Treacherous Longings

The road levelled out, following the curve of the bay for some distance, allowing him to admire the rugged coastline. Here and there there were coves, surely inaccessible except by boat, with sand as white and untouched as when they had been formed. He could see coral in rocky outcrops and glimpse seaweed beneath the waves. It would obviously be a haven for tropical fish, and he wished he were only looking for somewhere to swim.

Where the bay curved away towards the north the road divided. A signpost indicated North Shore and Palm Springs in one direction, and West Bay and South Point in the other. And, although Hager had said the woman he’d spoken to lived at the other end of the island, he hadn’t said which one.

Quinn gnawed his lip. North Shore and Palm Springs didn’t ring any bells, but South Point did. That was where Zeke had said the best diving was to be had. At least if he went that way he’d have an excuse for discussing it if he was wrong.

The road turned inland for a distance, winding among trees for some of the way, giving him a brief respite from the glare of the sun. It was hot and getting hotter, and he guessed he should have brought some protection before he left. His skin was fairly resilient, but it was used to an English winter. This transfer to a semi-tropical climate was going to take some getting used to.

By the time he passed through the village of West Bay, he was experiencing a curious feeling of presentiment. This was the right way; he was sure of it. A kind of sixth sense was warning him that he was nearing his goal.

There were some children playing outside a kind of store, and, stopping the car, he decided it was worth a try to ask the store’s proprietor if he knew where this woman Hager had mentioned lived. He knew there was only one Englishwoman living on the island, and if it was the right area a shopkeeper would know her whereabouts.

But the man in the store was decidedly unhelpful. Even though Quinn bought a bottle of some obscure suntan lotion, and chatted about the weather, the man only shook his head when he mentioned Julia and the boy.

‘San Jacinto gets many visitors, sir,’ he replied, completely ignoring the fact that Quinn had said she lived here. ‘Have a nice day,’ he added politely as his customer went out of the door.

The children—there were about half a dozen of them—regarded him solemnly when he emerged. Quinn guessed they’d been examining his car in his absence, but the Moke was hardly a cause for concern.

‘Hi,’ he said, unused to speaking to children but willing to take any chance that was offered to him. ‘Do any of you know a white boy who lives hereabouts?’

One of the children, a girl of perhaps ten or eleven, appointed herself their spokesperson. ‘Our mother says we haven’t to speak to strangers,’ she declared smugly, before any of the younger children could chime in, and Quinn sighed.

‘Oh, right.’ He hid his exasperation beneath a bland smile, and went to get back into the car. He would have to try somewhere else. He might even be lucky enough to find a local who didn’t view him with suspicion.

One of the younger children, an attractive boy with his hair in corn rows, came to stand beside the Moke. ‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked, ignoring the older girl’s admonitions. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Not exactly.’ But he felt a little more optimistic suddenly. ‘I’m a friend, of—of his mother,’ he added quickly, before they could think that sounded odd. ‘I spoke to her yesterday, as a matter of fact. When she met the boy off the ferry.’

‘He comes home for the weekend,’ offered a sweet-faced little girl who looked about five years old, and the boy gave her a scowling glance. ‘Well, he does,’ she added defiantly, undaunted by his stare. ‘Jake always comes home on Fridays. And you know Mrs Stewart always goes to meet him.’

‘Butt out, Celestine,’ retorted the boy, who Quinn now suspected was her brother. ‘Em’s just told us we don’t talk to strangers. You should learn to keep your big mouth shut.’

‘So should you, then,’ said Celestine, her eyes filling with tears which Quinn was uncomfortably aware that he had caused.

‘I’m older than you,’ declared the boy, as if that were some excuse. ‘And I’m not a silly girl. Everyone knows girls don’t know what’s right from what’s wrong.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Quinn felt obliged to intervene, and, fishing a handful of dollars out of his pocket, he thrust them into the boy’s hand. ‘Buy some sweets,’ he said. ‘For all of you. And thanks for your help, Celestine. I really do appreciate it.’

‘But you don’t know where Jake lives,’ protested the little girl as the older girl, Em, took the notes out of her brother’s hand and started to count them. ‘It’s called Nascence Bay,’ she added, ignoring her brother’s fury. ‘Well,’ she added, turning to him and looking at the money clasped in Em’s hand, ‘it’s only fair.’

Feeling like the biggest sleaze around, Quinn decided it was time to leave. God, was this what he was reduced to? Quizzing kids for information? But he noticed Em didn’t give him the money back. Evidently her scruples didn’t stretch that far.

And, thanks to Celestine, he found the entrance to the Stewart property ten minutes later. The name on the postbox, Renaissance Bay, would have meant nothing to him without Celestine’s childish directions. Though, now he came to think of it, it really was quite apt.

There were no gates to bar his way, but the dark tunnel of trees that edged the drive was an obvious deterrent to uninvited guests. Besides, if he hadn’t known that there was a dwelling at the end of it, he might have thought the narrow track could lead anywhere. To Renaissance Bay, perhaps? he reflected wryly. After all, that was what the sign had said.

And, in spite of the determination that had brought him here, Quinn couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy now. What if her husband was there? What if he threatened violence? Would he still persist in his objective if he had to use threats to get her to talk to him?

There was something unpleasant about the whole deal—but he had known that before he’d left England. And if he hadn’t done it Hector would have found someone else who would. Someone without his fastidiousness, without his scruples. He was here to ease her passage, whatever that might be.

The trees gave way to a battery of thorn and hydrangea, and then, suddenly, a long, low bungalow came into view. The reason he hadn’t been able to see it sooner was because the land in front of the house sloped away towards the shoreline, and all but the roof of the villa was protected by the ridge that rose behind it.

Quinn’s nerves tightened. What a perfect place for a house, he thought. What an incredible hideaway. No wonder no one had found her. Without foreknowledge, he would never have known where to look.

A shadow moved as he parked the Moke in the shade of a clump of palms. But it was only a fat black cat, which fled away into the shrubbery. No watchdog, then, he decided drily. Yet he had the distinct feeling of being observed.

He cut the Moke’s engine and looked around. It was possible, he supposed, that she was expecting him. That comment yesterday evening about his being on holiday could have been a bluff. And he’d done little to dispel it, struck almost dumb by her appearance.

His first impressions were that someone had taken a great deal of trouble to tame this semi-tropical paradise. The gardens surrounding the house were smoothly lawned, with colourful herbaceous borders and crazy-paving. There was a prettily arched pergola that was covered with flowering vines, and the scent of lime and citrus from a cluster of fruit trees.

A footway led through the pergola, apparently round to the back of the villa. Quinn hesitated, wishing someone would come and confront him, but no one did. He felt uncomfortably like the intruder he was, but he couldn’t stay here indefinitely. For all his uneasiness, he had to make a move.

Behind the villa a paved patio was strewn with terracotta pots of scarlet geraniums. There were flowers everywhere, tumbling out of stone planters and suspended in hanging-baskets. Even the pillars of the veranda that opened from the house were liberally covered with bougainvillaea, its pink and white confection like icing on a cake.

Beyond the patio, and the garden that enclosed it, he could hear the muted thunder of the ocean. An almost white beach, flanked by palm trees, fringed the blue-green waters of a lagoon. The waves crashed on the teeth of a reef some way out, but only creamed in gentle ribbons on the sand.