Page 99 of The Last Kiss Goodbye

Ros could still envisage each hellish moment. During the day, the humidity and the thumping diesel engines would force them up on deck, then the pitiless sun, the clouds of insects or the sudden Biblical downpours would force them back inside. At night, they had no option but to swelter in their quarters, reading or talking in low voices in the orange light of the hurricane lanterns as moths the size of crab apples swooped around.

Rosamund had been travel sick almost every day, and had been glad to get to dry land. Kutuba, with its single dusty street haunted by skinny dogs and seemingly abandoned Indian children, now seemed an oasis of civilisation compared to the boat.

Miguel, Dominic’s guide, who had met the team in Tarapoto, had taken them to his home on the edge of the village. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz: more like a large timber-frame shack with palm matting underfoot. But at least it had electricity, when the generator was working, and clean sheets in the lean-to rooms out the back, courtesy of Miguel’s feisty Indian wife Quana.

Rosamund, Dominic and Willem went out to the patch of dry, parched grass behind the hut. Two of their Peruvian porters came to join them, both of them puffing on cigarettes, followed by Miguel, who sat cross-legged on the floor for the briefing.

‘When are the other guides arriving?’ asked Dominic, taking a long swig of water from a bottle. He was pacing around anxiously, like a caged animal.

‘I spoke to Padre this morning and I am assured today. We shall see,’ said Miguel with a shrug.

Ros shot a glance at Dominic, but he didn’t look unduly concerned; in fact she knew he had been expecting this. The guides for the final leg of the journey, the leg before he was to be left completely alone, were two Indian tribesmen from a settlement close to Kutuba. They had more specialist knowledge of the jungle than Miguel, who looked and acted like the locals she had seen in Lima. Dominic had had extensive dealings with the tribe before, living with them for six weeks of jungle training, learning how to survive and live off the land, before he had launched out on a previous expedition in the Amazon. And he knew them well enough to know that they moved at their own pace. That ‘today’ could mean tomorrow, or even next week.

‘Can I come with you to their settlement?’ asked Ros, looking out to the thick line of trees beyond the village.

‘She is brave,’ laughed Miguel, and Ros was not sure if his expression was one of respect or concern.

‘You’ve come this far. What’s a few more miles?’ Dominic winked at her, and she felt her heart do a little flip.

Dominic and Miguel walked away to talk more. Willem relaxed with the porters, smoking and tugging on a bottle of beer, as Ros stood up to stretch her legs.

She didn’t like to eavesdrop on their conversation, but Miguel’s voice was loud, as if the volume might make up for the comprehensibility of his heavily Spanish accented words.

One line of conversation was quite clear: there were ‘bad men’ in the forest.

She also caught the word ‘drugs’, and she knew full well what they were talking about. She had submitted a feature idea to the Sunday Chronicle a few weeks earlier about global drug trafficking. She felt sure that the issue was set to explode, and that it needed talking about immediately, but the piece had been turned down by a sceptical features editor who argued that illegal drugs had no place in Western society beyond its most bohemian fringes.

Ros thought otherwise. Her research had revealed that cocaine manufacture was a huge growth industry in the coca-farming areas of South America, despite, or perhaps because of, the recent criminalisation of the drug. Illicit trade in the substance was widespread, peasant farmers supplying their coca to a new and ruthless brand of smugglers, who were carving trade routes through the jungle.

‘Are you sure you’ve had enough jungle training?’ asked Ros when Miguel had gone. She walked into their room and perched on the end of the makeshift bed.

‘It’s a bit late to be asking that,’ replied Dominic, rubbing the sweat from his face with a towel.

Silence fell between them.

‘I’m prepared,’ he said softly. ‘As prepared as I’ll ever be.’

She nodded. ‘Well if you’ve forgetten anything, it’s a bit bloody late to turn back and get it.’

It was meant to be a joke, but Dominic looked thoughtful.

‘I hope I’ve brought enough gifts.’

‘Gifts?’

‘For the tribes. If I anger them, gifts might placate them. Plus it’s good etiquette to arrive with something.’

‘Well at least you’ve got a gun,’ she smiled, looking at his shotgun propped up next to a long machete. Ros considered herself a pacifist, but the sight of the two weapons gave her some reassurance.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a buff-coloured envelope.

‘What’s this?’ she ask

ed.

‘My will.’

Her face fell. ‘Your will?’