‘You know, Peggy, what he’s saying is probably true. These kinds of internet friendships can be pretty intense, but without becoming – well, intimate in that sense.’
‘I wish you were right. But somehow I don’t think so.’
They talked for a few minutes more, until Liz could see Peggy was growing tired. ‘Listen, I’ll be back tomorrow, and bring you another book.’
‘I don’t want to spoil your weekend, Liz. I’ll be fine here; they’re looking after me very well.’
‘I know, but I want to make sure you’re getting better. Call it selfish but I need you back at Thames House ASAP.’
‘Okay. Thanks so much for coming. It’s cheered me up.’
‘Good. See you tomorrow.’ Liz left, glad she had come, but not just because Peggy had brightened up. There was something odd going on and she wanted to know more about it – and about this Marina woman who had befriended Tim and doubtless egged on his paranoid fantasies. Who was she and what was she up to? Liz wondered whether Jasminder knew her. If she was a hardline civil libertarian maybe she wrote articles for Jasminder’s magazine. She must get Peggy to ask her. It was certainly worth finding out more, if only to reassure Liz herself that nothing dangerous was going on.
There was only one thing to do, she decided. With Peggy still in hospital for another day or two, this was the perfect time to tackle Tim.
39
The plane landed twenty minutes early, and with very little delay at passport control and customs Jasminder was soon in the baggage hall. She had brought rather a lot of clothes for a weekend, uncertain what the dress code would be. Thinking that in a place like Bermuda she would need something fairly glamorous for the evenings, she’d been shopping in her lunch breaks and had equipped herself with a choice to meet all situations. The airport confirmed her view that this would be a pretty glitzy weekend – the shops were expensive designer-label-only outlets, and the passengers in the terminal were dressed in the casually smart outfits of the rich.
A tall man in a chauffeur’s hat was standing by the barrier with a sign bearing her name. He gave a curt nod when she approached him, took her bag and led her to a black limousine parked directly outside. They drove across the causeway from the airport, and after a few questions from Jasminder about Bermuda had received only monosyllabic replies, they travelled on in silence.
They continued for a few miles more, past colonial-style houses set back from the road. Jasminder felt she could have been in Surrey, except for the occasional palm tree and the hints of sand beneath the manicured lawns. The sun shone in an unbroken blue sky, but it was cooler here than she’d expected – just 70 degrees Fahrenheit according to the thermometer on the car’s dashboard – and she reminded herself that she was in the North Atlantic, not the tropics. They had just passed the umpteenth golf course when the driver turned off through open gates towards a spacious bungalow that sat a good hundred yards from the road. A large and beautiful Cedar of Lebanon tree stood on the front lawn, but the grass was six inches high, as if the gardener had been ill or the mower didn’t work. When the chauffeur pulled up in front of the house, Jasminder could see that its pale ochre paint needed refreshing, and that at one end of its low slanting roof a few tiles were missing.
The chauffeur took her bag and escorted her to the front door, then shook his head when she asked how much she owed him. She rang the bell, but when the door swung open from her inadvertent push, she stepped inside, into the hallway. Open arched doors led to rooms on either side, but when she peeped in, there was no one about.
‘Hello,’ she called out cautiously, then repeated it more loudly. There was no response at first, but then she heard a door close at the back of the house. A moment later, a woman came towards her down the narrow hallway.
‘Jasminder?’ she asked. She was blonde and expensively packaged – as if on show rather than holiday. She wore a skin-tight dress of rainbow stripes, and white high heels that looked uncomfortable. Her arms and bare legs were the colour of caramel, and her skin had the leathery look that comes from too much exposure to the sun.
‘That’s me,’ said Jasminder with a smile. The woman did not smile back.
‘Let me show you where you’re staying,’ she said. She led Jasminder to the back of the house, down a corridor with closed doors on either side. The last door turned out to lead to Jasminder’s bedroom.
‘Is Laurenz here?’ she asked. There was no sign in the room of his things.
The woman shook her head. Pointing to a connecting door, she said, ‘His room’s through there. They’re all in a meeting, but you’ll see him at dinner. It’s at seven at the club.’
‘The club?’
The woman looked at her expressionlessly. ‘The golf club. It’s just over there.’ She pointed through the wide window of the bedroom. Turning to look, Jasminder could see a few holes of a golf course. Did anyone do anything else in Bermuda?
The woman said, ‘You can walk there in a few minutes. If you want, I’ll go with you so you don’t get lost. There’s a pool at the back,’ she added – pointing behind the house. ‘Feel free to use it. And help yourself to anything in the fridge.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jasminder.
‘See you just before seven then,’ the woman said, and left the room.
The bedroom was small and stuffy – the air conditioning seemed woefully underpowered. Jasminder opened the connecting door and walked through to Laurenz’s room. It was the same size as hers, and though one of his suits was hanging in the cupboard and his shaving things were in the bathroom, it seemed equally soulless. It was certainly not the luxurious accommodation he had implied there would be. Still, Jasminder decided, she mustn’t grumble; not many people got a free holiday to Bermuda.
Going back to her own room, she decided to have a swim, and changed into a new bikini she had bought for the trip. Taking a bath towel with her, she went out of the back door of the house and found the pool set behind a group of squat palmettos. The pool was small, kidney-shaped, and didn’t look very inviting; clusters of flying beetles were flitting on and off the surface of the water and some were floating on it, apparently dead.
Two recliners were positioned in the shade at the far end and Jasminder went and lay down on one of them. She should have brought her book, she thought, then realised how tired she was.
When she opened her eyes again she was cold and, looking at her watch, discovered she had slept for an hour and a half. It was almost six-thirty. She went into the house, where no one else seemed to be about, including the woman she was starting to think of as Miss Glamour Girl. In her bedroom Jasminder considered what to wear for dinner – would it be smart or casual? She compromised, and put on smart trousers and a pretty, flowery top, with silver sandals. She applied a little makeup, brushed her hair, and went back to the front of the house. There she found Glamour Girl waiting in the sitting room, turning the pages of an old copy of Vogue.
‘Hi, Jacintha, all set?’ The other woman stood up. She was wearing a low-cut black evening dress, with a heavy gold necklace, dangly earrings and a pair of gold bracelets that jingled when she moved her arm.
‘It’s Jasminder. And yes, I’m ready. But what’s your name?’