‘You should go and see your friend. Call me from your hotel and perhaps we can talk more later.’
Before Detective Henry’s warning, Rachel wasn’t sure how she had expected Ross to look. Perhaps she would find him lying peacefully, a drip in his arm, a plaster on his cheek. Instead, she wanted to cry, he looked so beaten and broken. He was lying on his back, his arm in plaster held at a right angle, bandages around his head. His face was swollen and bruised, one eye almost closed.
She was allowed to take a seat by his bedside. She wasn’t sure how long she had been there when she felt another presence enter the room.
Turning to the door, she didn’t recognise the couple who had come in until they introduced themselves as Kath and Phillip Jensen.
‘Thank goodness,’ said Rachel, feeling suddenly less alone.
‘Can he be flown home?’ asked Kath.
‘Not until he regains consciousness. And then, who knows.’
‘We’ll stay until it gets sorted,’ said Phillip. ‘The kids are at my mother’s. Thank you for the flights over here,’ he added, stepping forward with a grateful handshake.
Rachel smiled. As soon as she had come off the phone with Kath Jensen, Diana had forgotten her own troubles and sorted out immediate travel for both Rachel and Ross’s family to fly to Jamaica, paying for every single expense.
Standing at
Ross’s bedside, Kath Jensen looked ready to cry. Rachel watched as her husband put a concerned arm around her shoulders, and remembered what Ross had said about him. He had every reason to dislike Phillip Jensen, and yet he had called him a nice guy. He had been able to see through the betrayal to the man beneath.
Rachel stayed until the nurse indicated that visiting hours were over. Yohan was waiting for her, a reassuring presence standing by his Mercedes outside the hospital.
‘How is your friend?’ he asked.
‘We’ll see,’ she said, not wanting to think about it too hard. She looked at the man quizzically. ‘Yohan, you said you know everyone on the island, right?’
He grinned. ‘Maybe not everyone, but most people, sure.’
‘So would you have any idea who did this to my friend?’
Yohan’s face clouded over. ‘I have already started to ask around, Miss Rachel. My job is to look after you; look what happened to Mr Ross.’
‘And what have you found out?’
‘Nothing yet, but I will,’ he said with determination. He opened the car door. ‘I should take you to your hotel,’ he said quietly.
They drove out of the city past coconut and banana plantations. Deeper into the island, Rachel could see a backdrop of thick jungle that reminded her of Thailand. She wanted to ask Yohan more questions, but her body was tired, eyelids drooping. She had been on the go for over a week, with barely time for a change of clothes. She wound down the window to let the breeze on to her face, breathing in the warm air infused with salt and the smell of tropical flowers. She must have nodded off, because when she opened her eyes, Yohan was standing outside the car, grinning at her through the window.
‘We’re here, Miss Rachel.’
She had read about Round Hill in a magazine when she had been waiting in Virgin’s Upper Class lounge at Heathrow – a delicious colonial estate just outside the city, the feature had said, aglow with a glamorous heritage that included guests of the calibre of John and Jackie Kennedy and Elizabeth Taylor, before being revamped by Ralph Lauren in recent years. The green and white awning over the entrance suggested a small house, but it opened out on to a verandah with spectacular views across a jutting headland and down to white beaches and blue sea.
Thanks again, she thought, offering her prayer up to the goddess Diana, she with her fingers on the purse strings. She felt her shoulders relax as she walked in and took her bag from Yohan.
‘Do you need me this evening, Miss Rachel?’
‘I’m not sure yet. Give me your cell phone number and I’ll call you.’
She checked in and was shown to her room. It was cool and spacious – white linen and wood – and she fell backwards on to the bed, sighing, but she knew that if she stayed there, she would never get up again. And if she stopped moving, the emotions of the afternoon – of the last month – might overtake her. So she levered herself up and ran into the bathroom and showered, washing her hair through twice until she felt really clean. Walking back into the room, towelling her hair, her eye fell on the minibar. Usually she called ahead and requested that her room be cleared of alcohol; that was what they told you in AA – don’t put temptation in your way – but she wasn’t sure she would get through this without something. Moving quickly, before she could change her mind, she sat down and poured the contents of two small whisky bottles into a tumbler. She could call room service for ice, but she just wanted to feel the liquid burn down her throat; her mouth was literally watering at the prospect.
The tumbler had just touched her lips when she heard knocking at the door.
‘Shit,’ she whispered. She had always wondered what it would be like to have a bodyguard at your beck and call. But right now, all she wanted was to be left alone.
She pulled the door open. But it wasn’t Yohan standing there.
‘Liam?’ she said, her voice tumbling into staccato laughter. For a moment she couldn’t quite understand what she was seeing. Was this some cruel trick of the booze? But she hadn’t even had a sip.