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Dark Ransom
Sara Craven
Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
Table of Contents
‘EXCUSE ME, I wonder if you’d do me a favour …’
Charlie Graham’s lips parted in a soundless gasp of disbelief and her hands clenched on the rail of the boat until her knuckles turned white.
She went on staring down into the brown waters of the river, hoping against hope that the tentative remark might have been addressed to someone else—anyone else—but knowing at the same time that it wasn’t possible. Because there was only one other European on the boat with her—the blonde girl who’d boarded at Manaus.
I’ve come thousands of miles across the world, she thought, for some peace and quiet. To get away from appeals like that. Yet here—even here …
‘Excuse me,’ the voice insisted, and Charlie turned unsmilingly.
‘Yes?’
‘I was wondering …’ The other girl beamed ingratiatingly at her as she fished into her shoulder-bag and produced an envelope. ‘Could you deliver this for me to the hotel in Mariasanta?’
On the surface it seemed a harmless enough request, but Charlie’s interest was aroused just the same, especially as the newcomer, whose name she knew from the scrappy passenger list was Fay Preston, had stayed aloof, barely addressing one remark to her until now.
She said, ‘Why don’t you deliver it yourself? We’ll be arriving in Mariasanta the day after tomorrow.’
‘I’m not going that far,’ the girl said shortly. ‘I’m getting off at the fuel stop, and catching the next boat back to Manaus.’ She shuddered dramatically. ‘I’ve had Brazil and the mighty Amazon river right up to here.’ She gestured, giving an awkward little laugh. ‘I mean—have you seen what they call first-class accommodation on this thing?’
‘Why, yes,’ Charlie admitted levelly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m occupying some of it.’
Fay Preston tossed her head. ‘Well, so am I, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. This whole trip’s been a disaster from day one. I just didn’t think it would be like this—so primitive and awful. I’m getting out now, while I can.’
Charlie looked at her with faint amusement. She had to admit that the other girl looked completely out of place on the unsophisticated Manoela. She exuded the high gloss that only money could buy, from her extravagant mane of streaked hair to her designer clothes and elegant sandals. Charlie had wondered more than once why Fay Preston had been attracted to such a holiday in the first place, when she’d have been far more at home on the Riviera or some other expensive European playground.
So she wasn’t surprised to learn that four days of drawing water for washing out of the river in a bucket of her own providing had been enough for Fay, not to mention the curtained-off hole in the deck which served as a toilet, and the uninterrupted diet of rice and black beans, eked out by fish and occasional pork if they tied up at an Amerindian settlement.
She said lightly, ‘That sounds serious. Have you had secret information that Manoela’s about to sink?’
‘Oh, no.’ The blue eyes seemed suddenly evasive. ‘Perhaps I phrased it badly.’ She smiled nervously. ‘I mean—I just don’t want to go any further up-river, otherwise I might miss the return trip.’ She proffered the envelope. ‘So—if you would be so kind …’
Charlie took it, making little effort to conceal her reluctance. She was being mean, she supposed, but she was fed up with doing favours for people. Of hearing them say confidently, ‘Oh, Charlie will do it’—no matter how much inconvenience might be involved.
‘Charlie by name, and Charlie by nature. The universal dogsbody,’ she’d once heard her sister Sonia say with a giggle, and it still hurt.
She would be going ashore at Mariasanta, so she wasn’t really going to be put out at all, yet at the same time she was aware of an inexplicable uneasiness.
She glanced briefly at the superscription on the envelope before tucking it into her own bag. ‘Senhor R. da Santana’ it said in a childishly rounded script. No address—not even that of the hotel, although she supposed it was doubtful whether Mariasanta would boast more than one.
Fay’s smile was anxious. ‘I’d arranged to meet friends,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d better drop them a line—explain why I couldn’t make it
