘What?’ asked Claire.
‘The shelf where you found the ivory ornaments.’
‘Well, no, it was much the tidiest – looked as if it had just been cleaned and rearranged. That’s why I noticed it.’
‘Good,’ said Lucy.
‘I can’t think what to do next, except I have got the photo. But I’ve just realized there’s nothing to prove it was taken at Meng’s house, so it doesn’t help much, so stupid,’ said Claire, turning the wheel sharply to avoid a stray dog. They were now nearly back in the centre of town.
‘Whatever you do, I can’t do it with you,’ said Lucy in a rush.
When they arrived at the Embassy, she got out of the car and ran to her house, hardly saying goodbye.
Back at her own flat, door locked, windows shut, Claire could not rest although she felt utterly exhausted. She paced about. She would like to have talked to Howard, but he was away on a business trip. She would have liked to talk to Drew, but he had disappeared from her life.
During a long, tense night she formed a plan of asking Deborah to telephone Jean-Louis to say she was still unwell and couldn’t go to the office for a few days. At least then she would have time to think.
For three days she sat at home, seeing only Deborah, and discussing the problem over and over again. Eventually, as nothing untoward or unexpected happened, she began to relax a little. Meng must actually have believed Lucy’s weak excuse about calling to see him on the subject of archaeology lectures for Embassy staff. In fact, he’d behaved in a perfectly charming manner, and seemed as kind and gentle as Lucy had said.
Claire pondered about the conversation she had overheard between him and Jean-Louis. Could she have misunderstood? Perhaps, but she didn’t think so.
‘Of course you did. Too much imagination, like all women,’ said Howard on the telephone from Singapore. ‘Naturally I don’t approve of those gay types, but it’s quite ridiculous to say they’re criminals. Not likely to be involved in bodies on beaches. Ridiculous, as I said in the first place. Be sensible, go back to work, and if you have the slightest problem, give me another ring. But I’ll be out of contact at the weekend, going up-country.’
The next day she returned to the office. Jean-Louis treated her with such gentlemanly consideration, with so many kind enquiries about her health, and so many reminders to take it easy, that eventually she was almost, but not entirely, reassured by his unthreatening manner.
Day followed day in gentle routine and in an atmosphere of calm. Then on Friday Jean-Louis reminded her he had made arrangements for her to view the Buddhist art collection of Kim Kwan. Kim Kwan was a millionaire from Hong Kong who had recently bought one of the local islands. Claire longed to see the famous collection which had been transferred to his new home.
That evening as she was packing her bag for the overnight boat trip, she began to have renewed doubts. Jean-Louis said the local ferry only called at Kim Kwan’s island every ten days. She must catch it this evening, spend the night on the island, and the following day a private launch would return her to Maising. But Claire wondered if it was sensible to go off by herself on a boat trip organized by Jean-Louis.
Howard was still away – in fact still out of contact – but he would no doubt remind her that she was being over-imaginative. As he said, she’d probably somehow misunderstood the whole conversation she’d overheard between Meng and Jean-Louis. They could just have been disposing of Pel’s things, even the ivory bird, because he had left them behind, accidentally or on purpose, when he went away so suddenly. The body on the beach could just have been the remains of an unlucky stranger.
Finally she convinced herself that the attractions of the trip were greater than the imaginary dangers. She might never get another chance to see the Kwan collection, a collection which was reputed to be even more extensive than that of Jean-Louis. The visit would be of great professional interest. She must think about her career: she might soon be unemployed and Mr Kwan might give her a job. Then she could stay in this part of the world.
She did not even admit to herself that she wanted to stay in Maising in the hopes that one day Drew would return.
Yes, she would make the trip, but, to be on the safe side, she would tell Deborah exactly when and where she was going. She hurried upstairs and knocked on the Case’s door.
Johnny answered it. His dissolute reptilian face was shiny and yellowish, his shirt dishevelled. ‘Claire! What a treat!’ He leered at her, grabbing her arm and pulling her into the hall. He smelt of stale sweat and gin. ‘What a piece of luck! Come and have a little drinkie with old Johnny, put a bit of colour in your cheeks, make your hair curl.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Nonsense. Just what you need. G & T, isn’t it?’ He ushered her into the sitting room and, turning to the drinks table, slurped a generous tot of export gin into a tumbler. ‘There’s no more ice, damn it. Can’t get that fool Pima to make enough. Always melting too quickly, ice, very unreliable.’
Claire perched on the edge of her chair. ‘Can I have a word with Deborah?’
‘Deb’s not here. Gone out to some fearful island cultural evening. Back late, she said. Lucky, isn’t it, that I am all on my ownio? Gather your boyfriend is away too. Wonder what you and I can do to amuse ourselves? How about a spot of dins at a nice restaurant, and then we could go to a little nightclub I know where all sorts of exciting things happen, things a nice girl like you could hardly imagine – most educational for you.’
Claire got up. ‘Sorry. I’ve got to go now. I must really. Have to catch a ferry,’ she said hastily. ‘But, er, can I write a note to Deb.’
‘All rightee – there’s paper by the phone. Or should be. Deb’s not the most organized woman.’
She found a notepad and a blunt cray
on of Sam’s and scrawled a few words. ‘Where can I put it where she’ll see it?’
‘Give it to me, darling. Kids tend to mess the house up a bit. Can’t find anything these days.’ He peered at the note, then put it in his pocket.
‘You won’t forget to give it to her, will you? You see – it’s important. I’m just letting her know where I’m going. To Kwan’s island. For the weekend.’
‘Where’s that?’ he asked blearily. ‘And which lover are you going with this time?’
‘Don’t be stupid. Johnny, you will give her the note, won’t you?’
‘Course I will – now give me a little kiss before you go.’
Claire avoided his outstretched arms and quickly made her escape. Back in her own flat, door bolted, she tried to telephone Lucy, but the maid told her that sir and madame were out for the evening. Before she left, Claire decided to text Deb and Lucy to tell them her plans, not that she had a huge amount of faith in the Maising mobile network. Sometimes messages arrived and sometimes they did not.
*
After an uncomfortable night on a smelly sluggish ferry, hardly more than a large fishing boat, Claire was relieved to step ashore. Most of the other passengers had disembarked – noisily and disruptively – at other obscure islands on the way and, apart from a sleepy-looking Chinese man, Claire was the only person to leave the boat at Kim Kwan’s remote island.
Even though it was only just dawn, she was surprised not to be met. She looked around for reassurance that she had arrived at the right place. Apart from an open palm-thatched shelter, there were no buildings to be seen. Gurgling and thumping, the ferry backed away from the jetty.
The Chinese, whom she judged by his clothes to be a servant, beckoned to her. Claire looked around again. She had no choice but to follow the little man along what appeared to be a newly made path around the rocks. Turning the corner, she stopped in amazement. It was just light enough to see that ahead of them stood a long staircase decorated with green stone snakes and Chinese dragons. At the top of the staircase stood an elaborate red and gold building, a temple-like edifice which looked as if it had been brought piece by ornamental piece from the Forbidden City in Beijing.
The servant, still without speaking, shuffled up the stairs and rang on a large bell-pull. Eventually another man, perhaps the butler, answered the door and greeted her with a low bow, his hands pressed together.
‘Wel-come,’ he said, and led her through to a courtyard where a table was laid for breakfast, complete with a shining silver coffee set and marmalade in a cut-glass jar.
He pulled a chair out for her and, as she sat down, handed her a typewritten note.
Miss Downing,
Sorry I cannot be with you. Please make yourself at home.
KK
‘I didn’t know Mr Kwan was going to be here. When are you expecting him?’ asked Claire.
The butler, portly and solemn with a pale flat face, bowed low again. ‘No unsthand Englith,’ he lisped.
Claire spent an absorbing day photographing, making notes and sometimes just gazing at the beautiful statues, vases, fragments of ancient figures and shards of pottery, all displayed and lit with professional expertise around Kwan’s extraordinary house. How on earth had he achieved all this so far from civilization she wondered.
Suddenly to her surprise she saw two Buddha heads that looked exactly the same as those she’d found in the glory hole in her flat. The ones Pel said he would return to their rightful place. She picked them up and examined them – she was pretty sure they were the same. Curiouser and curiouser. Somehow she doubted Kim Kwan was the original owner of these Buddhas. She’d always assumed they had been looted from a temple. Were they stolen goods that he had acquired or what? Feeling shaky in the pit of her stomach, she photographed them anyway.
Was it a wise thing to do? But then she had been invited here.
From time to time, with polite gestures, the butler served her drinks or delicious Chinese titbits on a silver tray. He seemed to anticipate exactly when she was hungry or thirsty. That evening, after a solitary dinner – an aromatic dish of fish with peculiar vegetables – another servant appeared, a thin old woman. She was also Chinese and spoke no English either, but Claire was obscurely pleased to see another female. The amah showed her to a modern air-conditioned bedroom and bathroom, smart and luxurious like an international hotel suite. Claire tried to send a text and an email but couldn’t get a signal on her mobile. Never mind she would ask about connecting up in the morning. In these comfortable surroundings, she was soon asleep.
She rose early the next morning in order to complete her studies before the return trip. ‘What time is the boat?’ she asked periodically of the butler and the amah. Both smiled uncomprehendingly.
Eventually, when no launch appeared by mid-afternoon, Claire went for a long hot walk around the jetty area. She could not find any sort of boat, nor any other inhabitants on the island. She returned to the house.
‘Telephone? Is there a satellite phone or radio system? My phone’s not working.’ She gestured with her hand and holding an imaginary receiver to her ear. She was met with the usual polite impassive lack of response. Of course she hadn’t really expected a mobile connection out here, but there must be some method of talking to the outside world. She began to explore the house. The butler padded solicitously after her, but merely shrugged his shoulders when she came across two or three locked doors. ‘Solly, no thpeak Englith,’ he repeated now and then.
Eventually, as darkness fell, Claire resigned herself to another night on the island.
It wasn’t until her third evening that she began to suspect that, either by accident or design, she was stuck until the ferry returned in ten days’ time. If in fact it did return.
As the hours dragged by, she found she was no longer able to appreciate either the charm of the antiquities or the splendours of the house. She packed her bag and sat watchfully by the jetty.
Still polite, the servant brought her food on a tray and placed it on a small wooden table under the palm shelter. Kind and courteous, he opened the door when she, tired, worried and cross, returned to the house at night. She lay in bed more and more convinced that she had been deliberately lured into this luxurious prison. No one knew where she was, apart from Jean-Louis and Deb, if Johnny had given her the note. Perhaps he intended to keep her there for weeks, and eventually throw her into the sea like Pel. No, no, such thoughts were ridiculous. These Chinese servants were gentle people, even if they could not, would not, summon her a boat.
Eventually Claire became angry. She shrieked at the butler, ‘Boat. Must have boat. Telephone?’ She led him to the locked doors.
But he merely shook his head sorrowfully, embarrassed at her lack of control. ‘No have key.’
‘So you do speak a bit of English. Where is Mr Kwan?’
‘Come soon.’ But he did not come and as each long day dragged on in the same uneventful way, Claire’s sense of foreboding increased. She could not eat much nor could she sleep. And she certainly couldn’t work. She spent her time by the jetty staring out to sea.
On her fifth afternoon on the island she was dozing in the shade of a large rock when she heard the sound of an engine. She stared as a distant white motor cruiser advanced majestically towards them. It grew larger and larger until there was no longer any doubt. It was heading for the island.
In a panic, Claire began to run down the beach. Flinging off her dress, she waded into the sea. She would swim out to her rescuers before anyone could stop her. She dived under the water and began to swim as fast she could. Now and then she surfaced and looked back. No one was attempting to pursue her. Encouraged, she swam on, but still far from the boat she began to weaken. Gasping for breath and treading water, she looked back at the shore again. The butler appeared to be waving or signalling to the motor boat. It dawned on her suddenly that she could be swimming towards another trap. Numb with despair, she turned on her back and floated until eventually t
he cruiser drew close to her.
Silhouetted against the sky, a uniformed crewman leant over the railings, trailing a lifebelt. As Claire clung to the belt, she was towed around to the stern of the boat where a teak ladder was extended into the water. Feeling too exhausted to care what happened next, she clambered aboard.
The sailor led her around the deck and down into the cabin. There, wearing huge sunglasses, a peaked cap, white jeans and blue sailor shirt, sat a glamorous Maising woman. She gave an order and the sailor departed.
The woman spoke in English with a strong American overtone. ‘It is good you don’t recognize me. Please continue to pretend that you don’t know me. I must now go ashore and talk. It’s best if you speak as little as possible when I am gone.’
Claire stared. ‘Is it you? – Liana, what on earth are you doing here?’
‘I’ll explain, but not yet. Now please keep quiet. I must talk to the servants and make out like I am acting on Kim Kwan’s orders. It will be best if you stay in the cabin, particularly in your current outfit.’
Claire was suddenly conscious that she was dripping wet, and clad only in her semi-transparent Marks & Spencer’s underwear.
Liana smiled again, her lipstick red against her pale cream face and perfect teeth. ‘Here, drink this. Then why not take a shower? There are some clothes of mine in the locker opposite the bathroom. Help yourself to whatever you want.’
‘But . . .’
‘Just do what I say,’ said Liana, suddenly adopting a threatening tone as another crew member knocked on the door of the cabin.
Tropical Connections Page 20
