‘You realise that, as your father’s and your sister’s lawyer, I am forbidden from discussing their affairs with you, at least until they’re—’
‘I understand,’ Rebecca assured him. Delpha’s scrupulousness about such matters was one reason her father had trusted him so completely.
‘But I can discuss hypothetical situations. Imagine a wealthy man, if you will. A man who elects to divide his money equally between those of his children who survive him. One of his sons, Rupert, let’s say, is childless. But the other, Etienne, has a young daughter who will be his beneficiary when he dies. You are with me?’
‘Yes.’ Rupert was clearly Rebecca herself; Etienne Emilia.
‘Good. Now imagine two different courses of events. In the first, the father dies. His wealth is divided between Rupert and Etienne. Then Etienne dies a few days later. The law is clear: Etienne’s share in his father’s wealth passes to his daughter. But now imagine a second course of events, in which Etienne dies before or at the same time as his father. In this instance, all the money will pass straight to the father’s sole surviving son. Etienne’s daughter will inherit nothing.’
Rebecca frowned. It almost seemed that Delpha was advising her how to cheat Michel out of his rightful inheritance; but she knew him too well to believe that. ‘What are you getting at?’ she asked.
‘I am just outlining a legal situation,’ he said. ‘You see, under Malagasy law, if a person’s assets pass on to a child when that child is too young to administer those assets himself, then they will in effect pass in trust to that child’s legal guardian. Typically, their surviving parent.’
‘Ah,’ murmured Rebecca. ‘Pierre.’
‘Of course,’ continued Delpha, ‘if that parent has the child’s best interests at heart, then there is no problem.’
‘And Pierre doesn’t have Michel’s best interests at heart?’
‘That’s not what I said at all,’ said Delpha. ‘I was merely outlining a hypothetical situation.’
Rebecca nodded to let him know she’d got the message. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
II
Boris raised his map to conceal his face until the man had passed him by. He walked on a few paces before glancing around, saw him hurry up the broken front steps of a local bank. It was Knox; Boris was sure of it. The jaunty athleticism of his walk, the set of his jaw, his hairline. More than that, it was a gift from the gods. It might be days or even weeks before he got another chance this good.
But how to take advantage of it without getting caught?
There was no time to fetch Davit—not that he’d be any help at this kind of work anyway. He checked his pocket to make sure he’d brought his camera-phone with him, for he’d need to take some footage to keep Ilya happy, then he hurried back to the camping store, concocting a plan on the hoof. He bought a six-inch hunting knife with a serrated blade, a day-pack, a baseball cap and the groundsheet for a tent. He packed his book and map into the day-pack, slung it on his back. He removed the groundsheet from its packaging, flapped it out and draped it over his left shoulder, the quicker to deploy. He checked his reflection in a shop window, tugged the peak of his baseball cap down over his eyes as he walked across the street to lean against a wall from which he could monitor the bank’s front doors.
Then he set himself to wait for Knox to come back out.
I
There had been times, these past few months, when Davit Kipshidze had seriously considered killing himself. Perversely, he’d been okay in jail in Greece. Back then, he’d had hope. After all, the Nergadzes had vowed to spring him and bring him home. Since they’d made good on their promise, however, he’d slowly come to realise that his old life was forever lost to him, and he hated the one that had taken its place. He was a gregarious man by nature, he needed friends and family around. But the police were watching his friends and family in case he showed up, so he couldn’t risk seeing them any more, for their sake as much as his. He therefore sat alone for days on end in his cramped first-floor apartment, watching TV and listening nervously to cars and the chatter of pedestrians passing by outside.
Lounging on the porch of his beach hut, he stared out over shimmering white sand down to the gentle breakers of the sea. How good sunshine felt after a long winter. How good it felt not to fear the knock upon his door.
Claudia appeared around the edge of his cabin, carrying clean sheets and a broom. She smiled at him as she went inside to strip and change his bed. He stood and went to watch. The view of the sea was nice, but it couldn’t compete with a young and pretty woman. ‘So how come you speak such good English?’ he asked.
She looked around. ‘I live with nice American family,’ she beamed. She held up her right hand, splayed her fingers. ‘Five years.’
‘In America?’ he frowned.
‘In Tulear,’ she told him. ‘A big town south of here. They have this big, big house there for all the children who have no mothers and fathers.’
‘An orphanage?’
‘Yes. An orphanage.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he told her.
‘Why sorry?’ she frowned. ‘It nice there. They church people, they very kind, they always have food.’ She nodded at happy memories. ‘I like it there very much.’
‘So why leave?’
She pulled a mock-sad face. ‘I grow old. Many children need a home, not enough beds.’ She looked a little guilelessly up at him. ‘Now everything is work, work, work.’
‘Is that right?’ he laughed.
She laughed too, stuck her tongue out. She had slightly crooked upper front teeth, he noticed, that overlapped just fractionally, like the ankles of a coy bride on her wedding night. His chest went a little warm. He’d missed it sorely, these past two years, the company of a pretty woman.
She finished making his bed then picked up her broom and began to sweep out the cabin. She flicked a little sand at his feet, then again, harder, giving him another of her enchanting smiles, so that he couldn’t possibly take offence. He played along, holding up his hands in mock surrender as he retreated before her assault. She followed him out on to the porch, flicking more sand as she came. He broke into a jig, like in the movies when the baddie with the six-shooter makes the hapless victim dance. It made her laugh so hard that she had to cover her mouth with her hand. She leant forward to sweep beneath the porch bench. Her singlet drooped as she did so, revealing the tattered bra within, tantalising glimpses of flesh and shadow. She looked up and caught him staring, grinned happily.
‘Claudia,’ called out the old man from the hotel compound. ‘Claudia!’
‘I
