by Nesta Tuomey
‘Thank you for minding my little sister,’ Terry said a little stiffly to Fernando as they drove away from the house. He was sitting in the back of the car, leaving Claire in the front beside the Spaniard.
‘It is a pleasure,’ Fernando said formally. He did not speak again but concentrated in putting the Mercedes through its paces, his foot flat out on the accelerator.
Jane left the clinic at five o’clock and drove home, intending to have a quick snack, before heading out again in time for evening surgery. She had not heard from Terry but told herself he had only just arrived and could have nothing as yet to report. Still, she would have appreciated even the briefest of calls to reassure her that he had arrived safely.
These days Jane was working very full hours and would have happily worked day and night if it could have speeded up her getaway to Spain.
As she pushed open the front door, she almost did not see the letter from Spain in the pile of bills and letters lying on the mat. Her heart leaped thinking it might be from Antonio but then she recognised Sarah Lewis’s writing and, repressing her disappointment, went to plug in the kettle.
‘Poor soul,’ the nurse had written. ‘She suffered a lot before the end but even then she thought only of her family. It was a beautiful and inspiring death, just like her life. She remained conscious until her sons arrived and then with her eyes fixed on them, slipped gently into sleep.’
Jane lowered the sheets and absently turned the bread under the grill; cheese on toast was all she had time for. Sarah’s description of Elena’s demise struck her as surprisingly poetic. She could so well imagine the scene and felt pity in her heart for the unfortunate woman. When her eyes strayed back to the letter she was surprised to see mention of Claire, forgetting the toast as she read on.
‘A sweet, caring young girl though not as unsophisticated as I had thought at first. It came as quite a shock but then, Doctor, the young people of today are not prepared to wait nor do they seem to have the same regard for marriage like you and I were taught at their age. I know you are fond of the girl and I can see how well you might love her because she is all that you said. I only hope and trust her young Spaniard will stand by her. Indeed, he does seem head over heels in love with her but the Spanish view these things differently and it would be a shame if it turned out otherwise.’
Jane lowered the letter feeling deeply disturbed. Was she imagining it or was Sarah saying that Claire was pregnant by Fernando? She felt suddenly breathless with anxiety and pressed a hand to her ribs where, since her accident, stress caused her chest to ache. Sheena in trouble and now Claire. Shocked and distraught, she went to throw the burned toast into the bin.
The sky was still light as Fernando drove through the streets of Gibraltar. Twice on the way the car telephone had rung. At first it was Antonio to tell Fernando that the police had reported sighting Miguel Delgado in Gibraltar earlier in the week, and then later, to Claire’s surprise, Fernando handed her the telephone.
‘Hi Clairey,’ Ruthie’s bright voice sounded in her ear. ‘Toni said I was to ring you so you’d know I was all right.’
Toni! Claire was taken aback. Obviously Ruthie and Fernando’s father were getting on famously. ‘Hi Ruthie,’ she said. ‘Do you want to talk to Terry?’
‘Put him on.’ Ruthie commanded airily, to Claire’s amusement.
‘Don’t be a pain in the neck,’ Terry told his sister. ‘What?...Yes, of course, we’re glad you’re enjoying yourself, only don’t overdo it. .. No, not until tomorrow. Okay, and remember what I said.’
He replaced the phone in the cradle and laughed, sounding more like himself than he had all day. ‘Isn’t she the limit? The hound is sleeping in her room tonight and Christina has agreed to serve the pair of them hot chocolate in bed.’
Claire laughed, glad that Ruthie was captivating the household from Antonio down. She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine o’clock.
‘We’ll soon be there,’ Fernando said, observing the movement.
Claire nodded, feeling tired and faint from so little to eat all day. The trouble was when she could eat she didn’t want to and when she didn’t eat she felt sick.
Fernando left them in the bar of a small hotel and went to arrange for rooms. Claire wondered a little anxiously who would pay. She had very little money and was counting on not being away more than one night. She supposed she could borrow from Terry, but he was always broke.
When Fernando rejoined them the waiter brought casseroled chicken, accompanied by sticks of crusty bread and a bottle of Rioja, to the table. Predictably, Claire’s appetite vanished soon after she began to eat. The chicken pieces floating in oil turned her stomach. She crumbled some bread and chewed slowly. She saw Terry looking at her in a brooding kind of way but though she greatly desired to be alone with him, she could not have taken the initiative if she had tried. She yawned and pushed her plate away.
‘You are tired,’ Fernando said solicitously and Claire nodded, too worn out to speak. She could see that Terry was puzzled by her extreme fatigue and he frowned and shifted impatiently in his seat.
‘Why don’t you go to bed if you can’t stay up, Claire,’ he said, almost scornfully and she winced at the contempt in his voice. She could not know that he believed she was using tiredness as a pretext for avoiding him - and she felt more miserable and rejected than before.
‘Yes... go to bed,’ Fernando said more gently and she cast him a grateful look. ‘You will be fresh for whatever tomorrow brings.’ It was good advice but only seemed to goad Terry to fresh sarcasm. Fernando’s own expression was grave as he watched Claire go.
‘Why do you speak to her like that?’ he asked, more in regret than anger. ‘She has had a very difficult time these past weeks. She could not have been kinder to my mother or done more to...’
‘So you said before,’ Terry interrupted curtly. Who did he think he was! Saint bloody Fernando. Terry knew he was being unreasonable but when he looked at the Spaniard and thought how close he had been to Claire all these weeks, he experienced jealousy so great he could not contain it.
‘Perhaps it is just as well that Claire has gone to bed,’ Fernando continued calmly,. ‘We can do more easily what has to be done.’
Terry looked sharply at him, wondering if he had learned of Sheena’s whereabouts. But Fernando shook his head.
‘No, merely a few leads to where we may find Delgado. Soon a man will come into the bar and from him we may learn something.’
The man, when he came, was sharp featured and unshaven and spoke at length to Fernando, gesticulating much of the time. Terry sat across the room from them, sipping beer. He was beginning to feel tired himself. He had not slept much the night before and had been travelling most of the day. He observed the notes passing between Fernando and the man and waited until Fernando was on his own before going over to join him.
‘So. Did you learn anything?’ he demanded.
‘Not a lot. Delgado left Gibraltar four days ago with your sister and took the road to Marbella, stopping at Estepona. There is a man there who saw them and can give us further information.’
Terry exclaimed. ‘Good. Let’s go at once. Claire’s asleep and won’t miss us.’
Fernando shook his head. ‘By the time we get there it would be too late,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘We will see him in the morning.’
Terry sank back on his stool. He longed for action. At the back of his impatience was his very real anxiety about his twin and he found any delay intolerable. He pondered whether to cut loose and make his own way, then saw the futility of this without a car.
Bidding Fernando a surly goodnight, he went up to bed.
As he passed Claire’s room he had a sudden, irresistible vision of her asleep in bed with her fair hair spread on the pillow. It took all his willpower to keep on going past her door.
They were on the move again. Sheena stumbled in a daze of sleep across the dark road and was shoved into the back of Miguel’s car. She fel
l in a jumble of arms and legs, trying to protect her face, and recoiled when he reached inside and, with an oath, punched her hands free of the door.
Miguel was drunker than usual and determined on travelling that night. Sheena was not sorry to be leaving this place. Very bad things had happened here, so bad that she had not taken them out yet to look at them. She might never be able to. She had been dozing and he had come in and shaken her awake. This time Miguel was on his own and he swore long and profusely as he threw garments into a case and gathered up his few belongings.
‘There is no time for that,’ he’d said when she tried to comb her tangled hair. He had pulled and poked her out of the bed where she was backed up like a wary cat.
As the car bumped along the road she had no idea where she might be or where he was taking her. This last stop, and the second since leaving Gibraltar, had seemed to be a seaside place. This she knew because on their first night there, when the men had ceased knocking on the door of their room, Miguel had brought her down to the water’s edge to bathe. There had been only a cracked toilet at the end of the corridor, which he had escorted her to and from, and a tin bowl in the room. Sheena’s skin had become coarse and dry and her eyes blinked in daylight. She had forgotten what it was like to really wash herself or apply lipstick or body lotions. Sometimes she looked at herself in the cracked mirror and mourned her fading tan. It would seem the least of her worries, but in a way, it was a relief to cling to so small a grievance when there was much that was truly sinister and frightening threatening her.
The night was hot and stifling. Miguel kept the car windows closed and Sheena could hardly draw breath. The car rocked from side to side as though on a steep, spiralling road. Once, there was the sound of oncoming traffic and powerful headlamps blossomed their car roof, before blackness closed in again. She fell into a doze and her slack body no longer protected itself from contact with the unpadded contours of the bumping, straining car.
Claire woke up early next morning and came downstairs to find the two men already sitting in the dining-room. Fernando greeted her with a smile and a pleasant greeting but all she got from Terry was a curt nod. She tried not to mind as she took her place at the table, telling herself that Terry never wasted time on niceties and was probably desperately worried about Sheena.
They breakfasted on rolls and coffee and were soon making their way to the car, each of them anxious to get going and find Sheena without any more loss of time. Neither Fernando nor Terry expressed any doubt that they would find her alive and well, but Claire was not so sure. She was afraid what they might find.
Ahead of them with dramatic suddenness the coastline of Estepona came into view. Fernando slowed and nosed the bonnet of the Mercedes along the crowded streets, searching for a spot to park. It was some time before he found space in a back street.
Claire and Terry silently followed Fernando along the street that led to the beach, where he ordered beer and naranjada. Already into August, there was a stormy, sultry feeling to the weather and only for a slight sea breeze, the heat would have been unbearable.
Claire was sipping naranjada and discussing Spanish customs with Fernando when Terry suddenly pushed his empty glass away from him and jumped impatiently to his feet.
‘Finish it up, Claire,’ he ordered, indicating her drink with a frown. Startled, she drained her orange in one gulp.
‘There is no rush,’ Fernando said equably. ‘It is almost siesta time. Nothing will be done for another hour or two.’
This was too much for Terry. ‘I don’t care if half the Spanish population are comatose,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not sitting around here a moment longer. Just give me the name of your contact and I’ll go see him myself.’
Fernando frowned and stood up. ‘There is no need,’ he said forbiddingly. ’We will go together to find your sister. It would have been better to have waited but very well, if you must go now.’ His expression seemed to suggest that Terry’s unseemly haste would most certainly affect their chances of finding Sheena.
Claire watched the young men’s unsmiling faces and decided they would never be friends. Their natures were too much in opposition for there ever to be a corresponding chord between them, yet she had great love in her heart for both of them. If she were not carrying Terry’s child she might be drawn to the idea of marrying Fernando. He was well-born and intelligent and even possessed a sense of humour, which Terry undoubtedly did not. She must be going a little mad. If she were not pregnant, she would not even be considering marriage with Fernando, let alone anyone else!
‘Si. Delgado was here two, maybe three nights, but he has moved on.’ The speaker was an elderly man, wearing a black beret aslant his bald head like Pablo Picasso. His face was brown and wrinkled and his heavily lidded eyes met theirs without curiosity, like a sleepy lizard.
‘Do you know where Delgado stayed in Estepona, Señor?’ Fernando asked him.
Sí.’ The old man jerked his head at the maze of streets behind where they stood. ‘They will tell you there.’ He went back inside, disdaining to wait for the note Fernando took from his wallet.
So not everyone is controlled by the sight of your money, Terry thought. Maybe the old man felt like he did. He felt an irrational anger at Fernando’s wealth. That it might one day take Claire away from him was his real grievance, but Terry did not analyse it. He looked at the man’s good suit and silk tie. Perhaps if he weren’t so well dressed we would find Sheena quicker, he thought resentfully. Then Terry remembered that without Fernando’s money they would never have known that Miguel had come to Estepona. But this realisation only increased his frustration.
‘Okay, where to now?’ he demanded, looking aggressively from one to the other. He had a sudden vision of Sheena bathed in sweat, weeping and telling him he was too late to help her, and felt his spirits plummet. He had not had the dream since coming to Spain and secretly he feared it must mean she was dead.
While Fernando went off to make further enquiries Claire and Terry wandered down to the stony beach and sat some yards apart, not looking at each other or speaking. Claire reflected sadly on how once they had tripped over their tongues with all they had to say to each other.
She got to her feet and waded into the sea. She felt unbearably warm and dreaded the thought of getting back into the car without first cooling off. Her feet bumped and scuffed on the high piled rocks beneath the waves. She had not realised how stony the beach was. As she struggled to keep her balance she was carried out of her depth and gasped in the cold water, feeling the shock of it through the thin material of her sun-dress.
It was an enormous relief after the intense heat. Claire turned amongst the bobbing bathers and faced back to the shore. In this heat she would be dry in minutes.
Terry sat on a pile of rocks near the roadway, staring down at her, with a brooding expression so reminiscent of Eddie’s.
Claire came out of the water, her sodden sun-dress held before her as she squeezed out the drops of sea water, the movement accentuating the fullness of her tanned breasts in the low neckline. She saw the way Terry’s eyes fixed on them, and the longing to have him in her arms was so great in her that she blushed for her thoughts and abruptly turned away.
Terry saw Fernando stepping down on to the beach. So that was why she coloured up like that, he thought. He frowned and got up moodily from the rock, but forgot his grievance as he heard what Fernando had to tell them.
‘Delgado and your sister were seen last night on the road between San Pedro de Alcantara and Ronda.’ Fernando’s dark eyes shone with excitement and relief. ‘This time there is no mistake. The car was a 1979 sports coupé of the kind Delgado drives. There are not many to be found on Spanish roads.’
‘Ronda?’ Terry queried. ‘Way up in the hills?’
Fernando nodded. ‘And I have it on good authority they have not come down again. The best assurance.’ He tapped his wallet significantly.
Instead of being angry Terry felt only relief. If Ferna
ndo’s money succeeded in delivering up Sheena to them he had no fault to find with it.
‘Let’s be on our way then.’ Terry briskly assumed command. ‘We’ve wasted too much time already.’
This time the Spaniard meekly took his cue from him and led the way, almost humbly, to where he had parked the Mercedes.
FOURTEEN
The road to Ronda was sharp and twisting. At times Claire felt like a fly on a wall, so steep was the incline. From the back seat, she was glad not to have too good a view as they roared around narrow hairpin bends. They had barely time to straighten out before the next one leapt at them. More than once she caught her breath as she looked out the rear window and saw the mountain drop sheerly below them.
Fernando was silent at the wheel, giving all his concentration to keeping the roaring machine on the dusty ribbon of road. Once Terry turned and passed Claire the bottle of water and when she handed it back to him and he put his lips to it, she felt as though they had kissed. The feeling was so strong in her that she wondered if Terry felt the same.
Fernando turned his head to glance at Terry. ‘Would you like to take a turn at the wheel?’ he suddenly asked.
Terry stared. ‘Sure.’ His face broke into a grin. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’ They changed seats and Terry set off at a pace almost equal to Fernando’s.
From where she was comfortably stretched Claire watched the backs of their heads and wondered at the new ease between the two men. Terry flicked through the gears, getting the feel of the stick and testing the grip of the tyres on the tight bends. Beside him, Fernando kept an impassive face and although Claire’s mouth was in her throat and she frequently stabbed at an imaginary brake pedal in the floor, the Spaniard seemed quite at ease.
‘You handle a car well,’ he told Terry, ‘but then you are a pilot, are you not?’ Terry was struck by something in the way he said it and shot him a glance. ‘You fly yourself?’