One

I lie dozing on my sun-lounger on my private patch of beach in Marigot Bay. I am sheltering under a large umbrella that Derek, my steward, has angled adroitly to protect both Joanna and me from the sun. Derek would do anything for us. The heat is pouring through the canvas, but it’s diffused by the fabric: bearable, pleasant.

Joanna has placed her own sun-lounger almost at right-angles to mine, but she isn’t stretched out. She is hunched at one end of it, legs tucked under her, head and face covered by a great pink hat that resembles a plaited bucket. She has wound a pink chiffon scarf around the crown. She sits with her back to me. I can’t tell whether she is reading the book that rests on her bare thighs or simply brooding.

It has taken all my ingenuity to get her here. I won’t let her spoil this now. I don’t want to be contaminated by the darkness of her thoughts. I’ve worked hard for this holiday – I’ve worked hard for everything – and Christ knows I deserve a break. I’m even working now, in a way. When Sentance came up with his idea of using the boats for luxury cruises, I knew I couldn’t trust anyone else to test it out. The experience on board, anyway. I draw the line at staying in that hotel he’s done the deal with. Four star – it should be OK, though I’d have preferred five. But still. My grandfather bought this beach house years ago and as a family we’ve barely used it. Work-life balance, that’s what we’ve never managed to achieve.

Opa was a brilliant businessman, but not exactly imaginative. He called the beach house Laurieston, the same as our house in Sutterton. Sutterton: while I’m lying here it’s difficult to believe it actually exists. Sometimes I think I hate the place, with all the problems it brings: the farms, the packing sheds, the factories, the staff. Especially the staff.

I stretch across to the little table that Derek has placed within reach and grasp my glass of piña colada. It is so chock full of ice cubes that they have hardly melted. I take a sip. The drink is so cold it makes my teeth ache. We could stay here, Joanna and I. She could spend the rest of her days here. How long does she have? Six months, a year? I need to talk to that quack again. Squirming bastard. He never gives me a straight answer.

My mobile rings. At first, I don’t realise it’s mine. Joanna and I both use the traditional telephone ringtone. It’s a sign of quality, of class. I can’t bear the vulgar tunes most people choose. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons or You’ll Never Walk Alone. Phones should sound like phones. I’ve told Archie that, too. Miraculously, on this point he seems to agree with me.

Joanna turns, shoots me a dark look from under her hat.

“Your phone’s ringing,” she says. “If you’re going to ignore it, can you switch it off?”

“Sorry.” I lean my head out and peer under the sun-lounger. The mobile is lying on a folded towel and I grab it; seeing who the caller is, I realise I must take the call.

“Sentance,” I say, “I thought I told you not to disturb me.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Kevan. But you said except in an emergency.”

“Are you saying there is an emergency?”

“It’s not exactly . . .”

“Oh, for God’s sake, cut the cackle, man. Why have you called?”

“It’s your house. Jackie Briggs was walking past it early this morning, on her way to that ice-cream van cleaning job that she has, when she saw a man standing on the conservatory roof. She went to fetch Harry. He called the police, who called me. Harry managed to hold on to the man until they arrived. Jackie thought that there were two of them, but if she’s right the other one did a runner.”

“So they didn’t get in, then?”

“Yes, they did. We don’t think they took much. The guy that was caught was carrying a rucksack. He’d only managed to lift a DVD player, a camera and some small items of jewellery. Oh, and a Toby jug, for some reason. The other one may have nicked more. Jackie went round the house to see if she could spot anything else missing. She couldn’t think of anything. But you’ll know better yourself, when you come back.”

“The house has been made secure?”

“Yes. There was just one pane of broken glass in the conservatory. I’ve had it repaired. The police are going to keep an eye out until you get here, in case the other guy tries to return. If you don’t think that’s enough, I’ll go and stay there tonight myself, if you like.”

“Well done. It’s all sorted, then. I don’t think you need to put yourself out, but thanks, anyway. Tell the police I’ll deal with it when I come home.”

Sentance falls silent. I can read him like a book, even when he’s invisible and on the other side of the Atlantic. He hates to be the bearer of bad news. It’s not that he’s overflowing with fellow-feeling; it’s more the case that he’s afraid I’ll shoot the messenger. I’ve already dragged out of him more disagreeable information than he thinks is good for him. Craven little sod.

“Well, what else is there? I can tell there is something.”

“The two policemen that came insisted on going round the house with Jackie, to make sure everything was all right. They found the cellar door open. They asked her what was down there and she said she didn’t know; she said she’s never been down there. They left her at the top of the steps and went down for a poke round themselves. They found some stuff in there.”

“What do you mean, they found some stuff in there? Of course there’s stuff in there. My wine’s stored there, for a start. I hope that nobody’s touched that. And my lathe. And quite a lot of old furniture. Which stuff did they mean?”

“It looks like passports,” says Sentance in a hushed voice. He says it so quietly that at first I think the word is passe-partout. Then it dawns on me.

“Passports? Whose passports?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t know, either. But they said it looked as if someone had been . . . making them. As in forging them, I mean.”

“How did you find this out? Were you there, too?”

“Yes.” Snivelling little creep, trying to distance himself from it.

I sigh wearily.

“I’ve got no idea what this is about. I’ll deal with it when I get back.”

Again there is silence.

“You don’t think that’s a good idea?”

“It’s not what I think, Mr Kevan. I’m just trying to warn you. The police have asked me how to get hold of you. I’ve stalled them so far, but in a minute I’m going to have to give them this number. When I do, I know they’re going to tell you to come home straight away.”