Dark Ransom (2 page)

personal freedom again.

And when she returned to England, she reasoned, the break would

have been made, and she could start, in earnest, to plan a life for

herself.

Her grin widened as she imagined her mother's reaction to the fact

that Charlie had bought her own hammock and cutlery in Belem for

this trip. Mrs Graham, when she went abroad, insisted on every

creature comfort known to the mind of man, and then some.

Charlie, on the other hand, intended to travel on the
Manoela
as far

as the boat went, and decide what to do next when she got there.

It was odd, she thought, that all her mother's objections to the trip

had been rooted in the personal inconvenience to herself. She'd

never once referred to the dangers her younger daughter might

encounter
en route
in this alien world.

'Probably thinks I'm too dull to worry about,' Charlie told herself

philosophically, and, compared with Sonia, for example, she

undoubtedly was. Her sister had been the high flier where looks

were concerned, and Charlie had existed in her shadow, learning not

to resent the astonishment in people's faces when they realised she

and Sonia were related.

Now it was wonderful just to be alone, and at no one's beck and call.

To be able to stand at this rail, and watch the jungle world of the

Amazon passing slowly in front of her.

And somewhere in the depths of all that greenery, on the banks of

some hidden tributary, Philip Hughes might be panning for gold.

Now that she was actually here she could admit openly to herself that

the idea of finding him had crossed her mind more than once. It

might be a stupid romantic dream, but she had the last place- name

Mrs Hughes had mentioned firmly fixed in her head. And if by some

remote chance she found herself in the vicinity of Laragosa it would

do no harm to make some enquiries.

Captain Gomez and some of the crew spoke a smattering of English,

but they'd stared in total incomprehension at her hesitant questions.

But that hadn't deterred her, and she planned to make some further

enquiries when she went ashore at Mariasanta—and deliver that

letter at the same time.

She shook her bobbed hair, smooth and shining as a shower of

spring rain, back from her face.

Life might have been something of a non-event' so far, but all that

was going to change now— and this trip to Brazil was only the start.

Laragosa—here I come, she thought with a swift stab of excitement.

* * *

Her first glimpse of Mariasanta two days later damped her optimism

a little. There was a wooden dock, built on piles, and flanked by the

usual leaf-thatched Amerindian houses, rising on stilts out of the

water. Behind these was a huddle of buildings with corrugated-iron

roofs, and beyond them—the rain forest.

Charlie found herself wondering if there would actually be a hotel at

all.

She'd had no further contact with Fay Preston, who'd left the boat at

yesterday's fuel stop without even the courtesy of a goodbye.

Before Charlie went ashore she took the usual precaution of stowing

her passport and few valuables in her shoulder-bag, along with her

mug and cutlery, as these items, she'd been warned, might disappear

if left on the boat.

As it turned out, finding the hotel was no problem. It was a small

wooden building with a sign, faded to illegibility, hanging over the

front entrance, and a small veranda, which, like the paintwork, had

seen better days. Charlie mounted the rickety steps with care, and

went in.

The fan, affixed to the ceiling, kept the heavy, humid air moving,

but did nothing to lower the temperature, she thought, wiping her

face with a handkerchief as she looked round. She seemed to be in

the bar, but the place was deserted. Charlie went over and rapped

smartly on the unpolished wooden counter. There was a pause, then

a small, fat man in a sleeveless vest and baggy trousers pushed his

way through a beaded curtain behind the bar and stood looking at

her in silently amazed enquiry.

Charlie said stiltedly, '
Bom dia, senhor. Faia ingles?'

'Nao.'

Well, she supposed it had been too much to hope for, she thought

resignedly as she delved for her phrase book.

She produced the letter.
'Tenho uma carta.'
She'd looked that up

already. And also how to ask if the recipient was in residence.
'O

Senhor da Santana mora aqui?'

The man's bemused expression deepened, and the shake of his head

was a decided negative, but he took the letter from her, first wiping his

hand on his trousers, and examined it as if it might bite him.

Charlie was almost relieved that the unknown Senhor da Santana

didn't live at the hotel after all. She hadn't relished the prospect of

trying to explain in her minimal Portuguese that Fay Preston had

chickened out on his family's hospitality. But then Ms Preston hadn't

seemed exactly a linguist either, so perhaps the
senhor
spoke a

modicum of English.

She shrugged mentally. Well, she'd done all that she'd been asked,

and now she could see something of the town before the
Manoela

sailed. It was clearly no use in pursuing any enquiries about

Laragosa with the hotel proprietor, but tracing Philip Hughes had

only been a silly dream anyway.

She realised the man was gesturing at her, pantomiming a drink, and

she hesitated. Judging by what she'd seen on the way, this was the

only bar in town, she thought, touching her dry lips with the tip of

her tongue, so she might as well take advantage of it,

unprepossessing though it was.

'Agua mineral?'
she asked, adding a precautionary,
'Sem gelo.'

The man shrugged, clearly contemptuous of anyone who would ask

for a drink without ice in such heat. He waved her towards one of

the stools at the bar, and uncapped a bottle taken from a primitive

refrigerator.

But the glass she was handed, along with the bottle, was surprisingly

clean, and the drink tasted magical. Good old Coca Cola, she

thought, taking a healthy swig.

The hotel proprietor had vanished back into the domain behind the

beaded curtain. Charlie suspected that he was probably steaming

open Senhor da Santana's letter at that very moment, and wondered

whether it would ever reach its rightful destination. Well,

fortunately that wasn't her problem. She was simply the messenger

girl.

She glanced at her watch, decided there was time for another Coke,

and tapped on the counter with a coin. There was no response, so

she knocked again more loudly. The bead curtain stirred, and this

time two men entered, both strangers.

More customers, she decided, dismissing a faint uneasiness as they

came round the bar to stand beside her.

'Senhorita.'
It was the smaller and swarthier of the two men who

spoke. He was wearing denims and a faded checked shirt, his hair

covered by an ancient panama hat which he lifted politely.

'Senhorita,
the boat, he wait.'

'Oh, my God.' Charlie slid off her stool, thrusting a handful of coins

on to the bar-top. Either she'd lost all track of time, or her watch

must have stopped. Thank heavens Captain Gomez had sent

someone to find her. The last thing she wanted was to remain here

in Mariasanta, possibly at this hotel, until the
Manoela
came

downstream again.

A battered jeep was waiting outside the hotel. The small man

opened its door, motioning Charlie on to the bench seat.

Under normal circumstances she wouldn't have dreamed of accepting

such a lift, but time was of the essence now, and she scrambled in.

However, she was slightly taken aback when the other man, taller,

with a melancholy black moustache, climbed in beside her,

effectively trapping her between the two of them.

Her uneasiness returned in full force. She began, 'I've changed my

mind...' but got no further as the jeep roared into life with a jerk that

nearly sent her through its grimy windscreen.

By the time she'd recovered her equilibrium they were heading out

of town—in the opposite direction to the dock and
Manoela,
she

realised with horror.

Suddenly she was very frightened indeed. She turned to the driver,

trying to speak calmly. "There's been a mistake—
um engano.
Let

me out of here, please.'

The driver beamed, revealing several unsightly gaps in his teeth.

'We go boat,' he assured her happily.

'But it's the wrong way,' Charlie protested, but to no avail. The jeep

thundered on towards the heavy green of the forest, and if she was

going to scream, now was the time, before they got completely out

of town. But she wasn't in the least sure that her throat muscles

would obey her.

She took a deep breath, trying to think rationally, then reached in

her bag for her wallet.

'Money,' she said, tugging notes out of their compartment. 'Money

for you—to let me go.' She thrust the cash at the man with the

moustache. 'It's all I've got, really.'

The man inspected the cash, nodded with a sad smile, and handed it

back.

'I haven't any more,' she tried again desperately. 'I'm not rich.'

Or were all tourists deemed to be millionaires in the face of the

poverty she saw around her? Maybe so.

But if they didn't want her money—what did they want? Her mind

quailed from the obvious answer.

The road was little more than a track now, and the jeep rocketed

along, taking pot-holes and tree roots in its stride. It occurred to

Charlie that if and when she emerged from this adventure it would

be with a dislocated spine.

The driver was whistling cheerfully through one of the gaps in his

teeth, and the sound made her shiver.

He glanced at her and nodded. 'Boat soon.'

She said wearily, 'The bloody boat's in the other direction,' no longer

caring whether they understood or not.

The track forked suddenly, and they were plunged deeper into the

forest. It was like entering a damp green tunnel. Animal and bird

cries echoed raucously above the sound of the engine, and tall ferns

and undergrowth scratched at the sides of the vehicle as they sped

along.

Charlie had a feeling of total unreality. This couldn't be happening

to her, she thought. Presently she would wake up and find herself

safely in her hammock on board the
Manoela.
.And when she did

her first action would be to tear up Fay Preston's letter.

The jeep began to slow, and Charlie saw a dark gleam of water

ahead of them. Perhaps there was going to be a miracle after all, she

thought incredulously. Maybe this was just a very roundabout way

to the dock, and the
Manoela
would be there, waiting for her.

But the age of miracles was definitely past. Journey's end was a

makeshift landing stage, at which a small craft with an outboard

motor was moored.

The driver nudged Charlie. 'Boat,' he said triumphantly.

'But it's the wrong boat,' she said despairingly.
'Um engano.'

They looked at each other, and shook their heads as if in pity.

Charlie dived for her wallet again.

'Look,' she said rapidly, 'turn the jeep round, and take me back to

Mariasanta, and I won't tell a living soul about all this. You can take

the money, and there'll be no trouble—I swear it. But—please—

just—let me go...'

The driver said, 'Boat now,
senhorita,'
and his voice was firm.

She walked between them to the landing stage. They didn't touch

her, or use any form of restraint, and she was tempted to make a run

for it—but where?

People, she knew, had walked into the Brazilian jungle and never

emerged again. And by the time she managed to make it back to

Mariasanta, if she ever did, Captain Gomez would have sailed

anyway. He waited for no one.

For the first time in her life she understood why extreme danger

often made its victims passive.

You clung to the hope, she thought, that things couldn't possibly be

as bad as they seemed—or get any worse—right up to the last

minute.

She could always dive into the river, she thought almost detachedly,

except that she was a lousy swimmer. And the thought of the shoals