‘Huh! I bet you are, really. You notice things.’

He looked at her. In the sunlight her face was honey-coloured and her cheeks were pink from the sun. ‘So you don’t think you are ever going to find love again because you don’t want to. What happens if it just happens?’

‘Things don’t just happen—you have to let them happen.’

‘You blame yourself for Helen’s and your dad’s deaths, don’t you? You must have loved your father very much.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes and stared out at the ocean and the looming shoreline. As Mann stared out into the water, the blue filled his eyes and senses; the fresh sea spray cleared his head and he realised something he had never admitted to before. The thought jumped out at him and it shocked him. He turned back to Becky and looked at her concerned face as she waited for an answer; he knew she had unlocked another piece of the puzzle for him.

‘I never really knew my father—I never got the chance.’

A jolt interrupted them and a commotion ensued as half a dozen men waded in to pull the

barca

up onto the sand and moor it alongside a dozen others. Becky reached into her pocket and handed the man a note in exchange for her bag. He held it up in triumph for the others to see. His workmates slapped him on the back and congratulated him.

‘What was all that about?’ Becky looked confused.

‘The rounds are on him tonight. You gave him the equivalent of a month’s wages.’

There was a jostle amongst the porters as to who would get to carry Becky’s bag up the beach. She left it to them to sort it out and followed Mann. Bong hurried off to make sure all was in order, whilst Mann and Becky walked along the beach. It was a narrow strip of sand that was already congested with moored

barcas

, small hotels and bars that crept almost as far as the water’s edge. There were a few couples sunbathing, and a few more sitting in the shade of beach umbrellas. Excited children were kicking up water at the ocean’s edge.

They headed up the beach towards one of the beachfront bars, which were built on stilts resting half onto the beach. A few tables and chairs were pitched into the sand. Laid-back beach music drifted out from inside the elevated bar area. Becky caught up with the porter and took her bag from him. She dug in her pocket and, not wishing to appear mean, produced the same note as last time. It caused great whoops of triumph from the porters. Becky plonked herself on the stool in the sand. They were immediately surrounded by men wanting to sell them diving adventures and sailing trips.

The barman left his seat, on the steps of the bar, and sauntered over to their table to take their order. The touting locals moved on and up the beach.

‘Two San Miguel.’ Mann ordered their drinks.

‘Yes, sir.’ He came back with the tray. ‘You staying at Paradise Hotel, sir?’

‘Do you know somewhere better?’ answered Mann.

‘I know d best place in Sabang.’ He grinned and pointed to the second floor rising above them. Washing and wetsuits hung down from the balcony above and the sound of heavy-duty bass came thumping out from the open balcony. ‘We have rooms above d bar.’

‘Yeah, right, now tell us somewhere where we can actually get some sleep.’

‘Okay. Okay. I see you want d best for such a beautiful lady.’ He grinned at Becky. ‘Paradise Hotel—it’s real nice, at d end of d beach, quiet, own by English guy, name Bob. It is good place for you.’

‘Tell you what…we’ll see how it works out. If it’s bad we’ll come back to you. Okay?’

‘Is that one of the men you were talking about?’ Becky asked after the waiter had left.

‘Yes. English Bob, or Bob English, is an expat wanted for armed robbery and firearms offences back in the UK and in Thailand. He has twice managed to avoid prison for underage sex. He isn’t fussy—girls or boys.’

‘Nice bloke. He gets away with it here by paying people off?’

‘That’s it. He pays off the police, the parents and the politicians, and he sends the child back to the country side, lost forever. Bob has been here five years. Seems to have found himself some useful friends, one of whom owns a few of the bars along this beach. It’s probably a good place for us to start asking questions.’

The waiter came back. ‘Your man, Bong, is coming back in five minutes—just making the room ready. You want another beer?’ He pointed to Mann’s empty bottle. Mann declined.

‘What else do you know about this English Bob?’ asked Becky when the waiter had left them and was working his way across the sand and up the wooden steps to the bar beyond.

‘He owns a few clubs here. He is bound to have been approached by the White Circle, and I know he has had dealings with Stevie Ho…Here’s our man, and…’ Bong appeared to inform them that all was prepared for their arrival. They followed him along the beach as he carried one bag on each of his broad shoulders. He was in no hurry at first, but he sprinted the last bit as the hot sand got too much to bear. They arrived at the beach entrance to Hotel Paradise, whose boundary was marked by posts and three rows of sturdy-looking sun-loungers, set out in pairs, with thatched sun umbrellas between each set. There was a sentry post, a small windowless box, and a smartly uniformed officer grinned and waved at them from inside, his rifle over his arm.

‘Why is

he

armed?’ Becky smiled and waved back. ‘I can understand the airport security, but why here?’

‘They have had problems with terrorists for so many years. They are used to a high level of security. They have a “better safe than sorry” approach.’

Two women met them at the boundary of sunbeds and presented them with their welcome pack—shell necklaces and fresh papaya juice. They had garlands of flowers placed around their necks and were ushered towards reception.

The reception area was being swept, the sand was being brushed out; it was a continual process. There were three girls behind the desk dressed in tightly fitting flowery uniforms, their hair tied up, glossy and black, caught at the back of their heads with a flower. They were flustered and giggly at Mann’s presence. Becky realised it was a fact of life that he was the average Filipina’s winning lottery ticket.

‘Hello sir, ma’am,’ they chorused. ‘The manager, Mr Bob English, apologises but he has had to go into town for business. He will be back later. He asks you please to have a drink with him this evening.’

‘Please tell the manager we would be delighted.’ Mann smiled at the girls.

Bong escorted them up to their suite on the second floor.

It was a nicely laid-out complex that sprawled back from the beach for an acre. Its main building stretched up for three floors of balconied rooms that looked down on an inner courtyard. There were also private villas, in different native styles, dotted around. The hotel faced the sea and its restaurant and bar was a broad balcony, with table and chairs and a lounge area for watching the sunset.

Their room was one of the better ones. It had a fiercely active air-con and a double-sized balcony equipped with chairs and a table. There was a bottle of wine in an ice bucket waiting for them and the bed was covered in petals. It was the honeymoon suite, they both realised at the same time.

‘Ah!’ Becky stood in the centre of the room and looked around. ‘That would explain the giggling girls on reception.’ She suddenly felt really awkward. It was the first time they had been on their own with no one else around.

Mann looked at Becky. He could see she was embarrassed.

‘Don’t worry, I will get them to put up a spare bed.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘And I

will

kill Shrimp when we next see him.’

She smiled and shook her head. ‘Okay—that’s great, about the spare bed, I mean.’ She felt a little stupid for getting flustered. As if Mann was going to make a move on her anyway? She rebuked herself. ‘On the plus side—we get free champagne,’ she said. ‘What’s the plan now?’