She's Mine

by Claire S. Lewis

  ‘I’m sorry I need to get back to Christina, I’ll get her to call DC Costa when we get back to the hotel.’

  I start running back up the track as he jumps out of the car.

  ‘Stop!’ he shouts ‘Can you give her a message?’ He points up to where Christina is standing in the middle of the track waiting for me.

  ‘Tell her I’m on night duty at the Shack again tonight. She’ll know what I mean.’ I turn to go and he shouts once more. ‘Hey! Wait. If you’ve got anything more for me, it’s DC Kramer, Matt Kramer. At your service.’ He grins. ‘Give me a call sometime.’

  Not bloody likely!

  What on earth is Christina playing at?

  I give him a quick wave and keep running up the dirt road to join her.

  When I catch up with Christina, I decide not to pass on the message to her. I’ll tell Costa instead.

  ‘What was all that about?’ she says.

  That’s exactly what I was thinking.

  ‘Oh nothing,’ I say. ‘Is the taxi on its way?’

  We sit in silence on the taxi ride back to the hotel and I reach a decision. As soon as I get into my room, I’m going to make the final touches to my online appeal and press the button to activate. I won’t say anything in advance to Christina or Costa. They’ll find out soon enough once the social media campaign to find Katie has gone live.

  13

  Photograph Four

  21 June 2000: University Schools, Oxford

  I took this photograph on the day you finished your Finals – Midsummer’s Eve. You’re standing on the pavement in front of the University Schools from where you have just emerged, after a three-hour paper on the ‘Aesthetics of Poetry in the Romantic Age.’ That’s how invested I was in your studies and your future! You’ve probably forgotten everything about that afternoon but it is so real to me still that even after all these years, I can remember the subject of your last exam and feel as if I shared in the intensity and stress of writing those complex and wordy essays.

  I came up from London (leaving my studio early and cancelling an important photoshoot), especially to bring you chocolates and flowers to celebrate the end of your gruelling week of Finals. James came to meet you too, of course (still carefree and oblivious to his offspring’s fate – our guilty secret). For him, it was a short, fast cycle ride from his accommodation on the Cowley Road. And there he is on the right of the shot, his arm held high in a triumphant salute, clutching an empty bottle of champagne that he’s just shaken and uncorked all over your head, his battered bicycle slung carelessly against a peeling black painted lamppost.

  You’re bedraggled and tired but lovely as ever. There are dark circles under your eyes and your mascara has streaked in the drops of champagne. The regulation black ‘sub fusc’ gown worn for your exams gives you a solemn and funereal air.

  You should be so happy. You survived! But you look so drawn, and so sad, and so bitter! You’re not even pretending. You’re looking past me, over my shoulder as I take the shot, and you can’t even be bothered to make the effort to twist your face into a smile.

  *

  Gabrielle had found the number for the ‘family planning’ clinic in her Yellow Pages telephone directory while Lara was staying at her Chelsea flat revising for university Finals. It was a private clinic, with the advantage of being only a twenty-five-minute ride in a black cab from Gabrielle’s flat and advertising a ‘quick, efficient, convenient and confidential service.’ The very next day she left work early and took a detour to drop in and pick up the clinic’s sales literature. Their advertising pitch set out the advantages of ‘choosing to pay for private care in our clinic which is licensed and approved for the carrying out of privately funded abortions.’

  ‘This is just what we’re looking for,’ said Gabrielle by way of greeting, as she poured herself a glass of wine. ‘Sounds just the job.’ She handed the sales brochure to Lara who was sitting on Gabrielle’s sofa trying to concentrate on Wuthering Heights, one of the set texts for her Gothic literature examination in two weeks’ time.

  ‘Read this,’ she said. Lara scanned down the page.

  You may wish to pay for your abortion care as it will be quicker to get an appointment and you may feel more comfortable contacting our clinic directly rather than having to make an appointment with your GP and waiting for an NHS referral.

  At your initial consultation you will be offered counselling. You will also take a pregnancy test and have an ultrasound scan which will indicate how many weeks pregnant you are and what procedures are available to you.

  ‘Did you see this?’ said Gabrielle, pointing at the page. ‘You can get it done same day. You can even arrange to get it done at the weekend. That way, you won’t have to miss any tutorials.’

  ‘It’s very expensive,’ said Lara. ‘I can’t afford it.’ She put down her book reluctantly and glanced at the brochure while Gabrielle peered over her shoulder.

  Our prices range from £250–1150. The earlier you are in your pregnancy the less expensive the abortion will be. You will be charged a small fee of around £60–£80 for the initial consultation. If you decide to proceed with treatment after the consultation, you will be required to pay this in full prior to treatment being started. If you opt for the weekend service, you will be expected to pay an additional small fee of around £50 on top of the standard abortion costs.

  ‘Well, it’s just lucky I came up to Oxford to get you yesterday,’ said Gabrielle. ‘We need to get on with it as soon as possible. You got yourself into this mess. Now we need to deal with it. The sooner we get it over and done with, the less expensive it will be.’

  ‘We?’ said Lara. ‘What do you mean, “we”? This is my baby and I’m going to decide what to do about it. I’ve had enough of you pushing me around and trying to manipulate me. Anyway, I’ve already told you, I can’t afford an abortion.’

  ‘And I’ve already told you, I’ll lend you the money and organise it all for you, since you’re so clueless.’ She leaned over Lara’s shoulder. ‘Look, it says they offer a payment schedule so we can pay by instalments.’

  She finished her wine and poured them both a gin and tonic. ‘I’ll pay for it out of my savings and you’ll just have to pay me back after your Finals, once you get a job. I’m even willing to push the boat out and sub you for the weekend service.’

  She handed Lara a glass and then walked over to the phone.

  ‘We can keep it a secret. We don’t need to tell a soul. It’ll be our secret – just you and me.’

  Lara read the last paragraph of the leaflet.

  All your records will remain confidential and no one will find out about you having a private abortion unless you tell them or agree to them being told. This includes your GP and your family.

  She put the brochure to one side and went back to her book.

  ‘What about James?’ she said, without taking her eyes off the page. ‘Surely I should discuss it with him.’

  ‘Fuck James!’ said Gabrielle. She picked up the phone. ‘It’s your body. You get to choose. I’ll call them now before they close. We’ll book it in for next weekend. That’ll give you a full week to get over it before the start of your Finals.’

  14

  Scarlett

  I wake in the early hours of the morning. Images of freshly painted blue-and-white rowing boats are drifting through my head as I open my eyes. It’s pitch dark. I throw back the covers and leap out of bed.

  I’ve got to speak to Costa.

  Last night Christina told me Damien has another bail hearing at ten o’clock this morning. Unless the police have enough evidence to charge him in relation to the suspected abduction, they’ll be forced to release him since the dangerous driving charges don’t carry a custodial sentence.

  Costa also told Christina last night that the police have checked out Damien’s alibi. The gaming entries are genuine. The manager of the Black Jack Casino took them through the books and the casino’s computerised records show that D
amien placed the bets. If his alibi is rock solid, there’ll be no grounds for keeping him in jail. He’ll be released after the hearing.

  But there may be a chink in his alibi. I’ve just woken up with a blue-and-white painted brainwave bobbing in my head, and it won’t wait until morning.

  He said we could contact him any time, day or night.

  I send a text to Costa, and five minutes later, grab my mobile again and punch out his number.

  ‘Can’t it wait ‘til the morning?’ he says.

  I tell him I can prove Damien’s alibi is shaky. I plead with him, crying into the phone. I know that if he thinks my state of extreme agitation is because I’m about to confess or lead him to a dead body, he’ll have to agree to my plan.

  He hesitates.

  ‘Give me an hour,’ he says. ‘I’ll collect you at the hotel.’ I gush out my thanks. ‘You’d better make it worth my while,’ he says.

  *

  I’m sound asleep again when my phone rings at exactly 4.30 a.m.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Costa is waiting for you in the lobby,’ says the receptionist.

  ‘Tell him I’ll be down in two minutes,’ I say.

  I splash some water on my face, drag on my leggings and pull a sports hoodie over my camisole, slip into flip-flops, and make my way to the lift. I almost walk past Costa who’s sitting at the table calmly drinking a cappuccino and checking out his reflection in the glass. He’s kitted out in pressed blue Levis and a spotless white cotton shirt. I’ve never seen him in civvies before. A leather jacket is draped across the chair next to him. He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Nice to see you’ve dressed to impress,’ he says sardonically, taking in my tangled auburn hair and flip-flops.

  ‘I was expecting to see you in uniform.’

  ‘This is strictly off the record. Unofficial business. I didn’t get a chance to square it with the chief. Didn’t want to disturb his beauty sleep.’ He fixes me sternly with his penetrating blue eyes. ‘Best not to draw attention to ourselves, don’t you think?’

  It is still dark outside and the forecourt of the hotel is deserted save for the sleepy doorman and the security guard. Costa’s silver sports car is parked in the drop off zone outside reception, gleaming under the security lights. The car’s flashier than I would have expected for someone on a police officer’s salary. Must be good kickbacks in a place like this, a tax haven with lots of dirty money swilling around.

  So much for not drawing attention – he might as well have come with the sirens blazing!

  He unlocks the car and swings open the door for me with a chivalrous flourish.

  ‘This better be good, young lady.’ His voice sounds hard, without a trace of irony. ‘I’ve come from the warmth of the conjugal bed for this.’

  We’re the only car on the road as he drives smoothly and swiftly through the black night towards the harbour.

  ‘What did your wife say?’ I ask.

  He turns briefly. His expression is inscrutable.

  ‘She’s used to me being out all hours,’ he says. ‘Comes with the job.’

  He hands me his mobile. The screensaver photo is of an attractive woman in her mid-thirties with her arm round a pretty child with dark curls, brown eyes and a big smile.

  ‘That’s my little girl, Sofia, she’s seven years old. Well, as you can imagine her mother is 100 per cent with me on this case.’

  I’m touched. He can’t completely hate me, if he’s willing to share this. Or is it simply a tactic to get me off my guard – to put my trust in him, to coax a confession out of me?

  He drives on for a mile or so in silence then as we turn off the coastal road towards the harbour, he thrusts his hand into the glove compartment and pulls out a copy of Damien’s betting records.

  ‘I printed it off,’ he says. ‘I spent two hours with Leonard last night. Every entry has been cross-checked and verified with the casino’s cashiers and accounting department.’

  He’s going through the motions, I tell myself. But it’s clear he thinks Damien’s alibi is rock solid. The only reason he agreed to take me out at this ungodly hour is because he thinks I’m guilty and about to break. He thinks checking out Damien’s alibi is just a pretext on my part and that my real agenda is to confess and alert the police to where Katie is hidden.

  But he’s wrong. I run my eyes down the list of bets I partly memorised the day before.

  ‘Yes, here it is’ I say, jabbing my finger at the entries about halfway down the page. ‘This is what I was telling you about on the phone.’ Most of the bets were placed at intervals of under half an hour. But at 4.35 p.m. on the afternoon Katie disappeared, there’s a gap. Damien placed a bet at the Black Jack table, and then there’s a gap of well over an hour until he placed his next bet at 5.49 p.m. I wave the paper under Costa’s nose. ‘This puts Damien back in the frame.’

  ‘Doesn’t prove a thing,’ says Costa. ‘Doesn’t invalidate his alibi. Perhaps he went for a drink at the bar, perhaps he was hungry and went to eat at the café, perhaps he met a friend and stopped for a chat…

  ‘Perhaps he did… and perhaps he didn’t,’ I say. ‘Perhaps he went for a boat trip instead…’ He gives me another sideways look.

  As Costa swings the car into the road leading to Reef Point harbour, my eyes are drawn to a flashing purple neon sign:

  Coco Shack Nightclub

  Turn Left 50m.

  ‘Now that sounds familiar,’ I say, remembering the text from Damien I saw on Christina’s phone the morning after Katie’s disappearance… Heavy night at the Coco Shack. And that officer yesterday, he mentioned it too. ‘Tell her I’m on duty at the Shack’.

  ‘Popular night spot, is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Popular with the local crack cocaine dealers and drop outs,’ says Costa. ‘A real dive – we get called in there every other week to bust the place.’ I make a mental note to tell Costa about my weird encounter with Kramer yesterday at Crooks’ Bay.

  Costa parks behind the Coco Shack and we head down to the quayside where I walked with Christina yesterday. The blue-and-white painted wooden boats are shrouded in shadows and shimmer in the moonlight. Far off, the first glimmers of dawn are breaking through where the sky meets the sea, as the dense black cloud thins and lightens to a luminous grey.

  ‘This one will do.’ He leans over and fumbles with the rope tying one of the boats to the harbour wall.

  ‘Shouldn’t we ask someone first?’ I say. ‘Won’t we get into trouble with…’ I’m about to say ‘the police’ but my voice tails off lamely.

  ‘You’re already in trouble… and I am the police.’ He scowls. ‘I don’t need to ask for anyone’s permission round here, everyone knows me.’ The boat lurches under his weight as he jumps in from the harbour wall and reaches out his hand.

  ‘Get in. We’re going for a ride.’

  Losing patience with the wet fibrous knot that has been pulled tight by the tension of the boat, he gets a penknife from the inside pocket of his leather jacket, and slashes the rope.

  I wouldn’t want to mess with him!

  There’s an oar in the bottom of the boat. He grabs it and shoves hard against the slimy wall to push us away. Then he leans over the outboard motor and yanks the fraying starter cord until it splutters into life.

  It is still dark. But a few fishermen are emptying out their lobster pots in the gloom and other shadowy figures are beginning to emerge onto the quayside, carrying crates, unrolling nets and preparing to board their boats. It’s like a stage set coming to life at the opening of a play. As Costa sits down to steer, a man runs out of a nearby shed waving his arms and yelling.

  I feel like a thief in the night as the boat chugs away in low gear from its moorings.

  Costa turns round briefly and laughs.

  ‘It’s only Mitch. He owes me. I’ll deal with him later.’

  I’m fearful that he won’t be able to navigate safely in the dark over hidden rocks and in between the looming hulks of sailing boats.
But he takes command at once.

  ‘I know these waters like the back of my hand,’ he says. ‘My father was a fisherman.’

  ‘Was?’ I say, softly.

  ‘Yes, he was lost at sea in a storm when I was thirteen years old.’

  ‘That’s so sad,’ I say.

  Beyond the shelter of the harbour, there’s a brisk sea breeze rippling the water. I shiver and curl up against the wind. Costa takes off his leather jacket and slings it over to me. The little boat bumps over the waves, jolting me up and down on the wooden bench where I’m sitting in the bow facing him.

  ‘After my father died, I took up deep-sea diving. If I could find him again anywhere, it would be under the waves.’

  ‘How romantic.’ Then I bite my lip. What a stupid thing to say! He must think I’m such a shallow, immature girl. His head is turned away from me. He’s looking past me, at the water ahead, almost talking to himself. In the gloom, I can just make out his profile, and only just catch his words, carried on the wind. He glances towards me, but then shifts his gaze to the water beyond and concentrates on the steering. For an instant, I get the feeling he’s trying to win my confidence, to establish some kind of intimacy between us, and it makes me feel uncomfortable, as if he’s preparing the ground for my confession.

  ‘Check the time’ says Costa, changing the mood abruptly.

  4.48 a.m. I wedge myself further into the bow as he steadily pushes the throttle up to maximum speed. He’s in his element now.

  ‘You seem to enjoy adventures, Miss Scarlett,’ he shouts over the noise of the wind and the sea and the roaring engine. I throw back my head and laugh, breathing in a lungful of salty air. My skin’s tingling with the splash of seawater as the boat canters along at its top speed. Though half-ashamed to be feeling this way given the tragic circumstances, I can’t deny I’m having fun, excited by the turn of events, excited and exhilarated. There’s an edge of fear too, of the vast expanse of sea and of being alone in this little boat with this man (who I can tell is a street fighter at heart despite his civilised veneer), that makes it all the more tantalising. Costa may think I’m a fraud or worse and I can’t decide if I like him or despise him, but I sense a certain chemistry between us.