Raj stopped cleaning and turned to look at him. ‘She was in love with
‘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.’
‘Very well, miss. Turkey or ham?’
‘Turkey sounds good.’ She glanced back at the chauffeur who was hauling her suitcases from the trunk of the car. ‘Jennings, take the bags straight up to my room, and get Maria to unpack for me. After I’ve eaten I’m going to crash.’
Jennings, the chauffeur, flicked the peak of his cap and carried on unloading. Like Foxworth he knew when to speak and when to stay silent.
‘The study you say?’ she said turning to Foxworth.
The butler nodded.
She made her way up the stairs to the first floor where her father had his study. She hesitated for a moment outside the door, then took a breath and opened it.
Carl Anderson sat at a large walnut-veneered desk, tapping away at the keyboard of his laptop. As Jessica entered the room he looked up, stopped typing and stared up at her, a welcome in his eyes. ‘You’re late,’ he said. ‘I was getting worried.’
He had now entered his sixtieth year, but he was still a good-looking man. His thick hair had turned silver and was swept away from a smooth, tanned face. He was taller than Jessica by a foot, and his well-muscled, gym-toned body strained the material of the pale blue sports shirt. The fawn slacks were immaculately creased, but they were in sharp contrast to his black loafers, which were scuffed and well worn. He’d deliberately chosen comfort over style, a minor allowance to the advancing years and to his mildly bunioned feet.
‘I’ve asked Foxworth to fix me a sandwich. Have you eaten?’ Ever the dutiful and attentive daughter, especially when she wanted something.
‘I ate at the tennis club.’ He was the master of negotiation, having taught his daughter as much as she could learn at this stage in her business development.
‘I rang you there to tell you the flight was delayed.’ She pulled up a chair and sat down at the desk opposite him.
‘Sorry, I didn’t get the call. I was in the middle of a game with Oliver Marchant. Beat the old bastard two sets to one.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘I trust everything went to plan.’
‘They’re on their way. They’ll arrive on the island in a few hours.’
‘Well, let’s hope they can sort this mess out. What did you make of Crozier?’
‘He has a sharp mind. The man’s no fool though he plays the part of one quite well. He needs watching. He wasn’t at all pleased with the arrangement we made with the Minister.’
‘Too bad. The Minister was quite happy to accept our offer…and of course there was also the contribution we made to his party’s election fund. He never acknowledged it of course, but I’m sure he found it very generous.’
The door opened and Foxworth entered the room carrying a tray containing a plate of sandwiches, a cafetiere of freshly brewed coffee and two cups. He laid the tray down on the desk. ‘Will there be anything else?’ he said.
‘No, that’s fine,’ Jessica said. ‘Thanks.’
