NINE

      I

      A young man in baggy basketball shorts and a tattered Black Sabbath T-shirt was waiting for Rebecca at Tulear Airport, holding up the torn-off side of a cardboard box with her name crudely scrawled in black marker-pen upon it. He looked disconcertingly young, despite his affectations of maturity: the thin moustache, the soft-pack of cigarettes and lighter tucked into his upturned sleeve, the cheap mirror sunglasses pushed up over his long brown hair like an Alice band. Maybe he realised the impression he gave, because he’d barely introduced himself as Zanahary before launching into a manic explanation of what he was doing there: his elder brother had twisted his ankle jumping from the roof of their house and had sent him in his place. He was a very experienced driver, he assured her; very safe. Too weary to make an issue of it, Rebecca retrieved her luggage then led the way out into the sunshine.

      The hire car, a gleaming dark-blue and silver Mitsubishi pickup with four spotlights on its roof, at least looked in good shape. It would need to be. She had some business in Tulear to take care of first, but after that it was still a good three hours drive north to the Eden Reserve, over a broken-up sand, mud and rock track. She checked the tyres for tread, then made sure there were spares in the back, along with canisters of fuel, oil and water. Then she opened the passenger door, to be greeted by a blast of hot air. The air-conditioning fans had been ripped out and the dashboard was covered with promotional stickers half-peeled off, leaving ugly strips of white pith everywhere. It stank of cigarette smoke, its ashtrays too bulging to close, and the seats were covered with tacky protective plastic, so that the backs of her legs glued to them at once. Zanahary climbed jauntily in the driver’s side, tapped a cigarette from his soft-pack and raised it to his lips with 1950s chic, elbow high and folded, as though it were an expensive piece of jewellery he wanted to bring casually to her attention.

      Rebecca shook her head. ‘No,’ she told him.

      ‘But—’

      ‘Not in the car.’

      It was just fifteen minutes drive into Tulear. They stopped at a general store for a sack of rice and some other provisions for which she had plans, then drove on to the offices of her father’s long-time lawyer Delpha. He’d been a regular visitor to Eden during her childhood, bringing bags of sweets and wooden dolls he’d carved himself. She’d been intensely fond of him, yet eleven years had passed, and she was apprehensive of her welcome. The receptionist beamed vacantly when she gave her name. Monsieur Delpha was busy at this moment. If madame would please take a seat … But he must have heard her voice, for his office door opened and there he was, older and frailer than she remembered, his hair glowing white, his dark-brown skin sprinkled with fat black freckles. ‘Rebecca?’ he asked, squinting uncertainly across the gloomy reception area. ‘C’est vraiment vows?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s me.’

      His face cracked; tears sprang into his eyes. She hugged him for a little while, giving him time to compose himself. He stepped back and dried his eyes. ‘I thought you’d never come home.’ But then his face fell. ‘I only wish the circumstances—’

      ‘Yes,’ said Rebecca.

      ‘If there’s anything I can do …’

      ‘There is, actually.’ She glanced at his receptionist, reluctant to discuss family matters in front of someone she didn’t know. He nodded and led her into his office. The walls were warm with leather-bound books, the half-drawn curtains on the high windows giving it a rather somnolent feel. She sat down, ordered her thoughts. ‘I need help,’ she told him. ‘The trouble is, I don’t know what help. I’ve been away too long. I don’t know anything any more. I mean, is there even a proper search going on? If not, how can I get one started? Who should I talk to? Who can I trust? Who should I bribe? Who should I yell at? Maybe I’ll need a boat for the search. Where’s my father’s? Can I just take it? What about Eden? What about Michel? And those are just the questions I know to ask.’ She shrugged to express how far out of her depth she felt. ‘So I need help.’

      Delpha had jotted down notes as she was talking. He glanced over them now, then nodded and leaned back in his chair. ‘You must speak to Andriama about the search and investigation. He is our chief of police here in Tulear.’

      ‘And can I trust him?’

      Delpha considered a moment. ‘I have always found him honest myself. But there are rumours. There are always rumours, you understand. About everybody. About me, too, no doubt. Andriama talks loudly about rooting out corruption in Tulear, yet corruption persists, and every year he adds another room to his house. Maybe these rumours are nothing but envy, or his enemies wishing him harm. He certainly has those. He is not afraid of powerful people.’ Delpha glanced down, then up again. ‘As for your father’s boat, you know it was found drifting by some South African yachtsmen?’

      ‘Pierre told me.’

      ‘They’ve claimed salvage rights. Under international maritime law, that entitles them to half the value of the boat. There’ll be other bills to pay too, before the Port Captain will authorise the boat’s release. Customs, immigration, police, that kind of thing. But don’t be alarmed. Your father was insured against all such eventualities. I know; I organised it myself. But the paperwork is at Eden. Bring it to me, and I can have the boat released to you at once.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      He consulted his notes again, then adopted a more sombre look, to let her know he had a difficult subject to broach. ‘You must excuse me for what I am about to say. I mean no ill. I hope and pray your father and sister are alive—’

      ‘They are alive,’ said Rebecca.

      ‘… but you must also plan for all eventualities. Your father would expect it.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You realise that, as your father’s and your sister’s lawyer, I am forbidden from discussing their affairs with you, at least until they’re—’

      ‘I understand,’ Rebecca assured him. Delpha’s scrupulousness about such matters was one reason her father had trusted him so completely.

      ‘But I can discuss hypothetical situations. Imagine a wealthy man, if you will. A man who elects to divide his money equally between those of his children who survive him. One of his sons, Rupert, let’s say, is childless. But the other, Etienne, has a young daughter who will be his beneficiary when he dies. You are with me?’

      ‘Yes.’ Rupert was clearly Rebecca herself; Etienne Emilia.

      ‘Good. Now imagine two different courses of events. In the first, the father dies. His wealth is divided between Rupert and Etienne. Then Etienne dies a few days later. The law is clear: Etienne’s share in his father’s wealth passes to his daughter. But now imagine a second course of events, in which Etienne dies before or at the same time as his father. In this instance, all the money will pass straight to the father’s sole surviving son. Etienne’s daughter will inherit nothing.’

      Rebecca frowned. It almost seemed that Delpha was advising her how to cheat Michel out of his rightful inheritance; but she knew him too well to believe that. ‘What are you getting at?’ she asked.

      ‘I am just outlining a legal situation,’ he said. ‘You see, under Malagasy law, if a person’s assets pass on to a child when that child is too young to administer those assets himself, then they will in effect pass in trust to that child’s legal guardian. Typically, their surviving parent.’

      ‘Ah,’ murmured Rebecca. ‘Pierre.’