Best Kept Secret (The Clifton Chronicles, #3)(95)

‘Turned out not to be quite as bad as the captain had originally thought,’ she said, masking a grin. ‘He asked me to let you know that, if you’re staying at the Milonga, you’d be most welcome to join us on the BOAC bus, which would allow you to avoid Mr Bolton’ – Harry raised an eyebrow – ‘the man from Bristol, who’s absolutely convinced he’s met you somewhere before.’

Harry couldn’t help noticing that Miss Carrick had glanced at his left hand more than once, on which a pale band of skin clearly indicated that a wedding ring had been removed. Captain Peter May had been divorced from his wife Angela for just over two years. They had two children: Jim, aged ten, who was hoping to go to Epsom College, and Sally, aged eight, who had her own pony. He even had a photograph of them to prove it. Harry had handed his ring to Emma for safe keeping just before he departed. Something else she didn’t approve of.



‘London has asked me to make an appointment to see a Captain Peter May at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,’ said the ambassador.

His secretary made a note in the diary. ‘Will you require any background notes on Captain May?’

‘No, because I haven’t a clue who he is, or why the Foreign Office wants me to see him. Just be sure to bring him straight to my office the moment he arrives.’



Harry waited until the last passenger had disembarked before he joined the crew. After he’d been checked through customs, he walked out of the airport to find a minibus waiting at the kerb.

The driver placed his suitcase in the baggage hold as Harry climbed on board to be greeted by a smiling Miss Carrick.

‘May I join you?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course,’ she replied, moving over to make room for him.

‘My name’s Peter,’ he said as they shook hands.

‘Annabel. What brings you to Argentina?’ she asked as the bus made its way into the city.

‘My brother Dick works out here. We haven’t seen each other for far too many years, so I thought I ought to make the effort as it’s his fortieth birthday.’

‘Your older brother?’ said Annabel with a grin. ‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a mechanical engineer. He’s been working on the Parana Dam project for the past five years.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘No reason you should have. It’s in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Well he’s going to get a bit of a culture shock when he comes to Buenos Aires, because it’s one of the most cosmopolitan cities on earth, and certainly my favourite stopover.’

‘How long will you be here this time?’ said Harry, wanting to change the subject before he ran out of details about his recently adopted family.

‘Forty-eight hours. Do you know Buenos Aires, Peter? If you don’t, you’re in for a real treat.’

‘No, this is my first time,’ said Harry, word perfect so far. Don’t lose your concentration, Sir Alan had warned him, because that’s when you’ll slip up.

‘So what route do you usually fly?’

‘I’m on the transatlantic hop – New York, Boston and Washington.’ The anonymous man from the Foreign Office had settled on that route because it took in three cities Harry had visited on his book tour.

‘That sounds like fun. But make sure you sample the night life while you’re here. The Argentinians make the Yanks look conservative.’

‘Anywhere in particular I should take my brother?’

‘The Lizard has the best tango dancers, but I’m told the Majestic has the finest cuisine, not that I’ve ever experienced it. The crew usually end up at the Matador Club on Independence Avenue. So if you and your brother find you’ve got time on your hands, you’d be welcome to join us.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harry as the bus drew up outside the hotel. ‘I might just take you up on that.’

He carried Annabel’s case into the hotel.

‘This place is cheap and cheerful,’ she said as they checked in, ‘so if you want a bath but don’t want to wait for the water to heat up, it’s best to have it last thing at night, or first thing in the morning,’ she added as they stepped into the one lift.

When they reached the fourth floor, Harry left Annabel and stepped out into a badly lit corridor before making his way to room 469. After he’d let himself in, he discovered the room wasn’t a great improvement on the corridor. A large double bed that sank in the middle, a tap that dripped brown water, a towel rail that offered one face cloth, and a notice informing him that the bathroom was at the end of the corridor. He recalled Sir Alan’s note, We’ve booked you into a hotel Martinez and his cronies would never consider visiting. He’d already realized why. This place needed his mother to be appointed as the manager, and preferably yesterday.

He took off his peaked cap and sat down on the end of the bed. He wanted to call Emma and tell her how much he missed her, but Sir Alan couldn’t have been clearer: no phone calls, no night clubs, no sightseeing, no shopping; don’t even leave the hotel until it’s time to visit the ambassador. He put his feet up on the bed and lowered his head on to the pillow. He thought about Sebastian, Emma, Sir Alan, Martinez, the Matador Club . . . Captain May fell asleep.