know what’s in the air,’ he said. ‘It’s mostly for the benefit of the missile tracking station at Fort Edward. We’re down-range of Cape Canaveral and they don’t like unforeseen blips on their radar.’ He put his hands on the controls. ‘I’ll take her, Les.’
I studied Philips. ‘You’re a long way from home, Mr Philips.’
He half-turned in his seat so as to face me and somehow combined the movement with a shrug. ‘If you’re in the flying business you get around.’
‘Have you been working for Mr Salton long?’
‘Three years.’
‘Me too,’ said Haslam. ‘Ever since he moved back to Campanilla permanently.’
We chatted for a while. Both Haslam and Philips seemed depressed by the death of Salton and their depression seemed to be an amalgam of worry about their jobs and a genuine regret for the death of their employer: they had both liked Salton and thought him a good boss.
We flew a triangular course and came back to El Cerco flying low over the lagoon. By then I was back in the cabin with my belt fastened for landing, and I had a good view of the house on the tiny island.
I could even see the swimming pool and a diving board on which was a tiny figure that must have been Mrs Salton. As the plane went over, she dived and I caught the splash as she hit the water. Then the plane had passed and I lost sight of her.
Back on the runway I said to Haslam, ‘Thanks for the flip.’
‘Did you find everything you wanted to know?’ he asked.
I grinned at him. ‘Who does?’ I nodded pleasantly and walked away.
He called out, ‘Okay, Les, let’s get the bird back into the nest.’ I turned and looked back to find him staring at me. I waved and he waved back, then I turned the corner of the hangar and looked out over El Cerco.
I
‘Kemp,’ said Mrs Salton lazily. ‘Is that Celtic, Norse?’
‘English of the English,’ I assured her. ‘There was a Will Kemp in Burbage’s company at the Globe Theatre. I like to think I have an ancestor who, perhaps, acted with Shakespeare.’
‘Did Shakespeare act?’
‘He’s supposed to have played the ghost in Hamlet.’
We were sitting in voluptuous chairs by the swimming pool and sipping something cool and alcoholic from tall glasses. I had swum six lengths of the pool, paced easily by Mrs Salton, and then had flopped thankfully ashore trying not to feel ashamed of my winter-white English skin. The heat dried the bubbles of moisture from my torso even as I watched.
I was waiting for her to come to the point, to come out with what she wanted to ask me. She wanted something or she wouldn’t have invited me back to the house.
‘Kemp,’ she repeated. ‘William Kemp. What do your friends call you?’
I turned my head and looked at her. She filled her bikini rather better than Mrs Haslam, I thought uncharitably, but then she had youth on her side. ‘I’m known as Bill.’
‘And I’m Jill.’ She stretched out a hand, which I reached for amiably. It was a little late for this kind of introduction, but I went along with her.
‘On Campanilla we’re more informal than in England, especially when lounging by a pool.’ She put down her glass with a click. ‘Mr Stern is a wee bit stuffy but he means well. He’s trying to look after my interests.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ I said, not feeling at all sure. A widow with as much money as she had could prove to be quite a temptation.
‘You said you spoke to Don Jackson at the Chronicle. What did he tell you?’
‘This and that,’ I said offhandedly. ‘Political stuff, mostly. Background material.’
‘About David?’
‘Apparently he was on course to be the next Prime Minister.’
She nodded. ‘It was very likely.’
‘I read one of your husband’s speeches,’ I said. ‘He was having quite a go at the government. But there was one reference I didn’t understand – he said something about hired bully boys. What would he have meant by that?’
‘Merely political rhetoric.’
‘No basis in fact?’
‘Maybe a little,’ she admitted. ‘The elections were coming closer and tempers were rising. Politics can be rougher here than in England, Bill.’
‘I can understand the bully boys,’ I said. ‘But what about the hired bit?’
‘David was a politician,’ she said. ‘He used words like weapons.’
‘And to hell with the truth. Is that it?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ she said, with force in her voice. She took a deep breath. ‘I see that Jackson has been dropping poison in your ear.’
‘Is that what you think? You don’t seem to like Jackson.’
‘I don’t.’ She was silent and I waited for what she had to say next. At last she said, ‘All right. He once behaved towards me … rather objectionably.’
‘He made a pass at you?’
‘If you want to put it that way.’
‘It must have been a heavy pass,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you have him fired?’
She stared at me. ‘Good heavens! It’s not a criminal offence to make a pass at the boss’s wife. Besides, he’s a good editor for the Chronicle.’
‘Did your husband know about this?’
‘No. And after that I kept out of Jackson’s way. I haven’t given him another chance.’ She picked up her glass. ‘So what did he really tell you?’
‘Nothing about you,’ I said, and wondered whether to pursue the matter. Conceivably I might have a further use for Jackson and if I didn’t tattle-tale to Jill Salton then I’d have a club to hold over his head. ‘Let’s talk about someone else. Do you know of a man called Negrini?’
She sat up. ‘Mr Black – who doesn’t? But, for a stranger, you’ve been getting around.’
‘Not really,’ I said modestly. ‘It’s just that I’m exceptionally brilliant at my job. Do you know him personally?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did your
