Видящий. Ярл. Валерий Пылаев

Caribbean. But when she’d asked her father about this, he’d explained that Matthew Brody lived on St Antoine. It troubled her, too, that she’d never sensed the distance that must have been growing between her parents for such a potentially devastating situation to develop.

       But then, she’d never been particularly close to her mother. They didn’t share the same interests or like the same things. It was different with her father, but perhaps she hadn’t expected as much from him.

       Rachel sighed as she remembered the rest of the conversation. Her own pleas that she couldn’t just walk out on her job at the local newspaper had fallen on stony ground.

       ‘I’ll have a word with Don,’ said her father at once. ‘I’ll explain that Sara needs a break and, as I can’t leave the office right now, I’ve asked you to take my place. He can’t object to you taking a couple of weeks’ unpaid holiday. Not after you’ve kept going when half his staff have been down with flu.’

       ‘I’ve been lucky,’ Rachel had protested, but it had been no use.

       She knew that because Don Graham, the editor at the paper, and her father had gone to school together. Ralph Claiborne considered he was responsible for her getting a job there in the first place. And perhaps he was, although Rachel preferred not to believe it. She had been straight out of college, it was true, but with a good degree in English, and computer skills, she liked to think she’d got the job on her own merits.

       Needless to say her father had been as good as his word. The following morning Don Graham had called her into his office and told her that another girl would be taking over her duties in the advertising department from now on.

       ‘Your father says your mother hasn’t been well all winter,’ he’d said, and Rachel had felt her face burning. ‘I’m giving you a couple of weeks’ compassionate leave. Just don’t make a habit of it, you hear?’

       So here she was, over three thousand miles from home, without the faintest notion of how she was going to handle the situation. She was still sure her mother loved her father, but she didn’t know how that love would fare in the face of another attachment. And who was this other attachment—this Matthew Brody? And why did Rachel feel such a sense of foreboding at the prospect of seeing her mother again?

       ‘You here for a holiday?’

       The taxi driver was speaking again, and Rachel knew he was only trying to be friendly. But, goodness, how could she answer that question when what she felt was that she was on the edge of a precipice with no practical means of getting down?

       ‘Um—a holiday?’ She licked her dry lips. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

       It wasn’t the right answer. She could see that in the dark eyes that met hers in the rearview mirror. The man’s expression was both curious and wary, and she guessed he was wondering what kind of kook he was driving.

       To distract herself, she turned her attention back to the view. Beyond the environs of the small inter-island airport, the road was narrow and unpaved. But the sight of the ocean creaming onto almost white sands below the thick grasses that grew on the clifftop was a definite lift to her spirits. Whatever else, she was being given a totally new—totally unexpected—experience, and she should try and get as much out of it as she could.

       She’d never even heard of St Antoine before her father mentioned it to her. It was one of a small group of islands off the coast of Jamaica. Near the Caymans, but not part of them. A handful of mountains and reefs and jewel-bright vegetation where, according to her father, the only industries were a little sugar cane and coffee and, of course, tourism.

       ‘You stayin’ long?’

       ‘Two weeks.’

       At least Rachel could be honest about that. Well, providing her mother didn’t send her packing the minute she saw her. That was always a possibility, and Rachel didn’t know if she had a strong enough motivation to stay on under those circumstances.

       Though she could, she reminded herself consideringly. Her father had booked her into St Antoine’s only hotel and there was no reason why she should waste the reservation. She’d been lucky to get it, and only because someone else had cancelled at the last moment.

       ‘You keen on water sports, miss?’

       The driver was determined to learn more about her, and Rachel pulled a wry face.

       ‘I like swimming,’ she admitted, not sure what else he was referring to. Unless it was snorkelling. She had tried that once in Spain.

       ‘Not much else to do on St Antoine,’ he persisted. ‘We got no movie theatres or nightclubs. Not a lot of call for stuff like that.’

       ‘I would suppose not,’ murmured Rachel, a cynical smile pulling down the corners of her mouth.

       Well, he’d lasted a full ten minutes before making an oblique reference to her appearance. She doubted the elderly taxi driver was interested in her, but the fact remained he had already associated her with the kind of nightlife more readily found in Havana or Kingston.

       She grimaced. A lifetime—an adult lifetime, anyway—of parrying personal comments and sexual innuendo had taught her to ignore all references to her face and figure. So she was almost six feet tall, blonde, with full breasts and long legs? But what of it? She didn’t like the way she looked or the way men looked at her. Which was probably why she was still single, and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.

       When she was younger, she’d used to worry about her height and her appearance. She’d used to wish she was shorter, smaller, darker. More like her mother. Anything to avoid standing out in a crowd of girls her own age.

       But her years at college had convinced her that boys never looked beyond the obvious. She was a blonde, therefore she was a bimbo. With an IQ no bigger than her bust size.

       ‘Is it far to town?’ she asked, leaning forward, deciding to take advantage of the man’s garrulousness to ask some questions of her own.

       ‘Not far,’ he replied, swinging out to pass a mule-drawn cart. It was loaded with banana plants that hung precariously over its sides. He beeped his horn and the mule jerked nervously.

       ‘You stayin’ at the Tamarisk, yeah?’

       ‘That’s right.’ Rachel was grateful to discuss her destination. ‘It’s just a small hotel, I believe. I suppose it will be busy at this time of the year?’

       ‘Oh, sure.’ The man nodded expansively, turning the wheel of the car. The little statue of the Madonna that was suspended above his mirror swung in sympathy. ‘Janu’ry, Febru’ry—they’s our busiest months. ’Course, we do get visitors in summer, but when it’s winter in the UK and the United States, that’s when we get most tourists.’ He paused. ‘Like yourself.’

       ‘Mmm.’

       Rachel absorbed this, but she didn’t comment. She was wondering how she could get around to mentioning Matthew Brody’s name. It was a small island, and a small population. Surely it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he might have heard of the man?

       The road that had been riding along the cliff now swung inland, and Rachel stared at the thickly wooded vegetation covering the land that rose on the right. Trees and shrubs, ferns and bushes, all exploding with colour. Even in the late afternoon, the brilliance of the sunlight was dazzling.

       They were nearing the small town of St Antoine, she realised. Outlying dwellings, some of them with a plot of land given over to either cattle or crops, bordered the road, and presently an occasional store boasted signs that read ‘Fresh Sandwiches’ or ‘Home-made Ice-cream’.

       Now the road was divided into two lanes by a belt of palm trees. Rachel could see shops and houses with bougainvillea dripping from every roof and balcony. She glimpsed frangipani and oleander behind iron railings, and lots of West Indian faces peering at her as the taxi drove by.

       ‘Um—I don’t suppose you