Domino Island. Desmond Bagley

in a couple of years’ time.’

      ‘I didn’t know,’ she said.

      ‘It was just an ordinary business deal,’ said Stern.

      I shrugged. ‘Mr Salton may have been a very good businessman but he appears to have played a lone hand. Now that he’s … no longer around, Mr Costello is wondering if Salton Estates will continue to be run along the lines laid down by Mr Salton.’ I smiled in what I hoped looked like sympathy. ‘It’s not that we’re very worried but we’d just like to make sure.’

      ‘And how are you going to make sure?’ asked Stern. He seemed unaccountably hostile.

      ‘I’d like to run my eye over the books – check the cash flow, the reserves, things like that.’

      ‘Are you empowered to do that?’

      I leaned back in my chair. ‘If you think I’m not then I suggest you telephone Lord Hosmer immediately.’

      ‘Of course you can look at the books,’ said Mrs Salton. ‘As far as I know Salton Estates is doing marvellously.’ She glanced at Stern. ‘Maybe you could take Mr Kemp to the office this afternoon, introduce him to Martin Idle.’

      Stern nodded curtly. ‘Very well.’

      ‘Meanwhile, perhaps you’d care to stay for lunch, Mr Kemp?’

      ‘Thank you,’ I said politely.

      The house had a series of internal courts or rooms without roofs – the atrium of Roman architecture, modified for the Caribbean – and we had lunch in one of these. Over the crawfish I remembered the man from the dusty cornfield and said, ‘I met someone who sends you his regards – a Mr McKittrick.’

      Mrs Salton seemed confused. ‘McKittrick?’

      ‘Tall, well-built.’

      Her brow cleared. ‘Oh, Doctor McKittrick.’

      I sampled the nutty-flavoured white flesh of the crawfish. ‘He didn’t look like a doctor to me. When I saw him he was planting corn.’

      Mrs Salton smiled. ‘Dr McKittrick has unorthodox ideas of what constitutes medical practice.’

      ‘Very unorthodox,’ said Stern. ‘He’s a troublemaker.’

      ‘I haven’t seen Jake McKittrick for nearly two years,’ said Mrs Salton.

      ‘He said he was sorry to hear of what happened to your husband.’

      ‘Sorry?’ said Stern. ‘I’d have thought he’d be cheering.’

      ‘Just because he and David had a quarrel doesn’t mean …’ She stopped, then said, ‘I must drop him a line.’

      ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Stern. ‘The elections are coming up. As your lawyer I advise you to put nothing in writing to Jacob McKittrick. It could be misinterpreted – no matter what you write.’

      I waited for Mrs Salton to reply but she said nothing, apparently content to drop the issue. I added McKittrick’s name to the list on my mental file and dropped another stone into the conversational pool. ‘A man called Jackson gave me some interesting information on local affairs. You may know him, Mrs Salton. An American on the staff of the Chronicle.’

      ‘On the staff? He’s the editor.’

      Jackson may have been miles away on the other side of the island, but he was still capable of pulling surprises.

      ‘He told me you own the Chronicle.’

      ‘I suppose I do, now that David is dead.’

      ‘Don Jackson’s a sound man,’ pronounced Stern. ‘A very good editor.’

      And a very good backstabber, I thought. It was not news to me that a newspaperman’s personal politics need have no relationship to the political views of the paper for which he works – it’s probably why journalists have a reputation for cynicism – but Jackson’s naked hostility towards Salton and his wife seemed to be different and based on something other than politics. I sensed that if Western and Continental torpedoed Mrs Salton’s claim, then Jackson would be very pleased. He was a dog in the manger and there must be a reason.

      Stern glanced at his watch. ‘I have to be getting back.’

      I suddenly changed my mind about investigating Salton Estates that afternoon. I wanted a chance to talk to Mrs Salton without Stern in the way – he was a repressive influence. ‘I’d like to talk to Haslam while I’m here,’ I said. ‘If I get it all wrapped up it will save Mr Ogilvie a journey.’

      ‘He’s available,’ said Mrs Salton. ‘The plane’s not been used since …’ She stood up. ‘I’ll talk to him.’

      She went away and Stern said, ‘It seems to me that Western and Continental are being unduly zealous, Mr Kemp. I should have thought that the inquest made the situation quite clear.’

      I smiled at him. ‘Inquests have been known to be wrong. As I’m sure you know, insurance companies are regarded as fair game by a lot of otherwise legally-minded people. To cheat an insurance company is viewed as a minor infringement, like smuggling an extra bottle of booze through Customs. So they tend to be zealous as a matter of routine.’

      Stern nodded acceptance. ‘I suppose you’re right. And you have your job to do – whatever that is. But if you’re not coming to San Martin with me now, when do you want to look at the books?’

      ‘Maybe tomorrow. I’ll phone first.’

      Mrs Salton came back. ‘You can see Haslam any time.’

      ‘No time like the present,’ said Stern jovially. ‘You can cross to the mainland with me. I’d like to have a word with you on the way.’

      So my plan was stymied, and Stern and I crossed to the mainland together. Whatever word he’d wanted to have with me I never found out because he didn’t tell me. I concluded that the sole aim of his manoeuvres was to make sure that I was never alone with Mrs Salton. I could have been wrong, but that was the way it worked out.

      II

      Haslam lived in a neat little house next to the airstrip. He was a tall, spare Canadian with not enough meat on his bones for his height. His eyes were a faded blue, networked around with the wrinkles of middle age, so that he gave the impression of being worried about something. Maybe he was.

      His wife was a frizzy blonde, pouchy under the eyes and burnt nearly black from too much sun so that her hair made a startling contrast to her leathery skin. And she showed a lot of skin.

      I found them sitting beside a small swimming pool behind the house. Haslam stood up as I approached. ‘Mr Kemp?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said.

      ‘Mrs Salton said you’d be coming. She told me to tell you anything you want to know.’

      Haslam’s wife looked up at me and indicated a jug on the deck table beside her. ‘Drink, Mr Kemp? Margarita.’

      I felt the mid-afternoon sun searing my scalp and the roof of my mouth was dry. ‘It would be appreciated.’

      She got to her feet. ‘I’ll go get a glass while you talk business with Jim. Then we can all have another drink.’

      She appeared to have had too many already – the perils of a sedentary life in paradise, perhaps. I said, ‘I’ll be wanting to speak to you, too, Mrs Haslam.’

      She lifted her eyebrows. ‘Okay. Be back soon.’ She tottered unsteadily towards the house.

      I turned to Haslam and took the cane chair he indicated. ‘Suppose you tell me everything that happened just before Mr Salton died.’

      He shrugged. ‘I