Freeing Grace by Charity Norman Page B

family,
           Got the piece finished and sent off. On another story now, one I’ve been after for years. Take care of yourselves.
           Love you all.
           Mum/Deborah
    I squinted at the description printed underneath the picture. ‘It says Zanzibar.’
    He waved a thin hand, irritated. ‘Yes, I know it says Zanzibar, man. But look at the postmark.’
    ‘Ah, I see. Mombasa. Okay. But she’ll be long gone by now, surely?’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    He knew more than he was telling me, I was sure of it. He wasn’t just relying on a blurred postmark.
    ‘Perry, I—’
    ‘She’s blondish. Slim, medium height.’ He picked up the photo of her, the one taken by Lucy in Greece. Slid it out of the frame. ‘Better take this. It’s not the most recent, but it’s a close-up. Ask in the post office, the police station, ask the taxi drivers. Failing that, try along the coast. I don’t imagine she’ll be in one of the big tourist resorts, so look off the beaten track. There are less accessible places. Extremely basic. Campsites. Backpacker lodges. Someone will know.’
    ‘You’ve been?’ I asked, suddenly suspicious.
    ‘Not recently.’
    ‘When did you—’
    ‘You’ll need to hire a vehicle out there. Use your credit card, and I’ll reimburse you in full.’
    ‘No you won’t. The cost isn’t the issue.’
    ‘That’s good of you.’ He inclined his head. ‘I suggest you leave your car and all your things here, and have your mail forwarded to this address.’
    ‘Hold on, Perry. Whoa. I haven’t agreed to go.’ I held up my hands to halt his steamroller. ‘I don’t get it. I don’t understand what all this is about.’
    This time he did smile, very briefly, and I caught a flash of gold tooth.
    ‘Come on, man. Where’s your sense of adventure?’

Chapter Eight
    The fiftieth birthday party on Saturday night turned out to be a good one. Leila’s band—Dusty and the Defibrillators—consisted of two junior doctors from the Queen Elizabeth (keyboard and guitar), a student nurse (double bass), an administrator (drums), a GP (saxophone) and Leila. They played everything from Gershwin to Lloyd Webber via the blues—it was for fun, not for money, although Leila suspected that Patrick, the drummer, would have loved to give up his day job.
    That night they were a success. The hotel’s dance floor heaved with lindy-hopping fifty-year-olds and embarrassed teenagers, and Leila brought the house down with a husky blast of ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ before the band took a half-hour break.
    ‘Nice one, Leila!’ Maggie lowered her sax into its case. ‘Watch out, Ella Fitzgerald.’
    Maggie’s surgery worked closely with Leila’s pharmacy; the two women were regularly in touch over the minutiae of prescriptions. It was she who’d dragooned Leila into the band.
    ‘They’re a fantastic crowd,’ said Leila, looking around happily. The sun had risen on the world, tingeing her future with gold light. Leila had new energy, clarity of mind, and affection for her fellow man.
    Maggie was thirty: plain, perky and almost divorced. Separation had made her rebellious, and this evening she wore a bowler hat, a black basque and jeans. She had wispy hair and an uncomfortable nose, but no shortage of admirers.
    The band had their own table. Maggie turned a chair around, sat astride it and poured two glasses of fizzy wine. ‘Cheers.’ She had to shout above the music, as she handed a glass to Leila. ‘Oh my God, someone’s asked for “The Birdie Song” . I thought this shindig was supposed to have a touch of class?’
    Leila took the glass, sipped, remembered, and carefully put it down.
    ‘Can’t,’ she said firmly.
    Maggie stared. ‘ Can’t ? You’ve not gone teetotal on me, you baggage?’
    ‘Temporarily.’
    ‘Why?’
    Leila wriggled delightedly.
    ‘You’re not . . . ?’ Maggie leaned closer, hazel eyes widening. ‘You’re not ? . . . No! You are !’
    ‘Shhh!’ Leila’s