*
When I push open the saloon doors of the Coco Shack, a barrage of smoke and sweat and pounding rock and roll hits me. It’s like a set from Thelma and Louise, a throwback to the early 1980s. The guys are rough-looking, dressed in faded blue jeans and leathers and stained sleeveless vests, their tattooed arms slicked with sweat. I feel as if I’ve strayed into a bar deep in Texas; there’s nothing Caribbean about it at all and it’s certainly not a classy nightclub – it’s a dive.
A few guys are gathered round a pool table.
Native white trash.
One of them turns, grins and wolf-whistles as I walk in. He shares a joke with his mate, then picks up his beer bottle and strolls over towards me. From the way he moves, I can tell he’s had a few. He’s unshaven – but there’s nothing designer about his stubble – and lean, and riddled with tattoos.
My taxi’s already driven away and it’s too late to back out the door, so I’m just going to have to tough it out.
‘Hello stranger,’ he says. I nod and sidestep round him to the bar. He plants himself next to me, resting his elbows on the greasy counter.
‘Get a tequila for the lady,’ he hollers at the barmaid, ‘and another one for me.’ His eyes stray to my cleavage as he strikes up a conversation. ‘You look like a tequila-drinking kinda girl.’ His breath smells of black rum and stale cigarettes.
‘I’m looking for my friend,’ I say. ‘He was here a few days ago.’ I pull out my phone and flick to a photograph I took of Damien and Katie by the Alice in Wonderland sculpture in Central Park, the week before we came here on holiday. It’s the only photo I have of Damien. He’s carrying Katie on his shoulders but I don’t want to advertise my connection with her disappearance so I’ve cropped her out of the top of the shot. All you can see is her bare legs hanging down on either side of his neck and her cute little feet, in the pink jelly sandals she was so excited about wearing to the beach the other day. Damien’s holding onto one of her ankles.
The man peers down over the screen and belches loudly.
‘Never seen him before,’ he says. ‘Who’s the little dame hanging round his neck?’
‘Low life,’ snarls the barmaid. ‘Give it here’. She speaks in a low Southern drawl, must be an ex-pat from Georgia or Louisiana.
I snatch back my mobile and pass it to her.
She grabs a pair of horn-rimmed specs and squints at the photo on the screen.
‘Don’t recognise the dude,’ she says, ‘but I could swear I’ve seen the woman before.’
I hadn’t noticed but it’s Christina. There, in the background. Her features are out of focus. I zoom in on her face.
‘Yup, that’s the one. Stuck-up cow with an English accent. She was here the other night. Didn’t stay for long. Just drank a beer and asked if she could buy a bottle of vodka and a packet of Lucky Strike, then walked out.’
She hands the mobile back to me. In the photograph, Christina is standing about ten paces behind Damien and looking away from the camera laughing. I remember now, she was watching a red squirrel that had stolen a boy’s cookie.
‘This is about the little girl, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘The little girl, Katie, who’s been on the news. Poor kid. Is that witch her mother?’
‘Text me if you have any information,’ I say, and scribble my number down on a beermat.
I can’t wait to tell Costa that Christina’s been seen hanging out at the Coco Shack.
18
Photograph Six
20 May 2003: Stratford-Upon-Avon
Here’s another happy memory of the three of us. I’m sure you’ll remember this only too clearly, my wedding day. Here we are in the churchyard of the delightful Saxon parish church in the village of Ledstone, near Stratford. Remember? We were blessed with beautiful spring sunshine that day.
James is looking so handsome in his tux, smiling that irresistible, puppy-dog smile of his, facing our family and friends as we prepare to drive away, one hand holding mine and the other reaching to open the door of the bright red E-type Jag we hired for our honeymoon on the French Riviera. And I must admit that I do look something of a stunner in that fitted, off-the-shoulder, ivory lace wedding dress. We spent hours in a little boutique in Mayfair trying on dresses before finally settling on that one. Do you remember? Call me vain, but I have to say, it sets off my neck and shoulders beautifully.
The cobbled path leading from the church is strewn with confetti – white, pink and red petals. A few have come to rest on my bare shoulders and in my twisted braids. In the foreground a flurry of red petals catches the light, frozen in mid-air as the shutter closed.
My left hand is stretched out towards you and there’s a blur of swirling colour, spiralling in an arc between us – my bouquet. Your hands are raised high above your head, which is thrown back as you look up towards the whirling flowers. You’re clutching the air and there’s a hollow below your ribcage rippling the smooth grey silk of your bridesmaid dress. You could be laughing. But I don’t recall. Your face is hidden in the shade of the dark red blooms.
Tell me, Lara, did you screw him in the Bluebell Woods that day?
*
Gabrielle was desperate to get into the Jag and drive away, to leave them all behind, and to be on her own at last with James. To an outsider, it would have looked a picture-perfect day in almost all respects. But she had reached saturation point after spending less than twenty-four hours in her childhood home. Lara, in particular, had done everything she could to irritate her and blacken the mood with her gloom and sullen silences on the one hand, and her flirtatious treachery with James on the other. She couldn’t wait to see them all receding to nothing in the rear-view mirror of the Jag.
The arrangements had mostly gone smoothly, marred only by a last minute hitch with the flowers. The florist who lived in an isolated hamlet about ten miles away was supposed to deliver the wedding party bouquets and buttonholes to the family home at ten in the morning. She had phoned at half past nine to say that her car had broken down and she was stranded.
James, with his usual punctuality, was ready hours early. He was always one for grand gestures, and, in keeping with tradition, was supposed to be keeping out of sight of the bride-to-be. He offered to save the day by driving over to fetch the wedding flowers. As he had never been to the place before and wasn’t sure how to find it, Lara (whose hair and make-up had been done already) jumped up smartly and offered to keep him company and help him to navigate the country lanes.
‘Great idea,’ he said. ‘We haven’t had much time for a catch up and that way you’ll get a spin in the Jag. It’s such a gorgeous day. We can put the top down.’
So instead of staying dutifully with Gabrielle while the hairdresser and the make-up artist fussed over the final touches, Lara slipped out of the house with James. Gabrielle was seething when her mother told her where she had gone.
‘What does she think she’s playing at? She’s my chief bridesmaid, for God’s sake, supposed to be helping me, calming my nerves and keeping me company on the morning of my wedding. That’s her job as my chief bridesmaid, isn’t it? Any opportunity she can get to try and get her claws back into him. On this of all days… I don’t believe it. Disloyal bitch. I wish she’d never been born.’
And she was furious with James. ‘Just like him too,’ she said bitterly to her mother. ‘He can’t bear to be on his own for five minutes. Always wants to have his cake and eat it. Can’t resist putting out the charm and getting his ego massaged by having a pretty woman sitting beside him in the car. She’s his ex and it’s our wedding day. Doesn’t even cross his mind that it’s completely fucking inappropriate!’
Her mother just hushed and tutted.
‘Come on Gabrielle. She doesn’t mean any harm. They used to be close but that was a long time ago. She’s had plenty of boyfriends since they broke up. They’re just friends and he’s almost family now.’
You just haven’t got a clue, thought Gabrielle.
Then
Gabrielle turned away and sat down in front of her mother’s walnut dressing table. She opened a small velvet box and took out a pair of jade earrings.
‘Those are so pretty,’ said her mother. ‘The colour is perfect with your eyes.’
Her anger ebbed away.
‘He bought them for me in Venice’ she said. ‘A few weeks after he proposed to me in New York, we went away to Venice for the weekend, to have a proper break, just the two of us, without her. He gave them to me when we were floating in a gondola under the Bridge of Sighs. Have to admit it was a bit clichéd, but very romantic, more romantic than his proposal actually. I virtually had to drag him into Tiffany’s to buy the ring.’
Her eyes were a little dreamy as she gazed at herself in the mirror.
*
Lara was alarmed. James was driving badly, tearing round blind corners on the country lanes, with no thought for oncoming traffic or cyclists or horse riders who might be just round the next bend.
He turned towards her and smiled the smile that had captivated her from the first. ‘I’m so glad we got away. I wanted some time with you alone. How’s life in New York? How are you? I mean, how are you really? Are you OK?’ He put his hand on her knee.
‘For God’s sake, keep your hands on the wheel,’ said Lara, ‘I’m fine. Just fine. It’s a bit late to ask now, anyway, isn’t it? I’m making a new life for myself, away from Gabrielle, away from you, escaping the toxic triangle once and for all. I had to get away, to be alone, to be myself, to live my own life, to find my own identity at last. Not always defined as someone’s best friend, someone’s other half.’
The lane dipped into a valley and then rose on the other side passing through a shady tunnel of trees. It brought back memories.
‘The Bluebell Woods,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been here for years. We used to steal food from the church kitchen, play truant from school and cycle over here for a picnic at this time of year. Look, they’re carpeted with bluebells.’ She sighed. ‘That’s what Gabrielle wanted anyway, isn’t it, what you both wanted – to get me cropped right out of the picture. You made your choice.’
Without warning, James swung the Jag off the country lane, up a farm track that led under the trees, cut the engine and got out of the car.
‘Come with me. I’ve got something for you.’ He opened the passenger door and pulled her by the hand.
They walked into the woods a little way, trampling the bluebells underfoot. James took something out of the pocket of his wedding suit then tossed it down over the wild flowers.
‘Here, this is perfect. Use my jacket.’
She lay back on his jacket looking up at the criss-cross of branches and bright green leaves of early summer patterning the blue sky.
He held out a small velvet box.
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to propose?’ she said ironically.
‘Don’t mock me, Lara. I want to give you something. I believe it’s traditional for the groom to buy presents for the bridesmaids but I don’t want to give you some stupid trinket or box of chocolates chosen by the bride. Take it, please.’
She leant up on her elbows and opened the box.
‘They’re beautiful,’ she said, touching the jade stones of the earrings, ‘my favourite colour.’
‘I chose them especially for you in Venice. I found them in a jewellery shop just behind the Piazza San Marco. I thought they’d be perfect for you. But don’t show Gabrielle. You know how jealous she can be.’
He picked a fistful of bluebell stems and tucked them into her cleavage then kissed her playfully on the lips. For a moment she resisted, then she let herself fall back onto the carpet of wild flowers. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry the way things turned out,’ said James.
They lay on their backs, his head pillowed on Lara’s stomach, looking up at the sky through the green mosaic of leaves.
‘You didn’t give me a chance to try to make things right between us,’ said Lara.
‘I still can’t forgive you for getting rid of my baby,’ said James. ‘Even after all these years, it hurts. How could you do it, without even telling me?’ He turned his face into her soft, flat belly. ‘I know I was a player back then. And you and I were so young and foolish. But you girls played me too, you know. I was your plaything, caught in the tug of war.’ He rolled away from her and looked up at the sky. ‘I was infatuated and obsessed with you both, tormented by your dual beauty. But it was only you I was in love with. I had made my choice. I was ready to give up everything for you. I was ready to be a father and your husband. But you were so determined to have an abortion and conceal it from me.’
‘Is that what she told you?’ Lara sat up rigid. ‘She was the one who swore me to secrecy. And what she told you is a lie. She’s twisted it all. I wanted to keep the baby. She forced me to have the abortion. And then after it was done, I wanted to tell you the truth. And she stopped me. It was all part of her evil plan to get her claws into you.’
She closed her eyes and lay back.
‘Scheming bitch.’
*
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Gabrielle screamed as Lara burst into the bedroom. ‘And what the hell happened to your hairdo? We’ve got to leave for the church in twenty minutes.’
‘We took a wrong turn. Got lost in the lanes.’
Gabrielle took in Lara’s glowing, dishevelled appearance, the windswept hair and smudged lipstick, the renewed spark in her eyes, and she knew.
‘I hate you,’ she said. ‘I hate you. I wish you were dead, and I hate James. Where is he?’
‘He dropped me at the house and he’s gone straight to the church with the buttonholes for the men. Your bouquet is downstairs with the garlands for the bridesmaids. I’ve put them in vases of water to stay fresh. We didn’t forget anything. It’s all sorted. You can relax.’
Gabrielle watched her chief bridesmaid pull her cotton dress down over her shoulders and hips, and let it drop to the floor.
‘I’ll be ready in five minutes,’ said Lara, as she slipped off her bra and tossed it on to the bed. ‘I just need to rearrange my hair.’
Gabrielle bent down to pick up a wilted bluebell stem that had fallen at Lara’s feet.
‘I knew you would betray me, but did it have to be today?’ she said, crushing it in her hands. ‘I wish you were dead.’
Lara took the grey silk bridesmaid dress off its hanger, stepped into it and turned her back to Gabrielle.
‘Could you zip me up please? Then I’m ready to go.’
At last they went out the front door into the rose garden of the vicarage, where the photographer was waiting.
‘Where’s my bouquet?’ said Gabrielle crossly. ‘You’re hopeless!’
Lara ran back to collect the flowers from the hallway. As Lara handed over the bouquet, Gabrielle looked up at her perfect, inscrutable profile and felt sick.
They crossed the lawn to where the photographer stood adjusting his lens.
‘Nice earrings, by the way,’ said Lara quietly, as together, they turned to compose identical smiles for the camera. ‘Did you get them in Venice, by any chance?’
*
Gabrielle closed her eyes and flung the flowers as hard as she could towards the smiling huddle of family and friends gathered along the path and the lawns leading from the church. When she opened them, she was looking straight at Lara, of course, and the flowers were winging their way towards her.
She’s always there. Why does she always have to be there, like a shadow, right on my heels, always there to fight over the spoils?
Her smile froze as she watched Lara scrabble for the catch and fumble it. In an instant, James had let go of her hand and he raced over to where the scarlet bouquet had fallen on the path at Lara’s feet.
Gabrielle watched him playing to the crowd. With a flourish of dramatic chivalry, he dropped to his knees, scooped up the flowers and handed them to Lara, who seemed almost to swoon with delight. All went quiet for just one beat. Gabrielle’s nails
cut in to her palms as her fists tightened. Then someone clapped, and everyone exhaled and joined in the clapping and cheering, all except for Gabrielle, as James strolled back to her side.
19
Scarlett
I’m drying my hair when the barmaid from the Coco Shack calls me on my mobile. I wasn’t expecting to hear from her so soon. It’s not even 7 a.m. I recognise her Deep South accent immediately but she’s so agitated she can barely get the words out.
‘I was taking the garbage out first thing this morning and I found her shoes – those little pink sandals, all covered in mud, stuffed in our trash cans. Same ones she was wearing in your photograph.’
The hairdryer drops to the floor.
‘Don’t touch them,’ I say. ‘You’d better call the police right now. Ask to speak to Costa, Detective Sergeant Costa, he’s in charge of the investigation.’
‘The police were down here last night,’ she says. ‘They must know something.’ Her voice is breathy and raw. ‘I saw a police officer talking to the girl’s mother in the parking lot – they were standing by the bin store when I went out to get more beers, just after you left. You only missed her by about five minutes.’
Damn! I was right – Christina’s up to her neck in this.
‘I’m shit-scared,’ she whimpers. ‘The police must think something happened here. That lowlife who was talking to you at the bar last night and his gang of scum-fucks – any one of them could have done it.’
I’m scared too.
*
‘Did you get the tip-off about the shoes?’ I say, the instant I walk into Costa’s office. He’s told me not to interfere in the investigation without his permission – he wants to keep me under his control. But that’s tough. ‘Are your people searching the premises?’
‘I’ve sent a car down,’ says Costa. ‘It’s probably a red herring. My guess is it’s another plant to keep us away from the girl’s real hiding place. We know it’s a diversionary tactic but we have to get forensics to investigate the site anyway. It’s a waste of valuable time and resources. Slows things down.’
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