Free The Touch of Death by John Creasey Page B

down into a little kiss-curl. He turned away from the pool, and the other men went ahead. “Except that Rita has been here several times. Could be experimental? If so, why experiment with fish at this stage? They know what the stuff can do.”
    He seemed to be talking to himself more than to Banister.
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    Banister went back alone to the hotel, in time for lunch. He didn’t feel like lunch, but made himself eat. Then he walked from his hotel towards a place which most people seemed to call Whaka. It was the local Maori village, parts of it centuries old.
    He was alone.
    He was followed by Palfrey’s Security men, but none was near. For all he knew, a woman might be following him, too. He was never altogether sure of the precautions which Palfrey took – at times it almost seemed as if Palfrey didn’t really trust him.
    Was that surprising?
    He reached the entrance to the village.
    Beyond the high archway, he could see the red-painted fences, the carved figures on the posts, the little houses and, everywhere, the rising steam. He strolled along. He knew that he could hire a guide, but preferred to be on his own for a while.
    The water flowing beneath a bridge was cold, yet steam rose from the edges. Two or three Maori children passed him, running, happy. A woman plodded by, carrying a pile of washing. The grotesque faces of the carved heads seemed to glare at him. All were painted a brilliant red, startling in the sun.
    Some way ahead, a party was going round with a woman guide. Banister followed them. Soon he was walking over waste land – hard under-foot, but on either side were pools of boiling water, everywhere steam rose from cracks in the earth.
    He saw a child run from the group which was being conducted, and a woman grab its arm.
    â€œYou must be very careful,” the Maori guide said in a clear voice. “Nothing could save the baby if he were to fall in there.”
    Banister felt his nerves grow tense.
    He could turn back and walk away; or he could go in the wake of the crowd, not with it; crowds were dangerous.
    The ground was uneven. To the right and left the stream forced its way through the cracks. Here and there mud pools and pools of water bubbled and boiled. The group had moved away, picking its ways carefully over little holes in the ground, twisting and turning so as to step where there was no fear of the ground giving way.
    He saw them standing and watching, waiting – then a spout of boiling water shot forty or fifty feet into the air.
    A woman said in his ear: “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
    It was Rita.
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    Banister didn’t start or turn round, but schooled himself to show no reaction; that was part of the training. He was looking at the geyser. Spray from it was blown back towards him, and felt like warm rain upon his face.
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œIt’s a dangerous spot.”
    â€œDeadly.”
    â€œI’m surprised that you risked coming here.”
    â€œA man has to see a little life.” Banister turned to face her, taking out cigarettes. “After all, I may never come to New Zealand again. It would be a pity not to see what I can, ‘wouldn’t it?”
    Yes, it was Rita.
    She was quite natural, and she had never looked more lovely. She had a soft, restful beauty. Her dark hair was glossy, and her clear brown eyes smiled so easily. She had beautiful lips. He knew all about them; all about her. She could drive him to distraction. He knew what it was to crush those lips with his; to feel her soft, seductive beauty; to have, to hold—
    â€œNeil,” she said. “I love you.”
    He didn’t speak.
    â€œAnd you’re still in love with me.”
    He still didn’t speak.
    â€œYou should leave Palfrey and come with me,” Rita said. “He isn’t the only one on the side of the angels.”
    Instead of taking a cigarette, she took his hand.
    She did that quite deliberately. It did