Once Astrid has kayaked Emir’s grandmother (who has notnotimplied that Astrid should watch her back from now on) in chilling silence back to the boat, Emir and I are last to climb aboard. ‘It might be best if you go with your grandmother. I might be a while.’
‘Why? What are you doing?’ he asks. ‘Can I help?’
‘Yes, please. That would be lovely,’ I say. ‘I’m checking how many of each item we have for the stocktake. To make sure I haven’t left any equipment behind or lost any. Like the flipper you found. Why don’t you count everything after me to make sure I get it right?’
‘And then can we play chess?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Let’s start with the flippers.’ We walk over to a large barrel housing snorkelling gear and begin to count masks and flippers before moving on to the diving equipment, air tanks and regulators.
‘Why are these fishing rods so smelly?’
‘Because some of your relatives have been fishing today. Hopefully, we’ll be eating whatever they caught.’
I flick my hands lightly through a rail of black wetsuits hanging up as Emir mimics my every move. They all have the peacock-blue Love Ahoy! logo printed on them. ‘Twelve wetsuits.’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Are you sure?’
He nods while I quickly check again. ‘No. There are definitely twelve wetsuits.’
He points to the floor. ‘You missed one. And why is it so wet?’
‘Which one?’
He points down below the rack to where one of the wetsuits has fallen from its hanger. I haul it out and pop it back on the rail. ‘You’re right. It is wet. And so heavy. Why can’t anyone round here do anything properly? Anyway, that’s us done.’ I grab the black bags of rubbish and picnic detritus and haul them over to where one of the chefs is leaning over the rail, enjoying a cigarette. He jumps when he hears us approach.
‘Where do the bins go?’ I ask, holding up the bags while Emir translates for me.
The chef flicks the cigarette into the sea and beckons for us to follow. He leads us down the staff spiral staircase towards the kitchen. He points to a large container off to the side. It has a large metal flap.
I drag the bin bags over and lift the flap only to be punched in the face by a wave of foul-smelling rotting food. I immediately heave. The stench is incredible, but just as I’m about to throw the bag in, something catches my eye. It’s my Mallet Method block with all the receipts skewered neatly onto the large protruding nail, still intact. I reach in to grab it and pull it out. I flick off bits of food debris before slinging my own rubbish bags into the bin and slamming the metal door shut. Emir and the chefs are looking at me with thinly disguised disgust.
‘What? I need this to do the accounts properly,’ I say, wiping my hands on my shirt. I’ll keep it in the bedroom and out of Garry’s sight. ‘Can I trust you to stay in the kitchen while I quickly hide this in my room?’
Emir agrees enthusiastically and is already eyeing the tray of baked pastries currently being drizzled with honey and crushed pistachio nuts. I hurry along the corridor to the bedroom and kick the door shut behind me, scanning the room for possible places to store the mallet. I open my one allocated drawer to see that it is now stuffed with Turkish lira, a gold Rolex, several gold chains and the hugely expensive-looking sapphire tennis bracelet. All of which need to be returned to their rightful owners. Emir is something of a magpie for gold. I grab my suitcase from under the bed and fling it open. I speedily scoop up the jewellery and wads of cash and throw them in the case along with the mallet before pushing it back under the bed. I give my hands a quick wash and race back to the kitchen.
I take in the half-empty tray before glancing at Emir’s sticky cheeks, a broad grin lighting up his face. ‘But I was only gone two bloody minutes. How did you…?’
Emir slides down from the bench he’s sitting on and rummages around in his pocket. He pulls out two solid gold signet rings and gives the chefs one each, causing me to gasp. ‘It’s okay,’ he says, turning towards me. ‘They’re only gold-plated. Worth almost nothing.’
‘But who do they belong to? Did you steal them?’
He shakes his head.
‘They can’t be yours to trade. They don’t even fit you.’ As the chefs hold them up to the light, they are clearly extra-large for a man-sized finger.
In response, Emir taps the side of his nose. ‘The less you know, the better.’
‘I will be having a word with your parents as soon as possible,’ I say, tutting my displeasure. ‘Can you ask the chefs to give the rings back, please? I’ll think of another way to repay them.’
Reluctantly, Emir relays the situation to both chefs as I hold out my palm to receive the rings. They hand them over with a sulky grumble. They feel surprisingly heavy and have something inscribed on them. I don’t know much about the global gold market or the current price per troy ounce, but I do suspect that these are incredibly old, twenty-four carat and very expensive. I shove them in my skirt pocket. ‘Come on. Let’s go find your parents and get these rings back where they belong.’
I take Emir’s hand and lead him up the staff stairwell to the dining area. The first person we bump into is his ginormous brother. He swings Emir up into his beefy arms, and I listen as they chatter animatedly. Every now and then, Mehmet flicks his thick, glossy black hair from his forehead. He has dark eyes, fringed with thick lashes, a chiselled jawline and straight nose. Which reminds me. Baby Kylie-Jay. I rack my brains for the name of the hotel that the mother said she was staying in, but it eludes me. I replay our conversation in my mind. The kiddies club… The hunt for the waiter responsible… The unimaginable horror of birthing a baby the size of a prize-winning marrow…
‘My brother is asking you if we can have drinks together tonight,’ Emir says, breaking into my thoughts.
