‘But if I hadn’t been there, no-one would have been hurt.’
‘Oh, Lea, you’re always the liberal. You know the police have a detention protocol that could have kept you in for questioning tonight? They were good enough to let you out. You have to start taking this kind of stuff more seriously.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘Boy, I’d love to live in your world for a while.’
‘You did, Roy. When we first met, remember?’
‘Don’t start that again. You know what? You always say you want one thing and then back off when you get it.’ He concentrated on the road in silence.
When they reached home, Roy looked in on Cara and sat with her for a while, then went to bed. He held Lea in his arms for a brief moment and kissed her on the forehead, but a distance had opened between them that would not easily be closed.
THEY SAT AROUND the breakfast table in silence as Lastri made buttermilk pancakes. The maid had claimed the kitchen as her own domain, and refused to let anyone help her. Cara was absorbed with her iPad. Lea waited for Lastri to finish so that she could talk to Roy. She still didn’t feel comfortable having the young woman waiting on them.
‘What are you doing today?’ she asked.
Roy had been studying his Blackberry with angry intensity for the last twenty minutes. ‘Intermittent electronic faults. The inspectors found non-approved materials above some ceiling panels, and now the whole lot will have to come out. What are you doing?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Lea admitted. ‘Preparing meals. Looking for magazine contacts.’
He put down the Blackberry and rubbed his eyes. He looked exhausted. ‘It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?’
‘Of course. I don’t like feeling useless. Nobody does.’
‘Something will turn up. It’ll take time.’
‘I’ve never had much patience. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I have to run.’ He raised his voice slightly. ‘Don’t do me any pancakes, Lastri.’ Roy’s electronic gadgetry was lined neatly along the kitchen counter, fully charged and waiting to be placed in his shoulder-bag. She watched as he carefully packed each item, already at work in his head. He kissed her absently and headed to the carport.
That evening, he called to say that he would be late again. Lea decided there was no point in planning family recipes. Instead, she cooked separate dishes and sealed them in plastic freezer tubs. She took no pleasure in eating alone. It was becoming obvious why the wives arranged coffee mornings and lunches at the golf club.
Rachel called to say that Milo had left instructions concerning his ashes, which were to go to a nephew in Hamburg. There was to be no formal send-off. Lea raised her lemonade glass to him.
Roy arrived home close to midnight. His eyes were dark and tired. ‘Harji Busabi’s team found the cause of the problem,’ he said, rummaging in the refrigerator for a sandwich. ‘The remains of a pipe bomb attached to the main sewage outlet out by the marina. It was made from a soft drink can, just like your one, with another can finely grated up into aluminium filings for the filling, so that it acted like thermite. They chucked in some magnesium powder, a firework fuse and a cheap plastic wristwatch, that’s all. The can is an Indian soft drink popular with the workmen. They have vending machines at the barracks. It’s specially imported for them, a brand you can’t buy anywhere else.’
‘The couple who got bin-bombed,’ said Lea, ‘you know them?’
‘Bill Cooper from Seattle, works in HR. It was his wife who helped you. She remembered you from the welcoming party.’
‘There were too many people to take in that day. How do you know it was the same kind of bomb?’
‘I shared notes with your Mr Qasim.’
‘He didn’t call me, and I was the one it happened to.’ Lea was unable to keep the tone of irritation from her voice.
‘He has my number. Besides, why would he think you needed to know?’ He rose from the fridge. ‘I don’t like cold beef. Isn’t there anything else?’
‘Look in the bowl at the back. If it wasn’t a prank, why do you think they targeted the Coopers?’
‘One of Bill’s jobs is to release any workman who fails to show at the resort site on time.’
‘What happens to the people he fires?’
‘They’re escorted back to their barracks and sent home on the first cheap flight that becomes available, so it’s unlikely to be anyone he’d just let go.’
‘Maybe the workers are upset about somebody getting fired. When I saw them in the underpass, they seemed pretty angry.’
Roy looked up from the fridge. ‘Why are you so interested?’
‘What happens in your job is going to affect all of us,’ she replied, trying to sound casual. ‘I need to know what’s going on.’
He narrowed his eyes at her in suspicion. ‘I wonder.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I don’t want you writing about any of this. You have to promise me, Lea.’
‘Look in the big bowl, there are hard-boiled eggs,’ she said.
Chapter Twenty
The Wives
THE FOLLOWING DAY, she began to make notes for a new article.
Identifying her theme—the problems of moving to the Middle East, seen from the perspective of western women—she drew up a fresh interview-list of the neighbourhood’s wives. Some topics would have to be avoided. She could not afford to embarrass Roy and the other husbands, or damage their relationship with DWG.
By now all her neighbours would have heard about the bomb on the compound, and about Milo’s lonely death, but she had no real idea what they thought of such things. Did they know about the girls who went missing? If they did, did they care?
Tucking her laptop under her arm, she went to call on Mrs Busabi.
‘I hadn’t been expecting callers,’ her neighbour warned, leading Lea into the cool recesses of the villa. ‘It’s the maid’s morning off.’
Even so, there was an overpowering scent of polish in the still air. With a sinking heart, Lea realised that interviewing her neighbours would require the heroic consumption of pastry. ‘When we were in Delhi we had so many staff,’ said Mrs Busabi. ‘I miss India terribly. But we had to leave when Harji’s work took him to England.’ Tea was already laid out. ‘I always take a little something mid-afternoon, when I get back from the school. We haven’t many little ones there at the moment. It’s too hot for them now. I simply won’t permit you to leave until you’ve tried some of my famous seed cake.’
Lea was handed a slice and asked questions between dry mouthfuls. Mrs Busabi leaned forward, listening intently. Every now and then a look of puzzlement crossed her face and she found it difficult to form a response, as if she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to try and write in the first place. Lea noticed that there were no bookcases anywhere on the ground floor, just an old copy of Hello! on the kitchen table.
‘I thought it would make an interesting subject,’ she said, although she was already beginning to wonder if she would be wasting her time.
‘I suppose there’s no harm in it,’ Mrs Busabi finally decided. For a moment, Lea thought she was going to call her husband to check. ‘After India it’s all so private here. Delhi could be very frustrating, especially when three men would turn up to lift a flowerpot or change a plug, but people worked out their problems together. Here you just get smiles and silence. It does make me wonder how people let off steam. When Indian families have a row, everyone in the street gets to hear about it. You never know what goes on behind all these closed doors.’
Lea hoped her subject might feel more comfortable after a few minutes, but Mrs Busabi continued to sit with her knees pressed together and her hands knotted in her lap, as if attending an interview for a position that was far beyond her capabilities. Her replies were impersonal and imprecise. No, she had not found the move difficult, she had lived in hot climates before. Making friends was never hard because women loved to talked about children, and she was a nurturer.
There was never much friction with her husband, because when you’d been married for a long time there was nothing left to argue about.
‘What about neighbours? How did you get on with Milo, for example?’
‘I thought he lacked social grace,’ Mrs Busabi sniffed. ‘He’d say the most dreadful things after a few drinks. He was openly rude about DWG, and they were paying his bills! And this interference with the migrant workers, well, it was just asking for trouble.’
‘You think they deliberately ran him over?’
‘Don’t you think it’s likely that he made enemies? Maybe they just wanted to scare him and it went too far.’
Lea closed the lid of her laptop. ‘One other thing,’ she said. ‘When I first met you, you said you were good friends with Mrs Chalmers for a time. What did you mean?’
‘Did I say that?’ asked Mrs Busabi. ‘I really don’t remember. I certainly didn’t mean to imply anything bad—’
‘No, of course not. This isn’t for the article. It’s just that we’re living in Tom Chalmers’ house and I was interested.’
‘I wouldn’t say we had a falling out, exactly. I don’t think Tom was ever happy about being posted here. He didn’t enjoy working for the Chinese.’ She mouthed the last word as if they were listening. ‘They’re very driven. He found the job terribly stressful. And then that awful thing with little Joia, their daughter. She was twelve, I think, or nearly thirteen. They had her very late.’
‘Milo started to tell me about her. What happened?’
‘My dear, she vanished. She set off for the beach one morning and never turned up there. It was as if she’d been lifted off the face of the earth.’
‘I didn’t hear about this,’ Lea said, surprised.
‘Well, there’s nothing much to say. The police looked, but decided she’d run away. I ask you, a girl of that age! Of course, I know things like that happen all the time in London, but here—well, it’s usually so safe.’
Lea knew Mrs Busabi was right. She had seen BBC news items about two missing children just this week.
‘Tom never accepted that she’d run away. The police found a single shoe at the resort, but Tom and his wife couldn’t decide whether it belonged to their daughter. Then he had that ridiculous accident. I mean, what did he think he was doing outside after dark trying to cut out plant roots? We got together a petition.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There had been reports of someone hanging around the houses. It didn’t seem right to have the migrant workers living so close to the compound.’
‘You think they might have had something to do with Tom’s death?’
‘I suppose we thought that at the very least they might have seen something. We tried to get the underpass sealed off, but the construction people won’t block it up until the resort is finished, because they’ll lose their slip road. It’s a short cut to the far side of the Persiana, you see. They can make their round-trips more easily. But what’s the point of having guards and ID cards and security checks if these people can come and go as they please?’
‘Are you sure they’re the only people who hang around the compound?’
Mrs Busabi grew defensive. ‘Didn’t you tell the police you saw them planting a bomb?’
‘No, I said I saw two people by the bin, that’s all. It was dark.’
‘But they were foreigners.’
‘I only saw them for a second. I can’t be a hundred per cent sure.’
Mrs Busabi’s sensitivity made her uncomfortable. How did she know what Lea had told the police? ‘I think I have all the answers I need for the moment,’ she said diplomatically, rising to leave. ‘By the way, the Larvins said you have some wonderful recipes. You must let me have them some time.’
‘I’ll put some in your postbox,’ said Mrs Busabi, happy to be back on solid ground. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come to our cooking circle one afternoon. We’re icing party sponges at the moment.’
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ Lea lied, standing. ‘It was so kind of you to spare me some time.’
Afterwards she was ashamed of her cowardly retreat. Perhaps it was better to let the Mrs Busabis of the world enjoy the comfortable lives they had created.
HER OTHER SOCIAL call of the afternoon was to the Larvins. Only Rachel was home. She was wearing an orange tie-dyed sarong and looked more hippyish than ever. ‘Hey, I was beginning to think you weren’t talking to me,’ she said, throwing open the door. ‘I keep sneaking out back for a cigarette and never manage to catch you. I feel like a spy trying to find my contact. Come in. Don’t worry—I’m not going to force any sugar on you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Lea, genuinely grateful. ‘Mrs Busabi just made me eat some of her “famous seed cake”.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Did you ever eat anything that tasted more like chewing a sandbag? I’m making my famous vodka stingers and you’re having one. What’s up?’
‘Oh, I’m starting to think this is a stupid idea.’
‘Let me be the judge of that. According to Colette, criticism is my greatest skill. She’s pissed at me again because I had an argument with Norah. That girl can do no wrong in her eyes. So, shoot.’
‘It’s just that, well, I’m not getting anywhere with the journalism, so I thought I could make notes for a more serious piece. Or several pieces. Maybe I could turn them into a book.’
‘The psychopathology of the resort widow,’ said Rachel, ‘it should be a best seller. But not at Dream Ranches, home of the unexamined life. You should get enough material here to last you a lifetime.’
‘It’s weird. You say that, but outwardly there’s really not much to complain about. Everyone seems pretty happy. I feel like I’m the interloper.’
‘That depends.’ Rachel shot her a knowing look. ‘I always think you see what you’re searching for. You could paint an attractive portrait of the middle classes in retreat, or lift up a paving slab and study the dark things crawling around underneath.’
‘Are there a lot of worms?’
‘Are you kidding? Where do you want me to start? Look, this is a formerly Islamic city built on Muhammad’s land. The muezzin call is heard five times a day drawing believers to prayer, but you have to listen pretty goddamn hard to hear it out here.’
‘I’ve noticed you can only hear the mosque speakers when the wind is right,’ Lea said.
‘Most people just have it on their phones,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s not about being mindful of Western sensibilities. They chose to build the resort out here because it keeps the infidels away from the mosques, not the other way around.’
‘Come on, Rachel, this place is being sold on its cosmopolitanism.’
‘And you buy that? I’m going to smoke in the house, don’t faint. I expect you to join me.’ Rachel lit up a Virginia Slim and offered the packet. ‘Don’t worry, I keep air freshener in my room. I’ll douse the place and then open all the windows before the kids get back.’ She sprayed smoke in the air. ‘God, that feels good. Listen, there’s not a faith in the world that doesn’t operate on a double standard. If you believe in something, you have to find a way around the parts that make your life hard. Did you know all UAE nationals are entitled to a number of residence visas? They use them to hire imported servants, gardeners and drivers. But they often have permits left over, so they sell the remainder to brokers, because they can’t be seen to be selling their own permits. And who do the middlemen sell them to? Take a guess.’
‘I don’t know, but I have a feeling I’m not going to like this.’
‘They sell them to single young women who want to come and find full-time employment in the city. There are something like a quarter of a million imported hookers living along this coast in the summer months.’
‘Come on, Rachel, where are you getting this from?’
‘Dear old Milo knew all about it, because a friend of his had to process the permits. And right now is the busiest time.’
‘Why?’
‘Bec
ause it’s July. We’re hitting the upper forties. Haven’t you noticed how empty the cafés have gotten? That’s because if you’re a wealthy businessman, you send your wife and family away to escape the heat.’
‘Where do they go?’
‘To the Riviera, the Amalfi coast, the Greek islands, America. As soon as the coast is clear the men go absolutely apeshit. Middle-aged guys turn into hormonal teenagers. They head for the bars on the King’s Highway on the other side of the airport, and hire Nepalese and Chinese whores by the dozen. There are certain hotels that arrange orgies, or they’ll deliver women to your room.’
‘I’m not sure this is the kind of thing I’m intending to write about,’ said Lea uncertainly.
‘Think of it as background material.’ She slammed the fridge door and sluiced fresh vodka over ice. ‘You need white crème de menthe for this. I’d be making them at 10:00am if I didn’t watch myself.’
‘Don’t the police do anything about it?’
‘No, because they all get a cut. Theoretically paid sex is illegal, but the cops only clamp down when somebody goes too far. Once in a while a bar or a hotel will overstep the mark. There was a famous whorehouse at the edge of the desert that got shut down because it offered a shopping list of services: oral, anal, threesomes and so on in different rooms. The cops made a big show of closing it, but they let the owners off with a warning.’
‘What happened to the girls who worked there?’
‘I guess they moved somewhere else. Isn’t that what usually happens?’
‘You’re talking about human trafficking.’
‘Oh, don’t look so shocked. Where do you think your fancy London hotels get their staff from? But you’re lucky in England. Your corruption scandals are kind of pathetic. A member of Parliament charges the building of a duck-house to his expenses? Hell, Toronto had a crack-smoking mayor. Isn’t it funny how the most God-fearing people always have the most corrupt government officials?’
Lea could see the embers of old fires burning in Rachel. ‘What did you do back in Ohio?’ she asked.
The Sand Men Page 13