He steers the boat close to the coastline under the sheer cliffs where the Caribbean gulls swirl overhead then swings the rudder and heads in a straight line across the water to the cluster of bright lights on the looming landmass just visible on the other side. It’s St James, one of the US Leeward Isles and he tells me that the lights we can see in the distance are the lights of the Black Jack Casino, open twenty-four hours.
*
‘5.17 a.m.,’ I call out. Costa ties the boat to a rusty iron mooring at the casino’s private dock. ‘Twenty-nine minutes exactly.’
‘Let’s go in,’ he says. ‘I’ll introduce you to Leonard, he’s the boss round here. They do a good breakfast. Then we can test your theory.’
‘Hey, Lennie,’ he calls, as we walk in. ‘When do you sleep, man? Here’s the girl I told you about. Scarlett Reyes. She claims to be a gambling virgin as well as an amateur sleuth!’ His voice bristles with sarcasm. ‘Can you show her the tables?’
I’m happy to be shown round the casino, instantly at home in the bling red velvet décor of the establishment. Even though it’s dead at this hour, I love the luxurious decadence of the place and the thrill of the tables and games of chance. There’s hardly anyone at the tables, just a couple of ashen-faced, die-hard punters who’ve made it through the night.
After I’ve chanced my luck at roulette a few times ‘on the House,’ Lennie leads me back to the breakfast room just as two plates loaded with sausages, eggs, bacon and tomatoes are carried in.
‘You’re back.’ Costa’s sitting down ready to tuck in to the feast.
‘She’s a quick learner for a girl…’ Lennie touches Costa’s arm. ‘Great sleight of hand. Could be a pro.’
I give Lennie one of my best ‘put down’ looks.
‘Ah! Those green eyes!’ says Lennie. ‘Gambler’s eyes.’ He’s got no shame, leering into my face. ‘And gambler’s fingers, so slender. Never seen such beautiful hands before…’ He winks at Costa as he takes my fingers in his plump, sweaty palm while I become aware of some unspoken communication between them. I wince as his warm, wet lips touch my cool skin but smile sweetly.
What a complete prick!
‘I’ll come back one day, when I’m properly dressed for it,’ I say, pulling my hand away and plucking at my hoodie in a mock, self-deprecating way. I’m regretting not having taken the time to make myself look decent.
‘What was that all about?’ I ask once Lennie sidles off to deal with a drunken overnight guest causing a scene at the cashier’s desk. I sense that Costa is using Damien’s alibi check as an opportunity to check out his own theory that Damien and I are gambling partners as well as partners-in-crime.
‘Don’t worry about him. He’s just trying it on.’ Costa smoothers a sausage in hot mustard and cuts it neatly into bite-size segments. ‘Let’s hear it then.’
‘OK so this is my theory,’ I say. ‘Our journey this morning from Coral Point harbour to the Black Jack moorings took just under half an hour. We know that Damien made a payment at the cashier’s desk at 3.39 p.m. which means he must have left the hotel by three o’clock latest even if we allow only ten minutes for the drive down to the harbour and less than half an hour for the boat trip. Well, we know that I was sitting with Katie watching her play until at least 3.35 p.m. That’s when I used my phone to take the photograph of Katie collecting shells on the beach that’s on all the police posters. So clearly Damien can’t have taken Katie from the beach himself. If he is responsible for her abduction, he can’t have been acting alone.’
‘You didn’t get me out of bed in the early hours of this morning just to tell me that Damien has an accomplice, did you now, young lady?’ says Costa, lifting his eyebrows offensively.
‘No, there’s more, if you’ll hear me out.’
I take a sip of scorching tea.
‘Right, so let’s assume Damien arrived at the Black Jack Casino some time before 3.30 p.m. intending to spend the night gambling. He’s addicted to gambling. It’s worse than being an alcoholic. I know Christina rumbled him just before we came away on holiday – there was a huge scene at her apartment when he came back from one of his poker nights downtown.’
Costa’s now slicing his bacon with the precision of a pathologist carrying out a post-mortem.
‘Damien’s such a loser in all senses of the word. Christina told me she found out he’d run up massive gambling debts in New York, had even ‘borrowed’ her credit card to pay them off. Though I don’t think he even thinks of it as stealing, and nor does she, as they’re both so careless with money.’
‘Cut the backstory,’ quips Costa, tapping his fingers. ‘She gave me this information yesterday.’
‘OK, so, Damien arrives here at the Black Jack at around 3.30 p.m., pays off part of his debt to the casino and starts placing bets. As well as having a compulsion to keep gambling all night, Damien needs to set up an alibi, and as well as wanting to establish an alibi, he’s also tasked with a mission. At 4.35 p.m. he places a bet at the Black Jack table. He plays a round then throws in his chips and leaves the table, walks straight down to the moorings where he’s left the boat he hired at Coral Point, jumps into the boat and speeds off in the direction of the reef.’
Costa yawns.
‘Now here’s the clever bit – Damien didn’t buy just one yellow lilo, he bought two.’
I look up triumphantly to let this vital piece of information sink in. ‘There were two lilos – number one, the lilo Katie was playing with at the beach, and number two, the lilo that was salvaged from the reef.’
‘I’m not an idiot,’ Costa snaps. ‘I can count…’
‘The lilo Katie was playing with when she disappeared was a present from Damien. He gave it to her in the morning – the morning of the day she disappeared. Christina seemed mad at him. She had sent him off after breakfast to buy a bucket and spade for Katie to collect her shells and he came back with the lilo instead. She made out that they’re dangerous for little kids, of course. But Katie’s face lit up with delight when Damien took it out of the bag, and Christina said she hadn’t the heart to stop him. Anyway, Katie got to keep the lilo but I remember that Christina sent him back to the shop for a bucket and spade.’
I pause for a breath while Costa taps a cigarette impatiently on the table, his face impassive.
‘Now, my theory is that Damien didn’t buy the lilos at the local shop at all. For one thing, I know that it opens half an hour later than the time he got back to the pool. And for another thing, I know they don’t sell yellow lilos because I checked it out yesterday. They only have two colours – pink and blue. I’m convinced he already had both the yellow lilos hidden in the Jeep.’
‘This is getting dull,’ says Costa. He lights the cigarette and blows the smoke into my face. ‘You’ve spent too long with pre-schoolers.’
I decide to ignore his rudeness. ‘So anyway, he gave one lilo to Katie that morning. She played with it at the pool and she played with it at the beach. I think that’s the lilo I found stuffed in a rucksack in the trunk of the Jeep. But as I say, there was a second yellow lilo, identical to the first, and that’s the one Damien took with him on the blue-and-white motorised rowing boat he hired at Coral Point.’ Costa pours himself another cup of black coffee. He looks bored rigid but I guess it’s all part of his interview technique. ‘So Damien places his bet at 4.35 p.m., jumps in the boat and heads for the reef. When he gets alongside the reef, he drops anchor, blows up the second lilo and throws it overboard just where it will get caught up in the current and drift along the reef and past the rocks until it is in full view of the beach.’ He lights the cigarette and blows smoke across the table. ‘Damien then turns the boat and navigates across the water to Crooks’ Bay. There he meets his accomplice, who in the meantime has abducted Katie from the beach and driven her down to Crooks’ Bay along the coastal road in the Jeep.’ I pick up my knife and fork.
At last Costa is beginning to look interested.
‘What happens ne
xt in this grand theory of yours?’ says Costa.
‘Something happens which means the trail goes cold at Crooks’ Bay,’ I say. ‘We know that from the tracker dogs.’ Suddenly, I can’t face the thought of breakfast and push away my plate. ‘Perhaps Katie never left the beach… perhaps she’s still there – that’s why your people are now digging up the sand. Or perhaps she was taken aboard the boat and dumped out at sea. But I can’t bear to think of these things. I refuse to believe that Katie is dead. I believe that she is alive and I’ll carry on believing and searching until there is absolute proof to the contrary.’
I stand up and walk over to the window looking out at the spectacular sunrise, an impressionist palette of pinks, purples and grey over the sea, then turn to face Costa.
‘So this is what I think happened: the accomplice takes Katie to the cave, where she changes her out of the swimsuit into her clothes. Then the accomplice hands Katie over to Damien who takes her away in the boat to some isolated spot along the coast or on another nearby island where she is to be hidden away until arrangements can be made for her to disappear for good.’
Costa stubs out his cigarette, wipes his lips with a serviette and comes over to where I’m standing. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes very intently.
‘You seem to have thought this through very carefully,’ he says. He makes a long pause. ‘Is there anything more you need to tell me Scarlett?’ I let his slur on my innocence pass and continue quickly.
‘Having dropped off Katie at the pre-arranged location, he then full-throttles back to the casino where he bounds up the steps, slicks back his hair, adjusts his designer shades, casually orders a drink at the bar, and strolls back to the black jack table in time to place his next bet at 5.49 p.m. Mission accomplished and his alibi intact.’
I pause for breath. Costa leans back against the wall and crosses his arms.
‘You’ve pitched it well, got every scene worked out in that pretty little head of yours, haven’t you!’ I can feel myself blushing with anger. ‘You sound like a second-rate crime novel,’ he says. His voice oozes contempt, even though he’s smiling at me like a perfect gentleman. ‘So what was the point of launching the lilo, in this set up of yours?’
‘Well, the lilo was a decoy, of course. At first, the abductor wanted everyone to think that Katie had been drowned or even attacked by a shark. I mean, it’s obvious isn’t it? God, even the colour – a yellow lilo! You must’ve seen Jaws when you were a kid? The little boy splashing in the water, and then a few seconds later, he’s gone, and all we can see is a patch of blood-stained water. It was a play on everyone’s emotions and a play for time – maybe even having a sick joke at our expense? But if Katie really had drifted out on the lilo from the beach, surely someone would have seen it happening? Even though you don’t have lifeguards in this God-forsaken place someone would have raised the alarm. There were enough people sitting on their butts gawping out to sea.’
‘Yeah, well maybe they were more interested in checking out the hot young totty on the beach than checking on the little kids in the water…’
‘Very funny.’ I say.
‘I’ve got another question for you,’ he says. ‘If you’re right about this, what happened to the first lilo, the one Katie was playing with in the water before Sleeping Beauty crashed out on the sand?’
I don’t rise to it.
‘It was carried away from the beach. Katie’s abductor took the lilo with her and stuffed it in a rucksack in the back of the Jeep.’ He shoots me a quizzical look. ‘As Damien intended,’ I continue, ‘lilo number two that he launched near the reef drifted into a position where it was visible from the beach and could cause a distraction. Later that afternoon, I came to my senses on the sand to find that Katie had vanished, spotted the lilo, and raised the alarm, thinking that she’d been caught in a rip tide and swept out to sea. While all eyes were on the search-and-rescue at the reef, Damien’s accomplice gained a few hours to remove Katie and cover her tracks.’
I walk back to the table, take a gulp of tea and look across at Costa.
‘Her?’ he says, suddenly alert. His head’s tilted to one side. ‘That’s the second time you’ve used the word, “her” to refer to Katie’s abductor. A few minutes ago you used the word “she”.’ He’s observing me cynically. ‘I know you women are not to be trusted but what makes you so sure Damien’s accomplice is a woman? Do you have someone particular in mind?’
I say nothing.
‘Let’s go then’ he says, kicking back his chair and pushing away the plate. ‘Perhaps I can make you talk later? The sooner we check out this story of yours, the sooner I can get back to bed.’
15
Photograph Five
11 September 2000: Twin Towers, New York
I love this picture because James took it. We came over to spend a week with you in New York just before you started your semester at Columbia University taking a post-grad course in Twentieth-Century American Literature. I was doing a project shoot for an exhibition I was putting together in my studio in Chelsea, on the theme ‘Together and Apart.’ I’d chosen to represent the theme in the form of bridges, and to feature views of bridges spanning the East River.
And there were other reasons for coming too. We wanted to check up on you. Make sure you had got over the upset of the miscarriage and were enjoying your time in New York. And, most importantly, we wanted to tell you face to face. To tell you we were engaged – didn’t seem fair to let you find out from one of our friends.
So, we broke the news, over brunch in a little café in Tribeca, and you admired my engagement ring, a platinum band with a 1.5-carat flawless solitaire bought at Tiffany’s earlier that morning. (James almost died when the manageress whispered the price!) Afterwards we took a boat trip around Manhattan, heading south down the East River and then round to the Hudson on one of those tourist steamboats. And I took lots of photographs of bridges from many different angles. You and James leaned over the railings looking at the views, chatting of nothing in particular, or rather he talked, and you just nodded and looked across the water.
Then as we rounded the river in front of the Twin Towers, James grabbed the camera from my neck. ‘Come and stand over here. This would make a great shot – the two most beautiful girls in the world in front of the Twin Towers.’
And here we stand, side-by-side – together and apart – in front of those iconic, tragic towers soaring above our ‘spot-the-difference’ pretty faces. At first glance there is no difference – no way of telling us apart, unless you look very closely at the photograph. For you were always good at dissembling. But look again, at our double image. Our lips are parted, smiling, yet your eyes are dull, and in contrast, my eyes are shining as brightly as the diamond that’s glittering on the fourth finger of my left hand.
I have to admit; the composition is good. There’s clarity and depth. And there’s symmetry and symbolism. Not at all bad for an amateur – all things considered. And, who knows, maybe the image has some historic value today. Heart-rending to think, that exactly one year later the Twin Towers collapsed and disintegrated into dust.
Revenge is sweet. You triumphed in a punt on the Cherwell. I trumped you in a steamboat on the Hudson. Our most vicious duels always seem to take place afloat, in boats! All at sea, on rivers, adrift in the current… like today, we’re always messing about in boats, funny that. But today you’re my captive.
*
Gabrielle didn’t hang around. As soon as Lara’s abortion had taken place, she embarked on her campaign to win back James, if only to get one over on Lara and restore the rightful balance of power.
Her first move was to flatter his ego. She spent hours in the photography suite at her studio, perfecting black-and-white prints of pictures she had taken of him during his stay with her in Chelsea. She revelled in the alchemy of the darkroom – there was something magical, almost supernatural, in the process – standing over trays of pungent chemicals alone i
n the red glowing darkness conjuring faces and captured moments on blank sheets of white paper. Of course, she had had to move with the times, and engaged more and more in digital photography for her commercial work, but when working for her own pleasure (as in this labour of love), she opted for the witchcraft of the darkroom every time. She was thrilled with the results. They were indeed fine portraits of James. He made a good model, with his regular features and dark eyes that were at once expressive and nonchalant. She experimented with different finishes and effects and produced a portfolio album that was worthy of submission to modelling agencies. She sent it to him at his student lodgings in Cowley Road, carefully wrapped in purple tissue paper, with a note:
My gift – as promised. You’ve got what it takes – If you want to take it further, I’ll be here for you.
Of course, James was flattered, and attracted by the lure of fame and success. Despite his high ideals of wanting to make the world a better place, he was also vain and ambitious – an impressionable and dangerous combination. Although the same age as Gabrielle, she had an air of sophistication and experience that he could not match, working in London, earning her own living, owning a flat, and with access to all the best modelling agencies in the world of high fashion. When Gabrielle telephoned him in Oxford to check that the package had arrived safely, he declined her offer to get him photographic work on the basis that he was going to be a doctor, not a male model. Besides, he told her proudly, he already had plans for the long vacation – with the encouragement of his tutor, he had successfully applied for a vacation studentship grant with the British Pharmacology Society and would be undertaking a six-week summer research project, working alongside researchers in a laboratory engaged in the testing of new experimental cancer drugs. But Gabrielle was not so easily deterred – without saying anything more about it, she sent out his images to her clients. Within a few days she was on the telephone to James again. She had shown his shots to an influential client who was keen and was willing to offer James a few days’ work. It was a fabulous opportunity, she told him, once in lifetime, very well-paid. Three telephone calls later, he capitulated; what harm could it do? It shouldn’t interfere too much with his research internship. And he needed the extra cash. He would just have to call in sick to the lab on a few days. They wouldn’t be any the wiser.
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