Domino Island: The unpublished thriller by the master of the genre. Desmond Bagley

Jake was that his ideals didn’t match up to reality. He used to say his medical practice was actually all about economics, and what was the point of curing a man of an illness if he couldn’t afford to eat? He reckoned not enough money was getting to the rural communities in Campanilla.’

      ‘He sounds a good man too,’ I commented.

      ‘You say you saw him planting corn. He was probably helping someone out so that he wouldn’t have to treat them for nutritional deficiencies this time next year. Jake’s a great believer in preventative medicine.’

      ‘So what went wrong with your husband?’

      ‘I’m coming to that. Things were all right between him and David for a while. They both wanted to knock the government off its perch and install a more equitable system. But David wouldn’t go fast enough for Jake and that led to friction. I can see Jake’s point of view; he worked at the grassroots and saw things David didn’t. But David had a more practical view of politics. Anyway, they pulled further and further apart until finally there was a huge bust-up – it was out at El Cerco, as a matter of fact. I wasn’t involved in the conversation but you’ve seen the place: there was no way to keep an argument like that quiet. Jake called David a wishy-washy liberal, David called Jake a political illiterate, and that was that.’

      ‘When was this?’

      ‘A little over two years ago, I suppose.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t think David and Jake spoke again after that. I ran into Jake from time to time. He told me things about this island that make me ashamed. But then we drifted apart.’

      I said, ‘What did you think of your husband’s brand of politics? Did you go along with him?’

      ‘Of course.’ She seemed surprised that I should ask. ‘This government is corrupt to the core – it must be toppled.’

      ‘And you think your husband’s approach was best?’

      ‘It wasn’t the best approach,’ she said wearily. ‘It was the only approach. No one wants a bloody revolution, not even Jake, but that’s what will happen if he keeps heading the way he is.’

      I thought of David Salton, the crusading liberal with his shining armour all nicely burnished, the man who would be next Prime Minister – with the help of Mafia gambling money, if Jackson was to be believed. Either Salton was an idealist who’d inexplicably compromised those ideals for a shot at the main prize, or he was an opportunistic chancer who’d somehow been able to fool his wife for years. It didn’t make sense whichever way you added it up. And then Salton was suddenly dead – most conveniently so, from the point of view of Prime Minister Conyers and his government. The whole thing stank to high heaven.

      I said, ‘Did your husband have any business dealings with Gerry Negrini?’

      Her voice rose. ‘What business would David do with a gambler? Bill, you should read some of David’s speeches some time. He was dead against the gambling interests moving in when independence came, and after the election he was all set to close the casinos.’

      ‘And yet he was personally friendly with Negrini. That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’

      She was silent for a while, then she said quietly, ‘I did wonder about that myself. But you should understand that Gerry Negrini is a genuinely nice man, and they can be in short supply in the kind of circles David moved in. I think he liked David personally and regarded the political thing as a chance he’d have to take. He is a gambler, after all.’

      ‘You mean he viewed the whole thing as a game.’

      ‘Something like that.’

      ‘Do you really think your husband would have won the election?’

      ‘I’m certain of it.’

      I drove in silence for a long way before she said, ‘Bill, you’ve been asking a lot of questions and I’ve just been adding them up.’ Her voice was strained. ‘The answers I’m getting are beginning to frighten me. Do you really think that David was m—?’

      I cut in quickly before she said it. Once you say a thing it’s impossible to unsay it, and things once said acquire a reality of their own. ‘I’m not thinking anything. I’m not a policeman, Jill, and I’ll be leaving soon – probably the day after tomorrow. Let it lie and don’t talk about it.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘Forget it,’ I said harshly. ‘Nothing can be proved now one way or the other, and loose talk might stir up a lot of grief for a lot of innocent people. If the Chronicle is anything to go by, it already has. Adding things up can be a dangerous pastime: there’s an infinity of wrong answers but only one right answer. Making a mistake in a thing like this could have bad consequences.’

      ‘My God,’ she said. ‘My God!’

      She didn’t speak again until we were in San Martin amid the glaring neon and the bustling traffic. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I thought that David Salton had turned out to be a very bad insurance risk.

      III

      The Blue Water Casino was on Buque Island and the owners ran their own ferry service from San Martin free of charge. It was possibly the only free ride to be had on Campanilla. So the boat was crowded with tourists who grabbed at the opportunity of a sea trip gratis and who, in return, could be expected to drop a few dollars on the casino tables.

      As we sat down I said to Jill, ‘Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I mean, you coming here with your husband just dead. I wouldn’t want to compromise your reputation.’

      Her chin came up. ‘I can look after my reputation,’ she said coolly.

      That settled that, so I turned to look out over the water as the boat left the quay. It didn’t take long to cross Pascua Channel – maybe fifteen minutes – and the boat docked in a channel that ran right inside the casino. Even before stepping ashore we could see the crowds around the tables through plate glass walls.

      We were escorted off the boat by men dressed in clothes of a vaguely nautical sort, and there were others in dinner jackets standing around, apparently doing nothing. All were broad-shouldered and tough-looking. As much money flows through a casino as through an average bank and the security must be at least as good. However, a casino is hampered by the fact that the security must not show. It would be hard to work up an atmosphere of merry, whirling high life in an environment of bulletproof glass, steel bars and tellers’ cages, so security is by surveillance conducted as discreetly as possible. The hardboiled, dinner-jacketed gents were the front men, put up to show the wise that the security was indeed there. The real security would be less in evidence.

      We drifted along with the crowd and, in the foyer, Jill ran into a man she knew from Salton’s political group. The introductions were polite but cursory, and she only stayed for a few words. Then we went on towards the main hall and I looked back to see the man reaching for a telephone.

      Business was thriving. Apart from the one-armed bandits around the walls, the casino offered roulette, blackjack, baccarat and craps, and all the tables were busy. I’m not a gambler because I’m numerate enough to know that the odds are rigged and if you play the tables consistently you’ll be the loser in the long run. There are others who think differently and they’re a nutty crowd.

      At least the kids were losing their money with abandon, the secretaries and junior-grade executives on their first vacation outside the States who were prepared to risk a few dollars in order to buy a glamorous experience to tell the folks back home. They were having fun.

      Not so the older gamblers, who placed their bets unsmilingly and, win or lose, never relaxed the passivity of their closed faces. Among these were the system players, each with his ballpoint pen and notebook close to hand, who recorded every play and bet according to whatever system they were using. These were the mathematical ignoramuses who seem to believe that the wheel has a memory and remembers what it