‘What club?’ Ian asked, looking across at Nick.
The young lad had turned bright red. ‘I . . . I . . .’ he started to stammer, but was saved by the entrance of Archie Sharratt.
About forty-five, the man was wearing black jeans and a white open-necked shirt. He was slightly built, around five foot eight in height, with curly, sandy-coloured hair and a squashed face that looked like someone had sat on it. But there was an intelligence to his pale-blue eyes, noted Steve: a calculating, restless brain that was already scanning them for information. Steve didn’t read the business pages much - he didn’t usually get much past the sport and motoring sections if he picked up a paper - but he’d heard of Archie Sharratt. One of the richest hedge fund managers in the world, he’d made a fortune from a fund that traded in commodities, and had sold out in time to stop himself getting caught up in the crash of 2008. Last time he’d seen him written about, Sharratt was worth at least a billion pounds, and it looked like he’d dropped a few quid of that on building this place. Steve had never met a billionaire before, and so far, he was more impressed by what the money could buy than the man who’d made it.
‘Thank you for joining us here, gentlemen,’ said Sharratt. His voice was quiet but had authority in it.
‘I know you’ve all been through a heck of an ordeal,’ he continued, ‘and I want to thank each one of you for that. So why don’t you all go to your rooms, freshen up, relax for a bit, and I’ll tell the cooks to start preparing some food.’
‘First tell us why we are here,’ said Steve.
Sharratt looked across at him, the smile on his face engaging, warm and open. ‘I’ll tell you over dinner.’
‘Why not now?’ Steve persisted.
‘Because it’s the kind of story for which a man needs a full stomach . . .’
Six
THE ROOM WAS SO LUXURIOUSLY decorated even a Hilton might have felt shabby in comparison. The lodges were to the side of the main house, along the clifftop overlooking the ocean. Each room had a full-length window, looking straight onto the sea with a splash pool outside. Inside, there was expensive art on the walls, a soft double bed with crisp clean sheets, and a plate of sandwiches, fruit and juice.
I could get used to this, thought Steve as he stepped out of the shower.
But I won’t.
Whatever this Sharratt guy wants, I’m still getting the next flight home.
There were fresh clothes laid out on the bed: a pair of blue chinos, a polo shirt and a cream linen jacket, as well as swimming trunks and towels. Even though he’d spent most of the night steering the boat down the African coast, Steve didn’t feel like sleeping. It was always like that after a job. It took a couple of days for all the adrenaline to work its way out of the system. Only some hard exercise would start to calm him.
Grabbing a towel and a cheese sandwich, Steve headed down to the pool, then decided the small private beach was a better place to swim. Maybe the waves would knock some of the nervous energy out of his system.
As he stepped off the wooden staircase that led down to the beach, a woman was approaching from the other direction. Her long blond hair was dripping wet from the sea, but still looked neat and tidy. She was tall, with a supple strength to her body. Her face was delicate and intelligent, with a light even tan, and with big blue eyes that were as steady and warm as the sea behind them was rough and cold. She paused for a fraction of a second at the base of the steps, her eyes flashing up to meet Steve’s, and he felt certain her gaze was lingering longer than was strictly necessary. He smiled, and she smiled back, but then she bowed her head, tightened the wet sarong that was fastened over her bikini and began to ascend the steps.
‘Bloody gorgeous totty,’ said Ollie, kicking a wave across Steve. ‘I could get used to this place.’
We all could, thought Steve. He glanced back up the cliff, but the blonde had already vanished from view.
He lunged into the waves, kicking back with his legs and swimming hard out into the ocean. The water was cold, the way the Atlantic always was, and the waves were strong: the whiplash of the water, and the currents swirling around beneath it, reminded you why mariners had always feared the Cape. But it felt good to Steve all the same. He pushed up to the end of the cove, where the really big waves broke, and could feel the salty water washing him clean, putting the misery of Broken Ridge, and the danger of the escape, behind him.
By the time he swam back to the beach, Ollie was already drying himself off. Steve sat down next to him, letting the fresh air and the sunshine dry his skin.
‘Thanks for getting me out of that crap hole, mate,’ said Ollie. ‘I owe you one.’