She's Mine

by Claire S. Lewis

  ‘I’m sorry I was tough with you. Police tactics round here are rougher than where you come from. And there’s no time to lose. I was trying to break you. I went too far.’

  ‘Just because I’m a woman you think you can use the power of your position to humiliate me and try to force a confession out of me,’ I say. ‘You’ve made it pretty clear you think I’m guilty as sin.’

  ‘Right now, it’s my job not to trust anybody. Nobody’s ruled in or out.

  We pull into the hotel and I can’t get out of the car quick enough.

  He lowers the window and leans over.

  ‘If you’re going to keep interfering with the investigation, Scarlett, then you might as well do something useful. Thanks to that social media campaign you pushed the button on yesterday, there are more than five hundred documents sitting on my desk containing possible witness sightings and photographs sent in by the public. We’re completely overwhelmed. You can go through the files in case we missed anything important. I’ll be expecting you in my office first thing tomorrow.’

  This offer (or should I say order) takes me by surprise. Why would Costa give one of his prime suspects insider access to the investigation? I wonder if he’s using this as an excuse to observe me more closely, in the hope I’ll ‘give myself away’?

  ‘Is this another of your traps?’ I say.

  ‘Don’t be such a cynic!’ he says. ‘As I’ve told you, we do things differently round here. I make my own rules. You provoked this deluge. Now you can help to process it.’

  I want nothing more to do with him but I can’t turn down this opportunity to get on the inside of the investigation.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I say. ‘As long as you promise never to lay another finger on me.’

  17

  Scarlett

  Costa drops me at a service entrance to the hotel and I go up the back stairs to my room. I crash out on the bed. I stir briefly before lunch when the maid knocks on the door, send her away with a muffled ‘please come back later,’ and then fall back onto the pillows. I wake just in time to catch the end of afternoon tea served on the verandah under the lime trees. As I’m loading up my plate with cupcakes and scones, I hear a familiar, sarcastic voice…

  How could I forget that voice?

  ‘Hey Scarlett, good to see you’ve still got a hearty appetite!’

  It’s Damien, propping up the bar and toasting me with a Mojito. I make no attempt to hide my shock and irritation. He’s had a shower and a shave, and now looking as handsome and smug as ever, is quick to tell me that the bail hearing went ‘swimmingly well’ this morning. So all my efforts with Costa on the boat came to nothing.

  He tells me that the judge ‘was a pretty decent bloke, quite a good sense of humour actually, built up quite a rapport.’ He’s obviously been trying to charm his way out of trouble. The judge ruled that the charges for reckless driving did not warrant further detention and was more than happy simply to fine him five hundred dollars and release him from custody on bail while the police investigate further unspecified charges. It sounds like a brown-paper-envelope-under-the-table deal to me. I wouldn’t put it past Damien. No wonder the judge was so cheerful!

  Costa has betrayed me – didn’t take any of my accusations about Damien seriously. Not surprising, I guess, given his own astounding comportment on the boat. They’re two of a kind, predatory males, closing ranks. And despite my best endeavours trying to prove that the betting alibi doesn’t hold water, Damien’s release suggests that I failed. Costa’s still obstinately clinging to his simplistic, unambitious opinion that there’s insufficient evidence to bring charges against him for the abduction of Katie. I ask Damien if he’s seen Christina and he tells me they had a late lunch together and she’s now gone up to the room to rest. I am aghast. What is she playing at? So, all is forgiven it seems! In her position, I’d be tearing him to pieces.

  As I work my way through the cupcakes, Damien leans back in his chair and takes it on himself to regale me with anecdotes about the dodgy characters he met in jail. He obviously felt quite at home. Not once does he mention Katie.

  When I’ve licked the last crumb off my fingers and Damien has downed his Mojito, he grabs my arm.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, everyone’s staring at us.’

  ‘Get your hands off me,’ I snap at him. I’m sick of being manhandled.

  We wander out to the gardens.

  ‘I want to apologise for my outrageous behaviour the other day,’ he says. ‘No hard feelings, I hope.’

  He puts his arm round my shoulders. I shake him off and head in the direction of my room.

  ‘Come on Scarlett, we need to talk. It’s important – for Katie’s sake.’

  Reluctantly I follow him through the hotel gardens and along the beach, to get away from the flapping ears and prying eyes of the tourists.

  I can barely talk, too angry to be scared of him. I’m fuming, appalled and astonished that he’s been granted bail, and silently raging at Costa for not taking my allegations more seriously or warning me of his return. I remain convinced that he’s the one behind Katie’s disappearance. He seems so shockingly casual and unaffected. But when I challenge him, he goes off on the offensive himself, accusing me of looking for others to blame.

  ‘Don’t you dare try to guilt-trip me. If anyone’s to blame, it’s you. If you had been doing your job properly, Katie would still be here. What kind of nanny goes to sleep when the little girl she’s supposed to be looking after is playing on a lilo in the sea?’

  He rants on and on, says I’m incompetent and lazy and irresponsible. Well, I’m not taking that from him of all people. So pretty soon we’ve stopped in our tracks in the sand and we’re both shouting, causing a scene. The red-faced sunbathers turn to stare disapprovingly. I scream accusations at him. I don’t care who hears me. I don’t care what they think of me. I accuse him of spiking my drink, of deliberately drugging me, of taking Katie away, of trying to make it look like she drowned, of framing me to make it look like I’m the one at fault.

  ‘I’ve worked out your game,’ I say. ‘You think there’s some money in this to pay off your gambling debts. You’re desperate… you’ll do anything.’

  He just stands there, one hand on his hip, smirking. Suddenly, I can’t hold back any longer. I snap. I lunge at him; the sand flies and I karate kick him between the legs with my bare foot. He crumples. For a moment he looks stunned. Then he straightens, clenches his fists, and I cover my face, thinking he’s about to whack me. But seconds later he drops his hands and laughs, a loud, masculine, guffawing roar, as if I’m the funniest, most idiotic creature in the world.

  ‘You’ve lost your mind,’ he says. ‘You’re a fine one to dish the dirt. Flaunting your body at police officers like a cheap tart. Making false allegations about me. Tampering with the evidence. Strutting around as if you’re in charge of the investigation. Who do you think you are – Pamela Andersen in Baywatch?’

  He takes a packet of Lucky Strike out of his pocket and lights a cigarette.

  ‘Didn’t know you smoked,’ I say.

  ‘There are lots of things you don’t know about me.’ He takes a long drag and half closes his eyes, looking like he hasn’t a care in the world.

  ‘I’ve found out a few home truths about you too,’ he says, slowly puffing a cloud of smoke into the sea breeze. ‘I know you failed your childcare exams and were kicked out of university because of your conviction for possession of cocaine. And I know you were virtually unemployable after being sacked from the Great Gatsby Casino until you decided to have a go at modelling for a soft porn photographer.’

  I barely flinch but he clocks it.

  ‘Not many people would choose to employ a disgraced former trainee croupier with a cocaine habit as a nanny for their precious little darlings!’

  He takes a couple more drags. Then he says, ‘And I know you faked your security checks to hide your conviction for possession of cocaine when you applied through e-Face fo
r the job with Christina. There’s no way she’d have given you a job as Katie’s nanny unless your references were squeaky clean.’

  His words send a chill down my spine… like a bucket of icy water being tipped slowly over my head.

  ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,’ I say, as I swivel in the sand and march back to my room.

  *

  Despite my show of bravado, I’m shaking as I walk away. My chequered employment history is not something I’m proud of. How the hell does Damien know about my conviction for possession of cocaine? Costa didn’t seem to know about it this morning – or he would have added this offence to the litany of my sins in his character assassination of me on the boat. It’s a spent conviction. I’ve gone out of my way to keep that episode of my crazy student days a secret. I’ve never told any of my family or friends and it never got out there on social media. Once again I get that sinking feeling.

  I’m the one being who’s being framed for Katie’s abduction.

  In reality, my ‘crime’ wasn’t as bad as it sounds. I was the victim. I picked up a conviction for possession of cocaine in my second year at university thanks to a shitty, casual boyfriend who stuffed his stash into my bag when the police raided a wild student party we had gate crashed on a whim. I think the police had a pretty good idea that I’d been stitched up. My so-called boyfriend was the son of the local MP so they didn’t ask too many questions. I was the ‘fall guy’. Come to think of it – I begin to see a pattern.

  And I never intended to get into modelling soft porn. I fell into it. It was just a way of paying off my university loans after I got kicked out from university and unfairly dismissed from my temporary job as a trainee croupier. I wanted a fresh start. I felt a real vocation to work with children. But let’s face it, being a convicted drug offender isn’t a great recommendation if you’re looking for a job in childcare. So after about a hundred rejections, I decided to have a go at becoming a model. I got some photos taken and sent them off to all the agencies I could find online. I was completely honest with them and declared the conviction on the application forms – thinking it wouldn’t be such a big deal for a job in modelling. Most of them didn’t bother to reply. I got a few automated responses. A couple got back to me saying they liked the photos but needed someone with experience. I had almost given up hope. Then on the very morning I was planning go and sign up at the welfare benefits office, an email pinged up on my laptop as I was eating breakfast.

  We don’t have any openings in London right now but we note from your resumé that you also have training in childcare. Our sister company which deals with overseas placements for nannies and home helps in the United States has a number of vacancies for positions working as a nanny for expatriate British families based in New York. If you are interested, we are happy to forward your resumé for consideration.

  God what a fabulous opportunity! I’d always wanted to work in New York. I was jumping up and down. I read on:

  If you are successful in obtaining a position in New York we are also happy to offer you up to five unpaid photoshoot assignments (reasonable expenses to be reimbursed) with our trainee Boudoir photographers in New York to enable you to establish your modelling portfolio.

  I was so excited. This was a dream opening – a job in childcare and a chance to develop my career as a model, and the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work in one of the most exciting cities in the world. I had no idea what Boudoir photography consisted of. But I was keen to learn. As it happens, Boudoir was an understatement – a euphemism, to say the least. But I’ve never had too many scruples on the sexual front.

  More importantly, there was the small problem of my drugs conviction. Had it been overlooked? I had noted it on the application form.

  Later that day I received a phone call from the owner of e-Face agency. The woman seemed very professional. She assured me it shouldn’t be a showstopper. She could smooth things along. She promised that confidentiality was assured. She would take care of my security clearance and then forward my resumé (which she would prepare on my behalf) to her sister company which had identified a family based in Manhattan that was interested in employing an English nanny. The very next morning she emailed me the completed, signed and certified child protection security clearance documents, along with a job offer – and before the end of the month, I was on my way to the Big Apple.

  If anyone faked my security checks, it was her not me. It was the agency’s doing.

  *

  When I reach my hotel room, the maids are in there cleaning, so I head back to the pool and find a free sun lounger in the shade of a coconut tree.

  How on earth did Damien dig up all this dirt on me? I settle onto the lounger. I gaze absently at the coconuts hanging high above my head. I remember reading somewhere that more people are killed each year by falling coconuts than sharks. I look up anxiously. Knowing my luck, a coconut will fall on my head.

  Damien’s right. Christina surely didn’t have an inkling of the drug conviction or she would never have offered me the job as Katie’s nanny. So, the information must have come from Costa. He must have received a tip off from his police contacts in London and then grilled Damien about it during interviews. While Costa pretends to take me into his confidence, he’s secretly gathering evidence against me, stabbing me in the back – and Damien will be more than happy to strike a second blow!

  What’s really baffling me is how Damien knows about e-Face and the faked checks. There’s no reason why the British police would know anything about that. Is Damien an undercover agent leading a double life? Surely that’s too far-fetched. As far as I can see, the only way Damien could know anything about these things is if he’s connected with the modelling agency himself.

  I shift my sunbed slightly so that I am not in the direct line of gravity. No point taking any chances with falling coconuts. And then I remember that trip to the park with Damien boasting about having worked as a male model and escort. Maybe he was on the books of e-Face too? That’s the only possible explanation. To be fair I can’t deny he has the body for it. He certainly looks good in those designer swimming trunks that he’s always swaggering about in!

  Just a quick swim in the pool and then I’ll go and find him at the Reef Club. He’s bound to be there – propping up the bar.

  I dive into the cool water and swim the length of the pool underwater. As I surface, my head clears and with it comes a new certainty. He worked for e-Face. That’s how he knows so much about the agency. He must have been in communication with the same woman at the agency who recruited me. So much for him working in finance in downtown Manhattan. I bet that was all made up. He’s a complete fake – a fake and a con artist.

  *

  Later on in the evening, there’s a soft knocking on my door. It’s Christina. She’s come by to let me know that she and Damien are driving out for dinner to Clamities, an upmarket seafood restaurant on the other side of the island that’s fashionable with the floating-gin-palace set and well-heeled locals alike. It’s one of her favourites, a beautiful location right on the waterfront in a secluded harbour, serving traditional gourmet dishes. She says she’s desperate to get away from the paparazzi stalking her at the hotel. I try to dissuade Christina from driving out alone with Damien to such an isolated place. I’ve got a bad feeling.

  ‘The clue’s in the name,’ I say. ‘Clamities! Don’t go with Damien. I don’t trust that man.’

  Anything could happen. But Christina closes me down.

  ‘Damien’s already made the reservation.’ Her eyes could turn me to stone. ‘Just keep out of it. I’m a grown woman. I can look after myself.’

  *

  I order room service and spend much of the evening on my laptop. Eventually I succeed in setting up the sporadic Wi-Fi connection and pull up my old email correspondence with e-Face. There it is, the agency’s slogan ‘e-Face for Unforgettable Faces’ – ironically, I’d forgotten it!

  I haven’t had any comm
unications with e-Face since taking up my position with Christina. I fire off an email complaining about the breach of confidentiality and request someone to contact me by return. I look up the website address and type it into my search bar. A message comes up. The website address no longer exists. A couple of minutes later there’s a ping from my laptop. My email to e-Face has bounced back undelivered. Effaced, literally! Looks like they’ve gone bust – or perhaps been busted by the police?

  Could there be some connection between the fake modelling agency and the disappearance of Katie? I call Costa. If I’m right and Damien worked for e-Face too, then this needs to be investigated further.

  His phone goes to voicemail. I send him a text.

  Call me. I’ve got a new lead for you.

  Before shutting down the laptop, I decide to check out the location of Clamities. I find it straight away. According to TripAdvisor, it’s the top-rated restaurant for ‘Romantic Dining in Clearwater Bay’.

  *

  Needless to say, Costa doesn’t call me back. Family commitments I suppose. Eight o’clock in the evening; he’ll be busy at home with his wife and kid. It’s lonely here with no one to talk to. Everyone’s shunning me at the hotel. I’m desperate for a drink and I need a change of scene so I call down to reception. I can’t stay here on my own.

  Besides I want to check out the Coco Shack. It must be one of Damien’s hangouts. The bar staff might have some useful intel. If I’m right that he hired a boat at Coral Point, he could have stopped off there after he returned it. Tonight, I can kill two birds with one stone. What was it that cowboy Kramer asked me to tell Christina?

  I’m on night duty at the Coco Shack.

  It’ll be interesting to find out what Kramer’s up to down there if he turns up expecting Christina for their shady rendezvous.

  I dial 0 for reception.

  ‘Hi, could you get me a cab please as soon as you can? I’m going to the Coco Shack… Yes, down at the harbour. That’s for room 96, in the name of Scarlett Reyes.’