Laura's first port of call was an exclusive beach club on the edges of town, frequented, it soon became clear, only by the richest of the rich. A well-groomed and somewhat snooty doorman led her through into a tasteful and slightly darkened interior, where hidden lighting illuminated tasteful dŽcor and neatly arranged paintings. She was sure that they were all copies, and that increased her amusement at the ostentatiousness of the displays. Constables along one wall, Monets along another, all arranged by colour and size in a system that spoke more of clinical precision than artistic flair. She wandered along the lines of more modern artwork, deciding that the splashes of bright and contrasting colour were rather more to her style than the pale white walls behind them, with the soft lights, soft colour furnishings and curtains in pale pastel shades. She got the impression that the club's clientele was made up almost entirely of deeply conservative ninety year olds, with a few younger members who were sneaking in changes where they could. Her opinion did not change as she was led through into the club's main lounge. Large couches lined the walls, filled with old men in various stages of repose. There were only a few women, mostly glamorous and young, and all apparently scrabbling for discarded IQ points. Laura smiled at one woman, scarcely out of her teens, who was trying to catch the eye of a man more than three times her age, sunning himself in blissful ignorance beside a large patio window. He clearly had not noticed her, but she continued trying nonetheless. Clearly rich husbands were the goal of most of the females present. "I'm looking for a Mr Lourdes." Laura spoke loudly, at the same time glancing about in a search for somebody who might be looking out for her. She ran her eyes over a range of sun-tanned, well oiled men, all in advanced middle age or older, trying to find somebody who looked at all businesslike. One or two were wearing suits, but she got the impression, through little more than a long held prejudice about unshaven men who wore heavy gold medallions, that these were people that she did not want to get involved with commercially. They looked more like the kind of people who would despatch a tattooed heavy to deal with rivals such as Sean Reynolds. People who would leave the opposition floating in a canal somewhere, wearing concrete boots. She smiled back at them all, and continued scanning. Lourdes had to be there somewhere. The man who had made the call had told her that punctuality was a definite requirement, and that she had to be in this room, on this day, at exactly this time, or any hope of a business deal would be over before it had begun. "Are you Laura Johnstone?" A voice interrupted her line of thought, and she turned her head to see a tall, dark man standing behind her. He was clearly Spanish, but his voice was barely accented. It impressed her just how many of the locals spoke such perfect English, especially given her own abortive attempts to learn their language. Although she knew a good many of the words, restaurant-speak was about as far as she had confidently progressed in terms of full conversation. "Yes. Yes I am." "We were expecting two of you." The man smiled with an attempt at polite humour. "Well, not two of you exactly. But two people." "Mr Tate is otherwise engaged today." She frowned, worried. "Is that a problem?" "I shouldn't think so." He smiled at her. "I'm afraid it's not really up to me, though. I'm just the messenger." He extended his hand. "Antonio Salvo. I'm the doctor here - medical consultant for all our members. I look after Mr Lourdes' personal matters when I can. He doesn't get about much these days." "Oh." She nodded. "Where is he?" "Just over here." She was led to an open window, where a wheelchair was positioned in a patch of bright sunlight. An old man sat in the chair, dark glasses covering his eyes. An untouched whisky on ice was balanced on the balcony wall just in front of him, and what looked like a copy of The Times was folded neatly next to it. "Mr Lourdes?" Salvo tapped the old man on the shoulder, then gestured at Laura. "This is Laura Johnstone, the woman you were expecting." "Woman?" The man's voice was quiet, but strong. He pulled off his glasses with a crabbed hand and peered up at Laura through bleary, pale eyes which looked to be clouded with cataracts. "I was expecting a man. Young man. Wheelchair." He frowned. "Who are you?" "My name is Laura Johnstone, Mr Lourdes. You do know about me." She smiled firmly. "Chris couldn't make it today. He's busy." "Too busy for my custom?" Lourdes harrumphed loudly. "Well maybe I'm too busy for yours." "Mr LourdesÉ" She sat down on the balcony wall and smiled up at the doctor, who was taking his leave. "You called us, not the other way around. You said that you wanted to do business with a haulage firm based in the UK. Well we are that firm. I apologise for my associate's unavailability, but I'm afraid you're just going to have to talk with me instead." "Am I." He smiled at her, the new expression highlighting the wrinkles which dominated his face. His skin, she noticed, was pale despite the sun that he seemed so much to enjoy; and the strength of his voice did little to disguise the fact that he was dangerously infirm. He straightened his back slightly, the movement doing little to improve his bad posture. "Good. You're right, Miss Johnstone, I did call you." He reached for the whisky with a grasping motion that made her long to help him, although she knew enough to stay back unless asked. "Fact is, I've got money. Plenty of money - but most of it isn't doing a whole lot. I've decided to put some of it into exports, but I like to safeguard my investments. That means that I want to know what's happening every step of the way. I don't want to deal with big companies. I want to know the people who are packing and unpacking my goods, and I want to know who's transporting them about between the two. I don't like risks, not at my age." "I see." She smiled. "Well in that case, I think that we can do business." "You do, huh." He harrumphed again. "Well I'm glad to hear it." He downed the whisky in a gulp, leading her to seriously believe that his life expectancy was decreasing with his every breath. Not only was there a half-full bottle of whisky on the floor beside his chair, but there was a box of cigarettes as well, lying suspiciously close to a canister of oxygen which came complete with mask. Judging by the harsh breaths that he was taking, she could not help but think that he was not long for this world. She wondered who would take over his assets when he did shuffle off to pastures anew, and then told herself off for thinking such unpleasantly morbid thoughts about her newest client. All the same, he did look as though he had already been dead a week. She suppressed a smile. "I'll have somebody speak to you in a month, when the first shipment is due. I don't approve of contracts, and I don't like lawyers." She dragged her mind back from wherever it had been, in order to hear his words. "If a gentleman's agreement isn't good enough for you, I'll take my business elsewhere." "That'll be fine, Mr Lourdes." She hoped that Chris would agree. "I'm sure that we can trust you." "But can I trust you, hmm?" He sighed, coughing harshly at the same time. "I shouldn't think we'll meet face to face again." No, probably not. She told her subconscious off for the second time in as many minutes, and then smiled in as professional a manner as she could manage. "We'll be in touch then." She shook his hand and stepped back through the window, leaving her new client scrabbling about under his chair for his cigarettes. Salvo caught her eye as she headed for the door. "I hope everything went okay?" he asked her. She shrugged. "Just so long as his descendants are interested in carrying on the contract after him." "He doesn't have any." The doctor smiled, opening the door for her. "He still hasn't chosen a benefactor, although he's had what seems like half of Europe flirting with him for a chance to get at his money." He followed her out into the corridor. "You needn't worry about your business though. The way his investments are tied up, whoever does end up with his riches - and he's determined to find somebody - they'll have no choice but to follow on with whatever arrangements he's made. He's that sort of man. Once his mind is made upÉ" "You seem to know a lot about his affairs." She liked the softly-spoken doctor, and was glad of his company as they strolled back to the main exit. He gave a small shrug, and smiled at her. "Oh I take a lot of interest in my patients. Many of them have no relatives or close friends, and it helps them to have somebody that they can confide in." He shook her hand. "Goodbye Miss Johnstone." "Goodbye." She turned and walked away, leaving the doctor far behind her. As she disappeared out of sight his smile grew, and he turned back to the club and its rich clientele. The British woman had been right, he mused, with a trace of irony lighting his eyes. He did know a lot about the affairs of his patients. In point of fact, he had extremely good reasons for knowing a very great deal indeed.

The day passed slowly. Lost in her world of business meetings, to say nothing of lunches with three different clients, Laura Johnstone was rather too preoccupied to wonder about the sort of day that Chris was having. The first of her business lunches left her feeling exhausted, and by the end of the third she was determined never to look food in the face ever again. Any sort of food. It was all conspiring against her, and she felt sure that she would never feel hungry again, even if she didn't eat another mouthful for the next six months. When finally she returned to her hotel room, thinking pleasing thoughts of showers, long drinks and a little light conversation, she was surprised to find that she was alone. She glanced about the room. Nothing had changed since she had left, except for the obvious signs of the earlier presence of hotel cleaning staff. Clearly Chris had not been back since she had watched his departure that morning. She had fully expected to find him there, waiting for her, reading through his notes or some of the files that they had brought with them, ready and waiting to hear the tale of her day. He could never keep his conversation away from business for long, even when he was tired. "Chris?" She called his name as she wandered into the bedroom, wondering if he might be sitting somewhere out of the way, being uncharacteristically quiet; but everything seemed deserted. She crossed to the telephone and dialled reception, using her gradually improving Spanish to ask whether there were any messages for her. There were three as it happened, but none were from Chris. She asked if he had called in at all, but the receptionist barely seemed to know who he was. "Thanks." Hanging up the receiver, Laura sat down on the bed, a frown once more decorating her face. It would be dark soon, and she could see no reason why Chris would stay out, alone, once the sun had gone down; unless, of course, he had found somebody else to share the night with. She threw the thought away. Although she entertained no illusions about Chris being an angel, she was sure that she knew him - and all of his faults - well enough to be sure of the limits to his failings. Besides, up until the previous evening he had not been out of her sight for long enough to meet somebody new, and his Spanish was so bad that he could never have struck up a conversation with most of the locals. She tried not to think about all the fluent English-speakers she had met so far, and decided instead that he was merely enjoying himself somewhere, making the most of the rest that he had more than earned. He had probably gone a long way, and couldn't make it back before dark. Perhaps he had got lost, or had fallen into conversation with some of the ex-pats she herself had kept bumping into all day. There were many explanations. But despite her certainty that he was not up to anything, she couldn't help feeling worried. Maybe he was not misbehaving; but something might have happened to him all the same. She discarded the thoughts, angry with herself for making mountains out of molehills; but still the worry lingered. Something was wrong somewhere. She was sure of it.

Chris Tate took a long, shaky breath that was not far from utter despair, and stared up at the ceiling. Mere hours ago he had been on top of the world, certain of his approaching victory and of the impending downfall of Kim. Everything had been in his favour, from the surprise of his very presence in the country to his certainty that the police would be prepared to listen to him, for once, now that he had found his step-mother again. This time everybody would listen. He had been so sure of it. He could still hear his voice, filled with confidence, as he had told her of her bleak future. His words echoed about inside his head. Instead of glory, however; instead of pride and the joy of final victory, he was lying here, in a damp grey cell in some forgotten Spanish police station that looked as though it had been built during the Inquisition; and the attitudes of the officers seemed to belong to those same, enlightened times. Finding the cell door too narrow for his chair, they had taken it from him, leaving him lying on the hard, unyielding bunk, with no freedom of movement even about the confines of his small cell. He had tried telling them that, with him out of it, the chair could be folded up to fit through the door, but suddenly they had seemed to lose their understanding of his language, and had left him alone. The only point in their favour was that they had removed his cuffs first; and even that was a small mercy. He closed his eyes, trying to control the panic in his breathing. He had never thought of himself as claustrophobic before, but then he had never been in such a position as this before either. He did not remember feeling so helpless, so utterly and completely lost, since the days he had spent in the hospital following the plane crash, when the truth about the specialist's words had finally begun to sink in. A half-sob caught in his throat. The grey ceiling, with its spiders' webs and traces of permanent damp, seemed to loom ever closer. It was cold, and he shivered, but the shiver turned into a shudder and he closed his eyes. Still the ceiling seemed to hang mere inches from his head, despite his knowledge that it was really some six feet above him. He passed a cold, slightly shaky hand across his brow, and tried to forget how completely trapped he was. He tried to forget his hatred of Kim, but it grew with his every breath and he abandoned his attempts to control it. What did it matter? It was probably the only thing keeping him on this side of sanity. With both hands balled into fists, he forced himself to open his eyes again, and stared once more at the ceiling. There were no windows in the cell, and the policemen had taken his watch, but he knew that it was late. Outside it would already be dark. Laura would be wondering what had happened to him, and unless somebody finally got around to letting him make a telephone call, she would very likely be wondering forever. With unease filling his body and nightmares never far from his mind, he eventually fell into a restless, unpleasant sleep. He muttered to himself on the edge of consciousness, and in his sleep his voice broke. When they finally came, the tears did not care whether or not he was awake to feel them fall.

Laura awoke from a disturbed sleep to find an empty bed and an unnaturally quiet room. The walls hung around her, on the edge of the gloom of early dawn, a slight slit between the curtains showing all the light of the world beyond the window. She stared at it, a sort of half-conscious fascination holding her attention riveted to the bright strip; then she sat up and pushed the covers away. She had been alone all night. Chris had not returned. "Damn you Chris Tate." Angry with him for worrying her so, she dressed moodily and went downstairs for breakfast. So far during the trip she had eaten all her meals upstairs, with Chris; but she did not feel like dining alone. She asked the desk clerk if there were any messages for her; but there were none. Nobody seemed to have seen her companion since he had left the previous morning, and after a few reluctant calls to the people they had been due to see that day, she set out in the direction she had seen him take. Somebody had to have seen him, even if all that they had done had been to direct him to the red light district. She thought about calling the hospitals and the police station, but she knew that Chris would not thank her for that. If she was worrying over nothing, the worst thing that she could do would be to make a fuss. That way she could lose him forever. Instead she strolled along the seafront, thinking back to the last time that she had seen him. He had been enthusiastic about his day out; as though there was something that he was very much looking forward to. Any number of scenarios flashed through her mind, and she wondered if she was going to find him again, only to be told that he was no longer interested. Only her faith in one fact kept her mind from focussing for too long on such suspicions; if he was to leave her, it would not be for anybody other than Kathy, his former wife. Of that she was as sure as she could be of anything. Shops and hotels went by as she wandered on. She stopped off to ask passers-by if they had seen anything of her former companion. For once she seemed only to find locals to speak to, and the profusion of ex-pats which had seemed to follow her every move the day before seemed now to be somewhere else. Her grip on the foreign language was fading in proportion to her increasing concern, and she couldn't remember the Spanish for wheelchair. Her frenzied attempts to mime caused more hilarity than familiarity, and she gave up, falling into a despairing gloom. Even the flower sellers on the street corners did not seem able to inject any brightness into her depression. She came at last to a place where the road ran close to the beach, and a series of deep, white steps led onto the sand. There was a mass of footprints there, criss-crossing each other, trampling out any kind of sense. She stood on the top stair, gazing out across the bay. A set of iron railings ran close by, forming a barrier that shut off the main road from the beach walk, where tourists gathered in groups to watch local painters and street entertainers. She stared towards them, feeling separated from them by rather more than just the railings. Finally she turned away, her pale eyes searching the beach. She knew that she would not see Chris down there, although she still wasn't altogether sure why he avoided it so rigidly. She just wanted to look at the sand and the gentle undulation of the waves. Usually it relaxed her in a way that nothing else could, but today it seemed to frustrate her. How dare it look as though everything was normal; as though nothing mattered? "You alright?" She hadn't realised that she had closed her eyes, and clenched her fists, until a hand took her shoulder and she turned to look into a pair of earnest grey eyes, staring into her face as though searching for the cause of her worry. "Miss?" "ErÉ IÉ" She frowned, seeing a man aged somewhere between forty and fifty, dressed in running clothes. His greying hair was neat to the point of obsession, despite the hard run that he clearly undertaken. "Yes, I'm fine thankyou." "You don't look fine." A smile lightened his frown. "Too much sun yesterday?" "No." The mere chance to sunbathe would have been a fine thing, but they were in the country for business, not for pleasure. She had been telling herself that time after time, repeating it like a mantra every morning when she awoke. "I--" "You what? You can tell me." He grinned, and eased her into a sitting position on the steps. "My name is Iain Daley." "You're from London." She wondered if he was on holiday, or if he was an ex-pat. It really didn't seem to matter, any more than did the wedding ring glinting on his finger. He had already paid more attention to her than Chris had all week. "Yes." He sat down beside her. "So what can I do to help?" "Nothing." She smiled sadly. "I'm looking for my boyfriend, that's all. He didn't come back to the hotel last night." "Oh?" His eyes narrowed. "Well why don't you tell me what he looks like? I'm here most days. I might have seen him." "I doubt it." She took a deep breath, already feeling more like normal, and she stood up to help herself slide back into a more businesslike approach. "He's about my age, in a wheelchair. Er, he was wearingÉ" "A suit. Grey trousers, white shirt." The man frowned, head cocked on one side. "No jacket. Tie wasÉ well it had red bits on it, that's all I can remember." He smiled at her, clearly pleased with himself. "Yeah, I saw him; about this time yesterday morning. He was asking me about some woman he had seen leaving the beach the previous night. Around sevenish, when I was out for my evening run." "A woman?" Remembering how late Chris had been to their rendezvous at the restaurant that night, Laura felt her heart sink. The man nodded, oblivious to her new distress. He was clearly proud of his memory, and anxious to show it at its best. "Yeah. She's been around here a couple of weeks now. British, pretty tall. And blonde." His voice suggested that he had eyes for the woman himself. "I don't know her very well, but your boyfriend, he really wanted to know about her. Sounded almost like he knew her." The man frowned. "It was weird though. He wanted to know where she lived, and when I told her it was at one of the hotels, he took off like he was on some kind of mission, you know? Couldn't wait to meet her." His frown deepened, as though he had finally realised that he had not been particularly tactful. "Er, sorry. I didn't mean - well, he didn't look like he wanted to - you know." "Forget it." Laura sighed. "Okay, who is she? What's her name?" "Robinson. First name'sÉ I don't quite recallÉ" He shook his head. "She's tall anyway, and really good-looking, but there's something kind of strange about her. SomethingÉ aloof. She acts all warm, but then suddenly she looksÉ cold. You know? Can send a real chill up your spine. But she's something special alright." "Okay, thanks." Laura headed back up the steps, feeling suddenly sure. A woman like that sounded just the sort of person that Chris would like to know. Somebody interesting; dangerous maybe. "I'll see you around." "Sure. Bye." Suddenly Daley clicked his fingers. "Kim, that's it. Her first name. Yeah, Kim Robinson." He whistled. "If I wasn't marriedÉ" "I get the picture." She turned away, and was several yards down the road before his parting words registered in her mind. KimÉ She shook her head. That was impossible. What would Kim be doing here? Why would she come to this place, out of all the places in the world that she could choose? The world was her oyster with the money she had taken back from Chris. "Kim?" She did not realise at first that she had spoken the word aloud. Her voice startled her. Slowly she began to increase her speed, heading down another road, in another direction. It did not matter whether or not this really was Kim here. If Chris believed that she was nearby; if something had made him think that the woman on the beach was her - and Laura was certain of this fact with every fibre of her being - then nothing would stop him from finding out for sure, and from going to meet her; to confront her and let her know that he was there. She had to find a police station. She wasn't sure why, but she knew that she would not feel safe unless the authorities were on her side. Somewhere inside her, she was sure that Chris really had seen Kim; and if he had, there was no telling what the consequences might be. She could only hope that she was not too late.