When forty something Nicola Eagles goes on the holiday of a lifetime to the Maldives, she never dreams she’ll fall in love – she’s too shy, too set in her ways. But then she meets someone who changes her life forever. Just when things seem to be going right for Nicola, though, she disappears without a trace. Was it a voluntary disappearance, or was she abducted – or murdered? When her absence is noted back in the UK, DI Gillian Marsh is sent to investigate.
Gillian is a good detective but her life is dysfunctional to say the least – and as she delves deeper into the case, she realizes that she may be out of her depth professionally too. For Nicola’s disappearance is just the start.
The boat skids across the tide. Every time a wave hits the floor, Nicola’s stomach lurches. She cannot see into the night. The ocean is a black oil spill, its vastness disorientating. The stars are bigger here than back home. The reek of petrol is nauseating. Despite the speed, time stands still. It feels like she is going in circles – on a rollercoaster: wind in her hair, her stomach in her throat, gravity defied. Even as a child Nicola disliked rollercoasters – they made her feel sick. She is feeling sick now. Yellow smudges of light from small islands along the way take Nicola out of the spin. She focuses her eyes on them for as long as they last, but they vanish quickly, left behind in the wake of the speedboat.
The skipper – lean and hairless, like a pubescent boy – turns and flashes his teeth and the whites of his eyes at her. She wishes he would keep those eyes on the steering wheel and on the road ahead. But then there is no road, she realises, only the blackness of the night seeping through the blackness of water.
He has switched off the headlights. He is not navigating by what he can see – he is going by instinct. She shudders despite the heat, and tries to distract herself with the bottle of water he gave her at the start of the journey. She takes a small sip just to moisten her tongue. Since landing in Colombo, she has drunk gallons of water. Where did it go? She sweated it out the moment it touched her lips. The air is swollen with moisture. Clammy. The air here weighs twice as much as the air in England. It sits on your skin.
Boy-skipper turns away and speaks to his companion. A gesture of his hand imitates a slap on the cheek. Their laughter drowns in the drone of the engine. Should Nicola be afraid? She is the only passenger on this boat. A female passenger. Boy-skipper and the other man, both black-eyed, black as the oily equatorial night, are ogling her in the rear view mirror. She can see the whites of their eyes flashing. Is her dress too revealing? In Colombo, she had changed from her grey winter layers into a flowing summer dress, one so light that she didn’t feel it become airborne as the speedboat took off. She pushes the fabric down and traps it between her knees, but it flaps around her thighs, desperate to break free. The eyes in the rear view mirror stay focused on her, willing her knees apart. They surely threaten an assault, even rape. She could be kicked in the stomach and thrown overboard, then left behind to be torn to shreds by sharks. Her two ferrymen have guessed correctly that no one would miss her: a lone woman in the honeymooners’ paradise. Boy-skipper has caught her eye in the mirror. He is smiling with a knowing glint in his eye. His earlier reverence is gone. He could give it to her here and now if that’s what she is after. Cheap thrills, that’s what she wants. He nods and Nicola shifts her gaze towards the black water.
It offers her no comfort. She can still feel his eyes on her, penetrating her flimsy summer dress. The boat staggers on the waves and her breasts shift inside her bra. They ache. She asked for it, Boy-skipper will say if they ask why he did it … And he will be believed. A furtive glance up and there he is – the mirror brings his lecherous eyes closer to her, so close that they can almost touch her.
Horrified, she places the flat of her palm on her chest. Her heart thumps against her hand. The dress is drenched with her sweat; a cold trickle slides from under her finger. She tries to stop it before it goes any deeper, but the nervous rubbing of her chest makes it worse. She gasps for air, looks nervously into the night, begs for it to lift so that their intentions are revealed. It’s the unknown that makes her panic. Where are they going? Why is she the only passenger? Who are they? What are they planning to do with her?
Which way is home?
They are staring at her, openly now. The smiles are gone. Without caring what she may overhear, they talk loudly over the drumming of the engine. Boy-skipper leaves his friend in charge of the steering wheel and heads down the two steep steps into the passenger cabin. Nicola holds her breath. Her suddenly lifeless hand peels off her chest, leaving it exposed. She was gagging for it, Boy-skipper will say and they will believe him. He leans over her.
A sharp change of direction throws the boat to one side, tossing him at her, his hand landing in her lap –
Nicola screams, pushes the bulk of his body away from her, but in that second, reinforced by the velocity of the lurching boat, he is way too heavy.
Quickly, he pulls himself up, and inquires with the most reverential, customer-centred concern, ‘Is madam feeling sick? It is not very much longer. Itsouru is that light, over that way.’
The first lights of Itsouru shimmer weak and tentative, but soon many more of them break up the night.
At first, travelling alone didn’t seem like such a bad idea. She bravely joined the queue to check in to her flight to Colombo. Heathrow was buzzing with anonymity – an extension of London where everybody minds their own business and no one establishes either body or eye contact. Nicola was in her element. She had stood in an orderly queue of likeminded travellers. Behind her three women were bubbling with conversation. Three women and no man, and they were perfectly happy. Well, two of them were – the younger ones. The older one – a mother figure after a fashion – sounded rather neurotic. Nicola hazarded a gaze behind her, observing the back view of a titch of a woman with fluffy, fair hair, the compact body of a marathon runner and a high-voltage disposition. She was at a loss to tell why the woman was so paranoid – she wasn’t the one going anywhere; the other two were.
‘Tara, concentrate please!’ She was pulling the tall, blonde girl by the sleeve. ‘You must call me the moment you arrive, so I know all is well. Do you hear me?’
‘Mum, you can’t come with us beyond this point. See? Only passengers with boarding passes.’ The tormented young lady was beginning to sound relieved. ‘I’ll call you. One last hug?’ She took her mother into her arms, where the woman briefly disappeared without trace. And then she was gone.
Soon after the two girls vanished as well. Nicola saw them through a crowd of people, chatting with two young men from the back of the queue. They all looked in full holiday swing, laughing, taking selfies on their mobile phones and exchanging text messages even though they stood right next to each other. It was then that Nicola had had her first doubt. She was no longer part of the gang, not even in her own head. They didn’t know her from Adam. She was on her own.
‘Madam Eagles travel alone?’
At Arrivals in Malѐ, Boy-skipper could not help himself. He gawped at her modest suitcase, willing Mister Eagles to jump out of there and put everything right.
She nodded and pointed to her suitcase. ‘That’s my luggage.’
‘One bag?’
‘So it is.’ She tried not to look guilty.
As they walked towards the jetty, Nicola’s bag rattling behind Boy-skipper, he tried again: ‘Mister Eagles, will he be joining later?’
‘No, he isn’t coming.’ She felt the sticky heat creep up to her cheeks, a burning blush. There was no Mr Eagles; had never been.
Nicola had never married. Mr Right had eluded her all her life and she was not the type to go and look for him. She lacked initiative. She was a human koala bear: a recluse content with her own company and easily pleased with a celery stick chewed thoughtfully in front of the TV. She had passions, but they were purely academic. Buried in books and furiously typing articles about the angst in Pushkin’s verse, Nicola had hardly noticed that her youth had sailed past and disappeared over the horizon. While she had been perfecting her Russian pronunciation, her peers had experimented with Sambuca shots and the morning-after pill. She had instead spent the prime of her life (and most of her parents’ money) building an impressive portfolio of honours in obscure subjects.
Nicola could have merrily languished in this relative obscurity for the rest of her days had it not been for her great-aunt Eunice dying. In a blink of an eye, she had found herself a wealthy woman and the proud owner of a charming, period cottage in Sexton’s Canning.
The cottage came with a cat called Fritz. She had no heart to send Fritz to a cat orphanage, but neither could she re-home him in her matchbox flat in Hammersmith. Fritz was a country cat – he did not climb stairs and didn’t use litter boxes. The sensible option was to sell the flat and move in with Fritz. After that radical move came another brainstorm: a holiday. Somewhere nice and warm – somewhere exotic.
Boy-skipper turns off the engine and the boat drifts towards the shore. The sound of water lapping against the jetty is comforting. Snippets of light punctuate the night. She has arrived.
The solid land is made of sand. It is a far cry from the assuring solidity of London’s concrete pavements. It ebbs underfoot. She is unsteady and ungainly as she treads across it. Her feet sweat inside her trainers. Nicola wishes she could take her shoes off and walk barefoot, but she wouldn’t dream of delaying her escort. The boy has heaved her suitcase on top of his head. The strain on his face shows how heavy the damn thing is. She has not told him that it is full of books; he does not need to be told. He can guess.
She lags behind him, repentant. Paper is heavier than it looks.
Outlines of palm trees are black sugar paper cut-outs. Spotlights hidden in the roots illuminate some of them, leaving others to stand obscure and sullen. The brightness of the Reception hut approaches fast. Nicola braces herself – there is no going back. She wouldn’t risk the oily blackness of the night-time ocean again. She can still taste burning petrol on her tongue and feel the bumpiness of the ride in her stomach. Travel sickness. She swallows it, and steps in.
Boy-skipper deposits her suitcase on the floor. It is a sandy floor, with hundreds of footprints on it. He grins at her, wishes her a happy stay and walks away taking with him the memory of their water crossing and his insolent ogling in the rear view mirror. Nicola discovers she has been holding her breath. She exhales.
Two love-struck newlyweds, seated on wicker chairs shaped like cracked-open coconuts, are holding hands. They have two suitcases – two suitcases for two, Nicola observes pointlessly. A waiter, clad in a sarong, brings them bright red drinks in cocktail glasses decorated with dimpled cherries and floating umbrellas. They clink the glasses in mid-air; she laughs, he feeds her a cherry.
Another couple are dealing with the receptionist. Nicola has to queue behind them. That is something she can do. She is good at queuing. It is in her blood. Waiting her turn takes her mind off her misgivings. She raises her chin and thrusts her chest forward.
The newlyweds kiss. It is a passing kiss – a distraction from what goes on lower down on the level of the coconut-shaped seats. The woman’s hand slips from the man’s chest and finds something to grip down in his groin. The man’s face softens with pleasure. He takes off his hat and places it in his lap over the woman’s hand and the bulge in his shorts. Nicola stiffens. She should not be here – not on her own, not with only one suitcase, not a woman alone.
She focuses her eyes on a model of a large fish with what looks like a horn on its nose. It is suspended from the ceiling between two huge fans. Their blades turn relentlessly, threatening to slice the fish into sushi pieces. Nicola knows how the fish must be feeling: the same as her.
Like a fish out of water.
At last the people in front of her have checked in and are on the move. She is next. She is going to tell the nice man at Reception that she has changed her mind. She wants to go home. She wants to be on the next boat out.
Except that, perhaps, it would be better if it was a day-time boat. Equatorial nights do not agree with Nicola. This may mean that, after all, she will have to spend at least one night here, on the island. In that case she will have to check in. Just for the night. She steps forward bravely and that is where she collides with the other couple who are busy crossing her path, unware of her as they are battling with their wheeled suitcases stuck in the sandy floor.
Nicola bounces off the man as he whips his stubborn piece of luggage onto his back. She makes a few unsteady backward steps, while her arms are performing disjointed cartwheels. She is tripped up by her own suitcase. Squawking, she grasps at the air and fails miserably to regain control.
She lands softly in somebody’s lap. A pair of strong male hands grab hold of her midriff. A glass in one of the hands tips over – alcoholic liquid soaks Nicola’s dress. The wet fabric sticks to her stomach like cling-film. She clutches the arms that caught her: they are covered in a soft fluff of reddish hairs. The hands on her waist feel highly opportunistic. Nicola tries to free herself and pushes the hands away – rises – and falls again. The man groans. She has hit his privates.
‘I am, I am … so sorry!’ she mumbles.
‘No problem,’ the man manages to say. He sounds foreign. How else should he sound? This isn’t the London Underground! What did she get herself into? How clumsy! She would never lose her balance like that on the tube! The man will think she has done it on purpose!
He helps her up. It feels like he pushes her up, freeing himself from her unwelcome weight. ‘So sorry … So sorry …’
She doesn’t dare look at him. Her eyes shift between his crotch and his sandals. Desperately she is searching for a hole to bury herself in. Sand. Sand. Sand. Footprints in the sand. She is unable to raise her eyes – they are glued to the floor. Her cheeks are burning in ultimate humiliation.
‘It’s no problem. Are you all right?’ the deep baritone of the man’s voice booms over the shrill of her internal demons.
He is holding her arm to steady her up. She frees herself, pulls away. ‘Sorry! I didn’t mean to –’
‘Of course you didn’t. No problem.’
From the corner of her eye she watches him pick up the glass. His shorts are also wet, like her dress.
‘I’m sorry about your shorts … I mean, about your drink,’ she stammers. ‘I spilled it. Can I buy you another one?’ She blushes. This sounds awful. This sounds like she is trying to chat him up. He must be thinking she has done it all on purpose!
‘No, no need. I’ve had too many.’
She doesn’t know if he is smiling, but he sounds like he is. Is he laughing at her? She dares not look up. ‘Well, if you say so.’ Is that the right thing to say? Isn’t it like saying he is drunk? Accusing him of drunken behaviour while it is she, Nicola Eagles, who –
God! Where is God when you need Him! She is still gaping at the floor – she won’t find Him there, but she simply cannot lift her gaze to look the poor man in the eye.
‘Good evening, madam! Welcome to Itsouru Island!’ The receptionist is grinning at her in a similar way to Boy-skipper, as if he and she share a shameful secret. Nicola feels betrayed. Her lower lip quivers. Everyone is laughing at her. She senses their merriment. At her expense. They must stop! ‘Can you –’ she starts and doesn’t quite know how to finish.
‘What can I do for you, madam?’ The receptionist looks eager to please.
Can you send me back home, please? she wants to say but that would be childish and would confuse the poor chap. He is only doing his job. His keen eyes are smiling, not laughing.
‘I’m Nicola Eagles, um …’ She is fumbling inside her handbag (it is a suitably exotic handbag with large loops of bamboo handles and a clean white canvas sack). It is hard to find anything in it, especially if your hands are shaking. Her fingers brush against the plastic wallet carrying her return ticket home. She clutches it. At least it is still in her bag, ready to be used in due course. Due course being one whole week: seven days; God knows how many hours. She finds her passport and booking form. She hands it to the receptionist. He looks over her shoulder, searchingly. Has she become paranoid or is he, just like Boy-skipper, looking for Mister Eagles?
‘Something wrong with the papers?’ she asks.
He is all smiles again. Oh no, nothing wrong; everything in perfect order. Would madam like to take a seat? Choose a cocktail from our Cocktails Menu?
No, Nicola is not planning to put herself through the torture of being seen drinking alone in a public place. She cranes her neck and peers back from under her eyelashes at the seat behind her. The man with the strong hands and spilled drink is gone. The seat is empty. She gazes at the receptionist pleadingly. Does she have to take a seat? Can she not go straight to her room?
‘Of course! I will get someone to escort you to your chalet. Chalet 42.’
Do they allocate room numbers based on the occupant’s age? Nicola feels it is a bit insensitive, but she takes the key from his hand. He gives her a map of the island and tells her where her nearest restaurant is. If she hurries, she will still make it for dinner. The kitchen closes at 11 p.m. That gives her half an hour. Of course she can have sandwiches made and delivered to her chalet, if she prefers. Fresh fruit …
‘No, it’s all right.’ Nicola does not wish to cause anyone any inconvenience. The poor cook wants to go home to his family. She will go to the restaurant and grab something quick and simple.
Another Boy-skipper – perhaps the former’s twin brother? – hauls her book-laden suitcase onto a cart and drives her to her room. She thought she would walk, but it is late, the island is big and her chalet is at the far end of it. She squats uncomfortably next to her driver. Her knee wedged into the side of her suitcase – her only taste of home in this impossibly exotic world – offers her a modicum of comfort. She would cuddle and kiss it if that wouldn’t look ridiculous.
Her room is a large cabin wearing a conical party hat of thatched roof. Her driver drags her suitcase to the front door and lets her open it. A wave of freezing cold air hits her in the face and wipes the blush from it. The suitcase makes it across the threshold.
‘I take madam restaurant?’ the driver nods with keen conviction. He is not going to go away. He has his instructions.
‘I would need to change, refresh … It’s late … Maybe not?’ she asks feebly.
‘I will wait. No hurry.’
She sits on the bed, biting her nails. The spillage has evaporated from her dress. She is not going to change. She doesn’t know what to wear. Hopefully, the driver will go away.
Twenty minutes later, as she peeps out of the door, he waves to her, a big, wide grin on his face.
The restaurant is an enormous, open-plan sacrificial temple. The buffet is brimming with hot and cold dishes; aromas mingle; chefs in tall white hats chop pieces of fish and toss them up in the air, using frying pans like tennis rackets. Sarong-wearing waiters look focused and competent. They are friendly. Smile a lot.
Nicola’s waiter puts her at a discreet corner table. The lights here are dimmer and the foot traffic less exuberant than in other parts of the diner. Out of character she orders wine. She needs Dutch courage more than a clear head.
There aren’t many diners in the restaurant. She feels singled out as a latecomer and a lone female in a place where having a partner is part of the dress code. If there were crowds, she could try to blend in, but all she has is a few cosy couples dotted over tables, drawn into each other to the exclusion of everyone else. She spies a quartet: two women, two men, middle-aged, loud and red-faced from the sun or the alcohol. Germans. They are having a whale of a time even though they are clearly not newlywed or under the age of thirty. Loud outbursts of laughter and slaps on the thighs keep them amused. They are happy on this love island. If there can be four of them here, . . .
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