Domino Island: The unpublished thriller by the master of the genre.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

to his liver and obviously terrified of losing his job.

      I smiled. ‘I’ll reserve judgement on that – as long as it suits me.’ I gave him a curt nod and walked out of the room, leaving a shocked man. I don’t know who he thought I was, but I reckoned I’d given him enough of a fright to keep his nose out of my affairs.

      I went back to the Royal Caribbean and telephoned Ogilvie. It was a long time before he answered and when he did his voice was grumpy. ‘Kemp here,’ I said.

      ‘You’ve woken me up,’ he complained. ‘I’m dead on my feet.’

      I knew how he felt. Air travel is tiring and my time sense was shot to pieces because of the transatlantic flight. ‘Just something for you to do tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Go to the Chronicle office in Cardew Street and ask to see the back issues for the last month. You’ll find a lot of interesting stuff about Salton.’

      ‘What’s the point if you’ve already done it?’

      ‘You’ll probably be contacted by a creep called Jackson. Don’t try to hide who you are, but if he asks about me you’re ignorant. Jackson is a bit hard to take, but disguise your finer feelings and get pally with him. He’ll like you better if he thinks you’re here to torpedo Mrs Salton’s claim.’

      ‘Well, aren’t we?’

      ‘Don’t be cynical,’ I said, and put down the telephone. If Jackson wanted to meet Ogilvie, who was I to stand in his way? Besides, there was always a chance his loose lips might give the company man something else we could work with.

      I took out my notebook, checked the number Jackson had given me, and dialled. The call was answered immediately and a slurred Campanillan voice said, ‘The Salton residence.’

      ‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Salton,’ I said. ‘My name is Kemp.’

      ‘What would it be about?’

      ‘If she wants you to know she’ll tell you.’ I never have liked the nosy and over-protective underling.

      There was a pause, some brief heavy breathing and then a rattle as the handset was laid down. Presently there was another rattle and a cool voice said, ‘Jill Salton speaking.’

      ‘My name is Kemp – William Kemp. Your uncle, Lord Hosmer, asked me to call and present his condolences.’ He hadn’t, but it made a good story.

      ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Do you want to come here?’

      ‘If that’s all right with you. I’m free tomorrow, if it’s convenient.’

      ‘Would the morning suit you? Say at eleven?’

      ‘That would be fine, Mrs Salton.’

      ‘Very well, I’ll expect you then. Good day, Mr Kemp.’ There was a click and the connection was cut.

      I called down to reception and made arrangements for hiring a car, to be ready in front of the hotel at nine the following morning.

      Then I got undressed and fell asleep as though I’d been sandbagged.

      IV

      At nine-fifteen next morning I was threading my way out of San Martin in a fire-engine-red Ford Mustang with an automatic shift that I didn’t like. I prefer to change gear in a car when I want to, and not when a set of cogs thinks I should. Maybe I’m old-fashioned.

      The road took me out along the coast for a way and through the outskirts of what was evidently a high-life area. Large and expensive-looking houses were set discreetly away from the road, some of them surrounded by high walls, and there were some plushy hotels with turquoise swimming pools of all shapes except rectangular. Those of the pools that I could see were surrounded by acres of bare skin, all tanning nicely. Here and there, uniformed waiters scurried around the poolsides with the first rum-and-coconut-milk of the day. La dolce vita, Caribbean-style.

      I drove slowly, taking it all in. Even at this hour the sun was uncomfortably hot and the air pressed heavily on the open-top Mustang. Presently the road turned away from the sea and began to climb into a hilly and wooded area. The ambiance changed and the air cooled a little as I went inland. There were fewer white faces and more black, fewer bikinis and more cotton shifts, less concrete and glass and more corrugated iron. The tourists stuck close to the sea.

      The landscape seemed poorly adaptable for agriculture. A thin soil clung to the bones of the hills but there were naked outcrops of limestone showing where the ground had eroded. Most of the afforested land was covered by a growth of spindly trees, which couldn’t be of any economic significance, but occasional clearings opened up in which crops were apparently grown.

      Nearly every clearing had its shacks – usually of the ubiquitous corrugated iron, although beaten-out kerosene tins were also to be seen. Around each shack were the children, meagrely dressed and grinning impudently as they waved at the car and shouted in shrill voices. I passed though a succession of villages, all with rudimentary church and classroom. The churches were marginally better built than the classrooms, which tended towards the shanty school of architecture, each with its dusty, pathetic area of playground.

      As I came over the central ridge of the island, I pulled off the road and looked north towards the distant glint of the sea. Close by, a couple of Campanillans were hoeing a field and planting some sort of crop. I got out of the car and walked over to them. ‘Am I on the right way to El Cerco?’

      They stopped and looked at me, then the bigger one said, ‘That’s right, man.’ His face was beaded with sweat. ‘Just keep going.’

      ‘Thanks.’ I looked at the ground by his feet. ‘What are you planting?’

      ‘Corn.’ He paused. ‘You’d call it maize.’ His accent wasn’t the usual Campanillan drawl; he enunciated each consonant clearly. He didn’t sound like your average peasant.

      ‘It’s hot,’ I said, and took out a packet of fat, imported American cigarettes that I’d picked up on the plane.

      He gave me a pitying smile. ‘Not hot yet. Still winter.’

      I tapped out a cigarette, then offered him the packet. ‘Smoke?’

      He hesitated, then said, ‘Thanks, man,’ and took a cigarette. The other man, older and with a seamed, lived-in face, ducked his head as he took one with gnarled fingers.

      I took out my lighter and we lit up. ‘This is a very nice island.’

      The younger man stabbed his mattock into the ground with a sudden violence that made the muscles writhe in his brawny arm. ‘Some think so.’

      ‘But not you?’

      ‘Would you like it if you were me, mister?’ he asked.

      I looked around at the arid field and shook my head. ‘Probably not.’

      He blew out a plume of smoke. ‘You going to El Cerco? The Salton place?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘If you see Mrs Salton, you tell her McKittrick said hello.’

      ‘Are you McKittrick?’

      He nodded. ‘Tell her I was sorry about Mr Salton.’

      ‘I’ll tell her,’ I said. ‘Do you know her well?’

      He laughed. ‘She probably won’t remember me.’ He took the cigarette and delicately nipped away the coal before dropping the stub into his shirt pocket. ‘People forget.’ He tugged the mattock out of the dust. ‘This isn’t getting the corn planted.’

      ‘I’ll pass on your message,’ I said.

      McKittrick made no answer but turned his back and bent to draw a furrow in the ground. I hesitated for a moment and then went back to the car.

      I