For The Death Of Me

30

We went back to the hotel and asked the concierge to rent us a car, as quickly as possible. For once Hertz tried harder than Avis and a Mondeo was delivered to the front door at one thirty. Mike insisted on driving; he said he’d done a police advanced driving course early in his service. That did nothing for my confidence, for I’ve seen some of those maniacs behind the wheel, but I didn’t argue the point because I preferred to navigate.

We took the Seletar Expressway heading north. I had the knapsack with the money; I didn’t know what the police would say about that if they searched us at the border crossing, but if push came to shove I was prepared to use Jimmy Tan’s name to get us through.

As it happened, my British passport and Benny Luker’s US version got their respect, and opened the gateway for us, no problem. We crossed the causeway into Johor Baharu, then went east on Highway Three, heading for a place called Kota Tingii. It’s a fine old road, built by the British in the 1930s. Unfortunately they were so self-assured, or naive, in those days that they forgot to take the elementary precaution of mining the bridges, and the Japanese were able to use it to great effect in 1942.

The drive was straightforward; the only exciting moments were provided by local nutters who seemed to think that a Proton is a racing car. We let them get on with it and arrived at Mersing jetty just before three thirty. We found a secure park for the Mondeo, then went in search of a vessel to take us to the islands. There were all sorts there, but none had a scheduled sailing.

Finally we found a quayside office with a sign in English saying ‘Charter’. The boat on offer looked sleek and fast; it was a thirty-foot cruiser, extravagantly named Malay Goddess and modern, unlike most of those moored next to it, which resembled the river taxis in Singapore. I did a deal with the guy behind the counter, and paid him with Visa for twenty-four hours’ hire.

‘When will you be ready to leave? I asked him.

‘You leave any time you like, boss. It’s self-drive.’

‘Jesus!’ Dylan shouted. ‘What the fuck have you got us into?’

The prospect didn’t faze me too much; I’m no sailor but, as I told you, I’ve cruised with Miles on his yacht, and taken my turn at the wheel. The owner gave me a run-down of the controls, and told me that reaching Aur was pretty easy, in daylight at least. All I had to do was cruise past Pulau Tioman, and it would be in sight, a large island with some smaller ones dotted around. Finding Tioman, he assured me, would be no problem.

He was right: we could see it in the distance as soon as we cleared the harbour. It was bigger than I’d realised, though, and further away. The sea was choppy but not too bad; still, I made Mike lie down in the cabin to ward off any seasickness. Eventually he called up to me, ‘Ever seen South Pacific?’

‘Of course. It was my mum’s favourite.’

‘She’d have liked this, then. According to the magazine I’m reading, Tioman Island is what they used for Bali fucking Hai.’

Fortified by that useless piece of information I cruised on, at three-quarter speed to conserve fuel. The guy had assured me that there would be enough to get us there and back, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

It took us three hours, but finally I found myself piloting the Goddess into a strait, towards the landing-stage on Pulau Aur where three boats were moored already. As our guide had said, there was another island, much smaller, on our left. . Sorry, on the port side. It had a jetty too, but it was deserted.

I slung two fenders over the side and eased alongside, while a grateful Dylan tossed a rope to a lad on the quay. He tied us off, fore and after, I cut the engine and we scrambled ashore.

‘We’re looking for the Friendly Waters Lodge,’ I told the youngster. He was fresh-faced and looked about sixteen.

‘That’s me,’ he replied. ‘Or, at least, I work there. None of other guys around, though, and no divers. You only ones here.’ He peered into the boat. ‘Where your gear? You need hire?’

‘What about the lady? Ms January? She’s supposed to be here, or so Davey told us.’

‘No, she on Dayang, over there.’ He pointed to the smaller island. I looked across and saw, behind the landing, a silver-white beach, lined by tall coconut palms, and beyond a small wooden building, not much more than a hut. ‘I tell her she crazy; we don’t use it no more. There no water supply over there other than the rain, and toilets don’t work well, but she insist. So she take some food and water and I take her over in boat.’ He frowned across the water, then back at me. ‘Other man come looking for her earlier, in hire boat like you. I send him across, but he must have gone. Boat not there no more. Never saw him go.’

Dylan and I exchanged glances. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Untie us,’ I told the boy. ‘We’re going across.’

I fended the boat off then started the engine. The current was strong in the strait, flowing across us, but I leaned the cruiser into it, keeping the speed as steady as I could. When we reached the Dayang jetty, Dylan jumped ashore with the rope this time. ‘You know what we’re going to find here, don’t you?’ he murmured, as I joined him on the wooden walkway.

‘I fear that I do.’

‘Ever seen a headless woman?’

‘A couple of post-modernist sculptures, but never in the flesh, so to speak.’

‘It’s just as well oral sex is illegal in this part of the world.’

‘Wash your mouth out,’ I replied tersely.

We walked up the jetty. There was a barbecue area in front of the old lodge, with a few tables and benches that hadn’t been oiled or varnished for a while. On one of the tables, there was a large blue plastic cool-box, big enough to hold a day’s supply of beer for two. . or something else. While Mike kept an eye on the lodge, I opened it, wincing as I raised the lid, but it contained only a few frozen blue blocks; I found that I was able to breathe again.

Dylan slid a hand into his trouser pocket and produced the gun I’d taken from Madeleine. ‘What the. .’ I began.

‘So I lied,’ he said.

The door of the lodge was barely open, no more than an inch. I don’t know what made me call out, ‘Maddy!’ but I did. Dylan gave me a sneering look, and pushed his way into the building, the tiny pistol held ready.

There was a body on the floor, all right, but it still had its head on its shoulders. As far as I could see, it still had most of its bits: hands (one held a long, sword-like knife), feet, dull blue eye staring into the wooden floor, and its penis, for there was a pool of urine beneath it. The hair was scorched just behind its left ear, by muzzle-flash, I guessed, and a single line of dried blood ran down its neck into a very small puddle. I keep saying ‘it’, and I suppose that technically I’m correct, but it had been a ‘he’.

It had been Sammy Grant.