But Dot couldn’t speak; there were tears running down her face.
‘What’s the matter? Is it that bad?’
Dot shook her head. ‘It’s perfect. It’s just like Ron was here, like he’d just baked it and stepped through to the other room.’
Rachel had switched into business mode.
‘You shouldn’t be selling factory-made cakes, Dot. You should make your own, with Ron’s recipes. Diana can get to work on the interiors and organisation and I might even have a few old press contacts to get word out about the place . . .’ She could feel energy and anticipation pulsating not just within her but around the whole room.
‘We could reopen on the day of the village fair,’ said Diana, beaming. Rachel could feel her own smile stretching from ear to ear.
She could hear a loud buzzing noise. At first she thought it was one of Dot’s kitchen appliances, before she realised it was her own phone. She stopped laughing to answer it.
At first there was silence on the other end, then a gentle snivel. Rachel realised instantly that it was someone crying.
‘Who is this?’ she asked softly.
‘It’s Kath Jensen.’ For a second Rachel couldn’t place the name. ‘Ross’s ex-wife.’
She was immediately on alert. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Ross. He’s been attacked in Jamaica. He was on a job. The job he was working on with you, I think. Rachel, he’s in a coma and they don’t know if he is going to pull through.’
32
Rachel had expected it to be hot, of course she had: it was the Caribbean. But it was one thing to imagine it and another to feel the almost physical thump as you stepped from the air-conditioned plane and into the furnace of Montego Bay. Her body shivered as it fought to cope with the sudden shift, and her breathing increased, like it was hard to drag oxygen from the humid air. Now I know how gingerbread men feel, she thought. Perhaps she had been away from Thailand too long. Or perhaps she was still in shock from the news about Ross – she was torn between being desperate to get to her friend’s side and dreading seeing him. No, that wasn’t shock, it was guilt. There were no two ways about it: if Rachel hadn’t turned up on his doorstep a few weeks ago, Ross would still have been walking around happily. Well, perhaps not happily; he was never exactly a ray of sunshine, she thought with a grim smile as she was waved through customs. A tall man in a suit was holding up a sign with her name on it.
‘Miss Rachel? I am Yohan,’ he said, holding out a huge hand and showing her his teeth – perfect except for one missing at the side. ‘How long are you staying with us?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Irie,’ he said, taking her bag. ‘I was sorry to hear about your friend.’
‘Really?’ said Rachel. ‘Was it on the news?’
The man let out a chuckle. ‘Nah, I spoke to your sister, Miss Diana? She told me that whatever you want to do while you’re in Jamaica, I should take you. So I will be your driver, your guide. And . . .’ he gave her another wide smile, ‘I was in the Jamaican army, so you will be safe.’
A bodyguard? Rachel felt her e
motions pulled in two directions at once. The hardened hack in her bristled at the idea that she might need protection; she had faced worse things than Jamaica could throw at her. But at the same time, so had Ross; in fact, he had also been in the army, and what good had it done him? She looked at Yohan’s broad back as he led her to a large black Mercedes. No, on balance she was rather glad her driver was on hand, because she was starting to think that perhaps Diana’s worries about her safety weren’t entirely unjustified.
Yohan put Rachel’s bag in the boot and opened the car door for her.
‘You want to go straight to the hospital?’
Rachel pulled a face, then nodded. ‘Yes, okay. You know the way?’
He laughed again. ‘Miss Rachel, I know everything and everyone on this island. I told you, you’re in good hands.’
Rachel sat in the back seat, glad to be once more sealed inside a climate-controlled environment, and watched as the airport gave way to fields. Sometimes new places surprised you: Naples had been like that. Rachel had once taken a train to the city from Rome, expecting a glamorous seaside town; instead she had been confronted by endless run-down concrete tenements, covered in grime and graffiti. But Jamaica was exactly as she had imagined: banana groves and sun-blasted fields interspersed with tiny settlements seemingly thrown together from planks and corrugated iron, people literally sitting on the kerb in shorts drinking Red Stripe and Tang. And then suddenly you’d glimpse the sea and the high gates of a luxury resort, the razor wire at the top designed to keep the wealthy holidaymakers inside and on their sunloungers and the real Jamaicans out. No wonder so many of those places were all-inclusive, thought Rachel.
By contrast, Montego Bay was raw. Yes, the poverty was everywhere – dirt roads, lean-to shacks selling dusty car parts and coconuts – but it pulsated with noise and life. Even though the car’s windows were firmly closed, she could hear the music: reggae and dub pumping from every opening along with the horns, the shouts, the laughter. Rachel had been to some poor parts of the world, but the mood in Jamaica was defiantly upbeat.
The Cornwall Hospital also refused to conform: a high-rise building in lush grounds high on a hill looking out over the sea. Apart from the ambulances parked outside, it could have been a holiday resort. Inside, Rachel was directed to the surgical unit, where she approached a nurse.
‘I’m looking for Ross McKiney?’
‘And you are?’ She turned at the sound of a deep male voice behind her. The Jamaican man was mid forties, stocky, with that unmistakable world-weary yet tuned-in look of policemen the world over.