He closed the back door and walked across the sandstone tiles into the large sitting room.

Inside the finca it was only slightly cooler than outside, a sure sign that a European lived here who had misgivings about leaving the air conditioning on during the days and weeks when they were absent.

The décor inside was typically American. An open-plan kitchen, a U-shaped sofa arrangement in front of the family altar on the wall: the gigantic plasma screen directly above a mock fireplace.

Martin switched on the air conditioning, took a beer out of the fridge, removed from his trouser pocket the pistol he’d bought in La Romana, placed it on the coffee table and sat on the sofa. Only now did he remove his cap and sunglasses.

He didn’t know how long his wait would be, but he was prepared for a long one. His duffle bag was in the hire car. This time he’d brought along a few more changes of clothes than for his excursion on the Sultan. Martin would spend the winter here if necessary.

That it wouldn’t be necessary became clear the moment he picked up a truncheon-sized remote control from the coffee table: the television switched on by itself.

The colour of the screen changed from black to turquoise. In the centre the Skype symbol appeared, beneath which it said: Incoming Call.

So it wasn’t an alarm system visible from the outside. The house must be secured by webcams that registered any movement inside the house and called the owner as soon as anything unusual occurred.

Fine by me.

Martin pressed a round button marked OK.

He heard an electronic sound reminiscent of the plop of water in a cave of stalactites, and a computer icon of two hands shaking signalled that the connection had been made.

‘That took a long time,’ he heard a voice say. The matching face didn’t appear on the screen, but Martin was pretty sure that the TV camera was transmitting his picture. ‘I was expecting you earlier.’

Martin put the remote control beside his beer, shrugged and said, ‘How can I put it poetically? Time is the life jacket of truth; it always brings it to the surface. Isn’t that right, Querky? Or would you rather I call you Elena?’

75

He heard a chuckle.

In his mind Martin could see the doctor’s hand playing with the oak-leaf pendant on her necklace.

Oak – in Latin quercus.

‘I’d say rather that time gives baddies the opportunity to retreat to safety.’

Martin shook his head. ‘You’re not safe from me anywhere, Elena. As you can see, I’ll find you wherever you are.’ The ship’s doctor giggled. ‘Oh, please. That really wasn’t hard, seeing as I practically gave you my address.’

Martin nodded. Her revelations about her past life when they were in the corridor of Hell’s Kitchen had been a mistake.