The scooter slowed as it ascended the upward slope of the underpass, just as the leading police car drew level. Milton could see that he wasn’t going to make the turning; it was still a couple of hundred metres in front of him. The driver of the cruiser—a young man in his early to mid-twenties—was gripping the steering wheel hard and staring straight ahead. He didn’t even look across, keeping his foot down and speeding ahead. The second car and then the third followed, all three of them accelerating up the ramp from the underpass, their lights and sirens receding into the distance.

Milton leaned back a little, his shoulders bunched with tension. Paranoia, he told himself. They hadn’t been looking for him. For now, at least, he was in the clear.

29

“Jean-Michel?” Victoria called out as she opened the door and stepped into their villa. “I’m home.”

Her husband’s whites had been tossed over the back of the chair, and his Crocs had been left with the other shoes by the door. He heard her call and put his head out of the kitchen door.

“Tea?”

Victoria slipped off her sandals. “Yes, please.”

She walked into the kitchen and gave Jean-Michel a hug. That had been their ritual every evening for years. No matter how busy a day it had been, no matter how tired they both were, it was always the same. Getting back to him was the part of the day that she looked forward to the most.

“I’ll make it,” she said. “You go and sit down. You look bushed.”

“Long day,” he admitted. “The fish was delivered late—Gopinath lost his shit and I had to get it fixed.”

“But you did?”

He nodded. “I went down to the dock with Nyoman and picked up everything we needed. It was okay—just took a couple of hours I couldn’t really spare.”

She took some ginger and a small chopping board, slicing the root into matchstick-sized slivers. She flicked the switch on the kettle and, as she waited for it to boil, she de-stalked and chopped lemon grass.

“I saw you with your friend,” he said. “How is he?”

“Seems good,” Victoria replied, pouring the steaming water into two cups before throwing in the ginger and lemon grass. “Honey?”

“Go on, then. And, if we’re being indulgent, look in the fridge. I made something for you.”

She opened the fridge and saw that Jean-Michel had prepared a plate of pias. They were her favourite: sweet pies with golden crusts, a creamy lemon centre and topped with baked cheese. She put the glasses of tea and two pias onto a tray and joined Jean-Michel in the sitting room.

“So,” he said, “is your friend in the villa?”

“His name is John,” she said, “and no, not yet. I lent him a scooter to get back to his hotel.”

“Hotel?” He frowned. “I thought he was staying here.”