She's Mine

by Claire S. Lewis

  It’s a two-hour stroll along the beaches to Crooks’ Bay. We set off in an easterly direction along the coast – the opposite way from where I walked the other day. The storm has passed. The clouds have cleared and the sun is setting behind us sending shafts of golden light across the bay and lengthening our shadows into elongated monsters advancing on the sand. Ahead the coastline is formed of a succession of scenic ridges and peaks interspersed with white sand beaches and rocky shores, all bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon sunlight.

  We talk a little as we walk along the seafront, leaving parallel sets of footprints in the sand. An uneasy truce is re-established between us. Further along the beach out of sight of the hotel, there are a few dilapidated beach huts nestling among the coconut palms. Here the beach is scruffy and unkempt, strewn with seaweed and dried coconut palm fronds, littered with plastic bottles and other debris washed up by the sea as well as rubbish dumped outside the huts. Leading down from the huts I notice two sets of footsteps – big footsteps and little footsteps. An adult and a child joining our direction of travel, and continuing along the beach but not in a straight line – weaving in and out of the water, diverting up the beach, converging, abruptly stopping and backtracking, ending with a patch of disturbed sand, a scuffle of hands and bottoms and feet at the water’s edge. Beyond this point, there are no more little footsteps and only the big footsteps carry on along the beach. I crouch down to my knees.

  In my new state of hyper-vigilance, my imagination goes into overdrive. Could these tracks in the sand mark repeated scuffles, attempts to run away, a final struggle? Abandoning Christina, I race along the beach, my heart thumping, following the single set of big footprints until I round the bend to the next cove. There not far ahead of me, I see him, a man carrying a child on his shoulders.

  The child is hanging on to a small, bright green kite swaying in the sea breeze. The man bends down to let the little boy off his shoulders and he darts off along the beach laughing and swinging the kite.

  I see her everywhere but she isn’t here.

  12

  Scarlett

  We have walked about a mile further along the coast when a text comes through on Christina’s phone. It’s Costa with an update on the outcome of Damien’s bail hearing.

  ‘Damien didn’t get bail.’ I can hear the relief in her voice. It seems at last the scales have fallen from her eyes. He’s not the golden boy she once believed him to be. ‘He’s been remanded in custody for another twenty-four hours to give the police some more time to investigate the “reckless driving charges”.’ She indicates the quote marks with her fingers.

  Thank God for that!

  I am the main witness to those charges and Costa’s using evidence he got from me during my interviews to substantiate them. Why he had to drag me into it, I don’t know. I’m mortified at the prospect of having to testify in court – so far I’ve been circumspect – given the desperate measures I had to resort to in self-defence, my statement was selective, to say the least.

  We both understand that the real reason Damien’s still being detained is to give the police more time to investigate and gather evidence on the assumption that he played some part in the abduction of Katie. The driving charges are a convenient pretext for keeping the main suspect behind bars.

  ‘If nothing else, they need some time to check out his gaming alibi,’ says Christina. ‘No doubt they’re also hoping that the search of our rooms will throw up some leads. And they’ve impounded the Jeep. That’s what the police are most interested in.’

  I look up from the sand.

  ‘A forensic team and sniffer dogs are all over it as we speak,’ says Christina.

  It didn’t occur to me when they impounded the Jeep that it would be taken for forensic testing. But it’s obvious, of course, that the Jeep is a potential crime scene and constitutes the most significant police exhibit.

  ‘Costa’s convinced that if Damien’s implicated in this, he’s got the best chance of finding evidence to prove it in the Jeep.’ Christina sounds more positive and hopeful than she’s ever been since Katie vanished.

  I dread to think what the forensics team will make of it. My DNA must be all over the Jeep! It will convince Costa (if there’s any doubt at all left in his mind) that I’m working as Damien’s accomplice.

  God knows what Christina will think! I’ve never really explained to her how I came to be there with Damien, or why I was escorted back in a police car with smudged lipstick and a torn T-shirt. No doubt, she and Costa have been debating the probabilities of Damien and I being partners-in-crime. The only reason she still tolerates me is because she needs me or because she’s waiting for me to incriminate myself. She doesn’t trust me any longer. She’ll never speak to me again once the results of the forensic tests on the Jeep come in!

  As for my own suspicions about Christina, I’ve decided not to say anything to Costa unless, and until, I get some solid proof. Costa doesn’t fool me with the intimate, I want to be your friend, confidential chat. He’s also waiting for me to make a false move. I don’t trust him any more than I trust her.

  Now the waves are lapping our ankles as we walk barefoot along the waterline. I’m looking down at the sand, shell-spotting by force of habit. Christina’s bright purple toenails catch my eye. So, she had a pedicure too… that really is rather self-indulgent in the circumstances. There are scattered shells in among the seaweed and I bend down to pick up a few of them.

  ‘Banded tulips,’ I say, opening the palm of my hand to show Christina. ‘These will be great for Katie’s collection,’ I blurt out. Then, ‘I’m sorry, that was thoughtless,’ as she gives me a killer look.

  Between us, there’s a Katie-shaped black hole echoing with her little girl’s laughter and cries, and I feel like I’m falling into it. Katie’s the one person I daren’t allow myself really to think about. It’s too painful and terrifying to imagine what might be happening to her and what will be going through her head. It’s bad enough to know that she will be suffering emotional trauma – confused, frightened, distressed and lonely. That she may have been harmed, abused or even worse is literally too painful to contemplate.

  So we continue to explore the twists and turns in the investigation and skirt around the black hole that is her absence.

  I hold out my hand to Christina.

  ‘Aren’t they pretty?’ I say. Then, ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Did you come into my room on the night that Katie went missing?’

  She gives me a strange look.

  ‘After you went to sleep. Sometime after midnight. I was out on the balcony. I thought I saw you leaving my room.’

  ‘Listen to yourself! You’re not making any sense,’ says Christina. ‘How could I have been in your room when I was asleep? The stress must be getting to you.’

  I slip the shells into my pocket. ‘I’m saving them for Katie,’ I say defiantly.

  *

  The route takes us past Coral Point, a small fishing village with a busy working harbour.

  ‘Perhaps this is where Damien was planning to bring me for lunch.’ I bite my lip. Christina’s giving me a dirty look.

  Along the quayside, beyond the fishermen’s boats with their twisted nets and ropes, there’s a line of brightly painted blue-and-white motorised rowing boats tied up along the harbour wall. There’s a sign by the boats with the words,

  Available for hire – USD 20 per hour.

  ‘Katie would love to go out in one of those,’ I say.

  This time, Christina’s look is openly hostile as my hand flies up to my forehead to cover my eyes. We trudge on in silence.

  Crooks’ Bay is about two miles further on from Coral Point. As we approach, the path weaves through a labyrinth of boulders sticking up out of the sand close to the shore. The access to the beach is through a looming archway of rock, hewn away by the sea. As soon as we come through the arch, I see that a section of the sandy beach is cordoned off with red-and-white ti
cker tape. There’s white plastic sheeting pulled across the entrance to a cavern, one of many formed (according to the guidebook I read on the plane) over the millennia by waves crashing into the gigantic boulders guarding the beach. There’s a relentless slapping sound as the plastic flaps against the rock in the brisk sea breeze.

  Christina claps her hands to her mouth and stumbles on a stone in the sand.

  ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea,’ I say.

  Even her sedatives can’t block the agony of seeing this.

  A couple of men dressed head-to-toe in white plastic protective overalls are going about their business. The cavern and over half of the surrounding beach has been transformed into a crime scene. A mound of sand is partly blocking the entrance to the cave.

  ‘That must be where the swimsuit was found,’ I say. We stop in our tracks, staring like rubber-necking tourists, not knowing what to do next.

  ‘What I don’t understand is this.’ I take my phone out of my pocket and snap a picture of the scene. ‘Why did the abductor leave the swimsuit behind? It doesn’t make sense, such a careless mistake. If you were trying to cover your tracks, you wouldn’t forget to take away the incriminating evidence, would you?’ I insist.

  Christina turns away, and says softly,

  ‘No… unless whoever took Katie didn’t want to hide her tracks, unless she intended to leave a trail, unless she wants us to follow her, unless she is laying a trap for us.’

  ‘You took the words right out of my mouth…’ I say.

  Lost in thought, I watch Christina’s golden silhouette as she tramps off across the sand, backlit by the setting sun.

  Her… She…

  The words resonate in my head.

  If she’s not referring to herself, what makes Christina so sure Katie’s abductor is a woman? I wonder.

  Christina’s head is bowed. It’s the first time she’s made any comment about the possible motives of an abductor. Could this be the moment to ask her about the third earring and the documents she took away from the bedroom when I was hiding in the bathroom? Can she shed any light on these mysteries? Is she on the point of making a confession? Is Damien blackmailing her? Are they in on this together?

  … And why didn’t she hand in Damien’s mobile phone!?

  ‘I’ve thought of another reason…’ I say, running up behind her. ‘… Why the swimsuit was left behind, I mean. It could be a decoy. While the police are putting all their efforts into recovering evidence and excavating the cave, this gives time for the abductor to spirit Katie away. If the investigation team think she’s buried here under the sand, they won’t be searching for her anywhere else.’

  I register Christina’s look of horror at my thoughtless speculation, as she turns her back on me and makes her way over to a police Range Rover, parked up at the end of the dirt road running down the steep hill to the beach. The front door is open and an officer in shirtsleeves and shades leans back against the reclined seat, one leg hanging out of the vehicle, speaking into a walkie-talkie. Once again, I feel like I’m walking onto a movie set. He’s straight up out of an American cop movie. I’ve never seen him before or I would certainly have remembered him. As Christina goes up to the car, I watch him come forward and take her in his arms. How very forward! She pulls away awkwardly. I notice him eyeing me up as I join them.

  ‘Any news?’ she says. She looks flustered.

  ‘Nothing further as yet. We’ve got a few more hours’ of digging before nightfall.’

  Suddenly I’m struck by the tragedy of what’s actually going on here.

  As Christina turns abruptly away from the officer, she’s looking even more tense and drawn than usual: her hands are shaking and her eyes are glazed.

  Too much sun and she scarcely ate any lunch. It’s all too much for her.

  ‘He seemed a bit over-friendly,’ I say. ‘Have you met him before?’ I take her arm and steer her over to the shade of a palm tree. ‘Come over here, Christina. We need to get you out of the sun.’

  ‘It’s just a migraine,’ says Christina, ‘nothing important. I’ll be OK.’

  ‘That looks like a café, up there,’ I say, pointing up the hill. They’ll have cold drinks and ice if nothing else. ‘Let’s go and get you some iced water,’ I say. ‘It’ll make you feel better. Then we can call for a taxi.’

  *

  It’s a steep climb up the dusty dirt road that cuts into the side of the hill. In places, the rough surface is waterlogged and muddy where spring water trickles down over the vertical rocks, oozes across the road, and continues down towards the beach.

  Picking my way across the waterlogged section, my eyes follow the parallel lines of tyre tracks running through the mud. Then something catches my attention. A set of deep S-shaped tracks marking the wild swerving line of a car skidding through the mud. Going too fast and out of control. Looks as if it almost went over the edge. I notice that the tyre tracks of the skid don’t match.

  Suddenly, I’m engaged.

  Now that’s a strange coincidence!

  I take out my phone and take a couple of shots of the skid marks in the mud. Just in case…

  Christina looks on, with a bemused expression on her face.

  I’m hot and sweaty by the time we reach the café at the top of the hill, a simple affair, just a wooden shack, with a few tables and chairs whose dark green paint is faded and peeling. While we sip iced water, I steel myself to ask Christina about some of the things that have been nagging at me. But first I ask her.

  ‘What did that officer say that upset you so much? You seemed so distraught after he gave you a hug.’

  ‘He was acting and talking like he knew me but I’ve never met him before. I need some time to think. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Surely you can share it with me?’ I say.

  She turns away and we drink our glasses of iced water in silence.

  ‘Let’s call the taxi,’ she says. ‘I want to get back to the hotel.’

  ‘I’m sorry I forgot to bring any money,’ I say as we get up to leave the café. Christina rummages in her bag. She pulls something out. But it’s not her moleskin Gucci purse. It’s the small beaded purse with a picture of Sleeping Beauty printed on one side. Katie’s purse. The last time I saw it was when Katie put it into the safe in my room.

  ‘How did this get here?’ She’s looking scared. ‘You didn’t put this in my bag, did you, Scarlett?’ she asks. Her voice is shrill.

  ‘No, I promise you. Katie put her purse in my safe but I haven’t opened it since the day we arrived. When the police went through the safe this morning the purse was gone. Katie’s passport was gone too. I thought maybe you’d taken them and put them in your safe.’

  Christina’s hand is shaking. ‘This is insane,’ she says. ‘I haven’t touched Katie’s passport and I know her purse wasn’t in my bag this morning. The police officer carrying out the search of my room made me empty everything out on to the bed and she insisted on photographing the whole lot before she let me through the door.’

  Christina won’t look at me. There’s something fake in her insistence. Is she lying to me? She would have had the opportunity yesterday morning (while I was faking sickness in her bathroom) to take things from my safe.

  ‘It’s confusing,’ I say.

  ‘It’s a set up,’ she says. ‘Someone’s trying to make me look guilty. The only time my bag’s been out of my sight all day is when I left it in the changing room locker at the spa while I had my treatments.’

  I don’t want to intensify her panic but more importantly, where is Katie’s passport? I think to myself.

  She unzips the purse and tips the contents out onto the table. I count them out. Five little oval shells scatter over the formica top. Rose petal tellins – a delicate shade of pink. The ten-dollar note is gone. I wonder if these are some of the shells I found with Katie on the beach.

  ‘Why five, I wonder?’ I look at Christina. ‘Any ideas?’

  She
touches each shell, one after the other, with the tip of her finger.

  ‘Why five?’ she echoes. A look of dismay spreads across her face. She covers the rose petal tellins with her hand.

  I can’t get another word out of her.

  ‘Stop touching.’ I say. The police might be able to get some fingerprints. It could be important evidence.’

  I zip the shells back in the purse and wrap it carefully in a napkin.

  ‘If we wanted proof that Katie’s been abducted, not drowned or disappeared in some tragic accident, here it is. And whoever’s got her wants us to know about it.’

  I kick back my chair.

  ‘Stay there, I’ll be back.’

  *

  I sprint back down the dirt track as fast as I can go, losing my footing in the muddy section and sprawling on to the ground. When I reach the officer, I look down to see my legs and white shorts are splattered in mud. Not quite the image I’d like to present to him – cool, collected, seductive – as I run up to the Range Rover but that’s too bad.

  ‘Sir, I’ve got something for you.’

  He looks up from his papers.

  ‘Hi there, you’re back. What happened to you?’

  He smiles slowly, exposing a jaw full of perfect white teeth.

  ‘Katie’s purse containing some shells,’ I say.

  He lifts his shades and his eyes settle on my skimpy vest.

  He takes his cap off the passenger seat and throws it in the back.

  ‘Come and sit in the car. It’s cooler inside.’

  I hand over the purse folded up in the napkin.

  ‘May be important for fingerprints.’ I say

  He shuffles through his papers and pulls out a blank form.

  He leans across towards me until our shoulders and knees are touching.

  ‘I just need to take a statement from you,’ he says, ‘to record the Exhibit.’

  Before he can stop me, I swivel away from him and leap out of the car. I’ve no intention of getting trapped behind a steering wheel again!