She put on a yellow linen dress, selected shoes and a handbag, then went down to the living room. She walked out on to the terrace and looked at her own private beach: a quarter of a mile of lonely, deserted sand and sea and she turned away.
She couldn’t stay here on her own. The Ocean Beach club? Very soon it would be time for tea. She thought of those old freaks eyeing the cake trolley. Goddamn it! she thought to herself, even they are better than this loneliness.
She locked up, then getting into the Mini, she drove to the club. For the next two hours, she sat listening to the local gossip, watched old fat fingers pointing to cakes as the waiter served, drank two cups of tea, aware the men were preening themselves as they gathered around her. She was asked to make up a fourth at bridge and, as she still had time to kill, she accepted. Her partner, a retired General, was delighted to have her on his side. The other two: a thin, sour faced old lady and her husband who was plump and boisterous, played well, but Helga, as with everything she took up, was in the professional class. Her devastating memory and her ruthless bids completely pulverized her opponents who she later learned were regarded as the club’s best players.
She quickly became bored with this feeble opposition and at the end of the second game she excused herself saying she had an urgent appointment. The General who had scarcely contributed to the score was wreathed with smiles while the other two immediately began a fierce postmortem.
Helga returned to the villa at 18.50. She was mixing herself a vodka-martini when she heard Mrs. Joyce arrive.
As the big woman bustled into the kitchen, carrying a shopping bag, Helga said, ‘Join me in a drink, Mrs. Joyce.’
‘Not for me, ducks. If I smell a cork, I get tiddly. My Tom never touched a drop.’ She put the shopping basket down. ‘I’ve got you a lovely fillet of kingfish. I miss the English fish, like turbot, but this is really nice. Have it grilled, dear, with peas and rice. You’ll enjoy it.’
‘It sounds wonderful. I wish I could cook. May I watch you, Mrs. Joyce?’
‘I’m sure you do many things, dear. Cooking isn’t difficult. So many women make a commotion about it. I say, if you like eating, cooking is a pleasure.’
Resting her hips against the kitchen table, Helga lit a cigarette. She watched Mrs. Joyce prepare the fish.
‘About my bedroom shutter, Mrs. Joyce. Who was this workman?’
Having washed the fish fillet, Mrs. Joyce wiped her hands.
‘Who was he, dear?’ She looked sharply at Helga. ‘He told me you had asked him to come.’
‘It must have been the estate agent, Mr. Mason. I didn’t know the shutter was out of order.’
‘The boy said it needed oiling.’ Mrs. Joyce put a saucepan of water on to boil. ‘He was a nicely mannered boy. I felt sorry for him with his arm in plaster.’
Helga slopped her drink. Somehow she kept her face expressionless.
Dick!
‘Did you leave him alone at all, Mrs. Joyce?’
The big woman stared at Helga.
‘Did he steal something?’
‘No, but did you leave him alone in my bedroom?’
‘He came at the wrong moment, dear. I was cleaning the bath. I left him alone for no more than a couple of minutes. Is there something wrong?’
‘I found some of my clothes disturbed.’
‘Your clothes? A boy like that wouldn’t touch your clothes.’
‘No. Well, it doesn’t matter.’
‘There is something wrong, isn’t there?’ Mrs. Joyce looked distressed. ‘If he took anything, I’d tell the police, dear. The police here are ever so helpful.’
‘He didn’t take anything.’ Helga looked at her watch. ‘It’s all right. I’ll catch the news.’
‘News!’ Mrs. Joyce snorted. ‘You can do without the news, ducks. You turn on the telly and all you get is misery.’
Helga walked into the living room.
So Dick had been here. Dick had taken the pocket of her pyjama suit. Why?
She remembered what Gritten had said: I can assure you that Jones is just as dangerous as Mala Mu was. The police suspect that Jones learned a lot from Mala Mu and he is now practising witchcraft.
Utter rubbish, she told herself, and yet, there was this creepy atmosphere in the villa.
She forced herself to listen to the news: hijacking, two murders, industrial strife and five hostages held to ransom. How right Mrs. Joyce was: all you get is misery.
Mrs. Joyce came in and began to set the table.
‘Just ready, ducks,’ she said. ‘Sit you down.’
Still thinking of Dick, Helga moved to the table and sat down. She was surprised and pleased to see a half-bottle of Chablis waiting.
Mrs. Joyce served the meal.
‘I thought you’d like a glass of wine, dear,’ she said. ‘You pour it. I’m not good at that kind of thing.’
‘You are very thoughtful, Mrs. Joyce.’
‘I know a lady of quality when I see one, dear. Now go ahead and tuck in.’
‘This looks delicious.’
‘I’m sure you will like it. Now tomorrow, I thought you might like to try the conch chowder. Being a fisherman’s wife, I specialize in sea food and without making myself a liar, my conch chowder is the best on the island.’
‘I would love that.’ Helga found the kingfish excellent. Seeing Mrs. Joyce was prepared to gossip, she said, ‘I spent the afternoon at the Ocean Beach club.’
‘You did? Well, I never! That surprises me, dear. That club is only fit for old fuddy-duddies... not for a girl like you.’
Helga warmed to this woman.
‘While I am waiting for Mr. Rolfe to recover, I have to do something.’
‘You’re right. Waiting is always bad. What a pity there isn’t some nice man to take you around. Nassau is full of interest.’
‘At the club, we got talking. Do you believe in Voodoo?’
Helga looked sharply at Mrs. Joyce who abruptly lost her happy expression.
‘Voodoo? You’ve been talking about that evil thing?’
‘There were a couple of old people who seem to think it exists. What do you think?’
‘Mrs. Rolfe.’ The big woman was suddenly serious. ‘I am, I hope, a good Christian. I don’t believe in meddling with what the black people do. You ask if Voodoo exists. It does. A lot of nasty things go on in the native quarter. My Tim told me to have nothing to do with it and he knew.’
‘Nasty things? What kind of things, Mrs. Joyce?’
‘Magic... some of the black people make magic.’
Helga ate for a moment, then asked, ‘Magic? What sort of magic?’
‘Mrs. Rolfe, there are things best not talked about. You eat up your dinner and don’t let it get cold.’
‘But it interests me. Please tell me.’
Mrs. Joyce hesitated, then leaning her bulk against the kitchen doorway, she said, ‘Well, dear, these black people can do things. I don’t listen to the tales that go on here, but I do know there was a little boy living next door to me. His father was a fisherman like my Tom. One day a black man came and asked him for money. The fisherman hit him and threw him out. A day later, the little boy fell ill and went into a coma. The doctors could do nothing for him. Then finally the fisherman went to see this black man and gave him all his savings and the little boy recovered the next day. I saw all this with my own eyes. There are so many other tales. There was a dog who barked and barked and a neighbour just couldn’t stand it. He went to the black man and paid him money. The next day the dog stopped barking and never barked again. I could go on and on, Mrs. Rolfe, but you finish your supper. I’ll wash up.’
Mrs. Joyce went into the kitchen.