A gentleman with greying afro hair got up from the bar. He approached their table and gave a small bow. ‘Good evening, ladies.’ He beamed. ‘Could I persuade you to join me in mashing some sand?’

Kate looked at where he was indicating: a group of locals and tourists were dancing. Some on the wooden veranda, some directly on the beach. He was a little old for her, perhaps, but what harm could come out of a bit of dancing on a warm evening in the Caribbean?

‘I’d love to,’ she said, standing.

There was a silence while she waited, expecting him to lead her to the beach, but the gentleman didn’t move. Confused, she smiled at him and he smiled back.

‘That would be wonderful,’ said Iris, getting to her feet, and the gentleman crooked his arm and led her to the sand without so much as a backwards glance at Kate.

She stood at the table, feeling the blood rush to her face, and then looked up and saw the fisherman watching. She quickly sat down. Took a sip of her drink and then laughed at herself.

Seemed she had underestimated this island – and Iris. She watched the two of them dance, slower than the others but with no less enjoyment. Kate wondered how old the man was. He didn’t look more than early sixties – but maybe that was what this relaxed sunshine-filled island did for you. They completed the dance and then he led Iris back to their table and finished with another bow. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said in the sincerest way Kate had ever heard the words uttered, then he went back to the bar to join his friends.

Kate leaned over the table. ‘Get you!’ she said to Iris.

‘I don’t think I’ve danced since 1987, when Geoff took me to a knees-up at the rugby club.’ Iris looked pink-cheeked and happy. Her eyes shone.

‘So, go on. Spill. Who is he?’

‘His name is Errol and he’s a local.’

‘What else?’

‘He likes going fishing at the weekends.’

‘And?’

‘His nephew is the founding pilot of the air-service company we took to get here. Small world, eh?’

‘Small island. It’s nice,’ said Kate, glancing around, ‘everyone seems to know each other. So, are you planning to catch up with him again?’

Iris laughed loudly. ‘Oh, you are funny. We are here to get your information,’ she said firmly. ‘And on that note, this jet lag has really got to me. Time to call it a night?’

Kate agreed. Tomorrow was going to be a big day. A make-or-break day.

FIFTY-FIVE

Kate looked at herself critically in the mirror. There was a fine line between ‘tourist’ and ‘professional in a hot climate’. The short-sleeved top was basic but had a collar, the shorts – correction, culottes – were often cited in style pages as the thing to wear in heat when working, and so what if they had a large flowery print on them, and on her feet were beaded two-strap sandals. Who was she kidding? They were flip-flops. Nice ones, but flip-flops, nonetheless. She didn’t own anything smarter. It would have to do.