“Sir Derek’s on holiday at the moment,” said Queesal, whose report to the PUS had concluded with a recommendation that Thomas Wavery should never serve abroad again. “But he was especially keen I passed on to you his personal congratulations.”

In the kiosk, Wavery listened to the surf, waiting for the woman to call again. His hand reached out and then drew back. He knew what could happen if he touched that telephone, what number he would ring. How many times in the last fortnight had he nearly completed her number, had he been prevented from doing so because he foresaw the outcome?

He found five coins and dialled a number.

“Penny?”

“Tom.”

“How are the tortoises?”

“Are you all right?”

“I rang to congratulate you.” The announcement of her marriage had arrived that morning.

“Oh, Tom, that’s very sweet of you.”

“Aren’t you thrilled?”

“Don’t be silly, you know I’m thrilled.”

“And Patrick?”

“I don’t know if he’s thrilled.”

Wavery overheard, “Darling, of course I’m thrilled.”

“I’ll pass you over to Patrick.”

“Tom, hello.”

“We’ve never met, or not for a long time.”

“I was just telling Penny I was thrilled.”

“Tom.” It was Penny again. “It’s me again. I’m sorry about –” But the pips interrupted her. Wavery said, “Hang on.”

He fed in another coin. “Penny. Penny?” There was a click into silence. He put down the receiver. He had three more coins. He dialled again and a machine answered. “We are unable to connect you. Please try later.”

Wavery replaced the receiver and opened the kiosk door. A few yards away a white Renault was parked against the pavement, its engine running. Only one headlight was working. A young woman sat in the passenger seat. Her face was bowed, screened by a waterfall of fair hair. He could see that she was crying. The driver was attempting to embrace her when he became aware of Wavery. In the sudden lights of a lorry passing, Wavery recognised the white suit, the gold neck-chain and the agitated face of Abyla’s departing Governor. The girl raised her head. It was Senator Zamora’s younger daughter, Clotilda.

Wavery gave an awkward salute. Menendez waved back. The car drove away.

Inside the kiosk the telephone was ringing. Wavery walked along the esplanade to escape the sound. He went on walking until he no longer heard it. There was only the faint tap-tap-tapping of windows in Calle Silvestre and the sound of the surf on Playa Benitez. He was a long way past his residence.

He stepped onto the beach.

At the end of the beach, under Monte Hacho’s military cliff, the turtle lay panting. She had found her virgin sand. She had laid her eggs. But the strain showed on her face. She moved her head from side to side, scraping the sand from tumorous growths beneath her eyes. She was preparing to make her cumbersome return to the sea, but her stomach ached from the exertions of the last hour, from the nylon fishing line she had eaten, from the oil she had swallowed, which made it difficult to dive.