‘Sure boss, enjoy your dinner.’ The radio crackles in the brisk sea breeze and cuts out. A few minutes later Costa’s radio bleeps once more. Above the hiss, I hear Brenda’s voice again. ‘The Jackal just checked in,’ she says. ‘He’s been granted permission to enter US waters off St Croix for an offshore drugs patrol.’ Costa hands me a bottle of iced beer.
‘I told you, I don’t drink beer,’ I say.
‘This isn’t that warm, dreary swill you drink back home. It’s liquid sunshine,’ says Costa. ‘Try it: Island Hoppin’ IPA, local brewery – you’ll love it.’
He opens one for himself and sits down beside me.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be on duty?’ I say.
Costa leans back to let the sun fall on his face. ‘Jack’s got everything under control.’ he says. ‘If he finds The Phantasea he can do the board and search. I’ve been doing eighteen-hour days. Reckon I’m owed an evening off.’
The view from the deck is achingly beautiful with the flaming crescent of sea backed by rippling sandstone cliffs and the sun dipping behind purple hills. Three beers later, I’m filled with a warm glow – a renewed surge of optimism convinces me Katie will be found on board The Phantasea, safe and well. Having eaten only a few mouthfuls of pizza all day, the beer has gone straight to my head. I stand at the rail, light headed and ready to forgive all wrongs.
‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.’ I look into Costa’s eyes. ‘Your eyes, they’re so blue. It’s unusual for round here.’
‘Well, my mother was from Tennessee and my father from Puerto Rico. Going back further, one of my great-grandfathers was Scottish. Don’t laugh at me, it’s true, he was a fisherman and a redhead like you, emigrated here from Skye. That explains the blue eyes. So, on the forms, I tick the box Mixed-Heritage Hispanic – covers a multitude of sins.’
‘That’s weird. My great-grandmother came from the west coast of Scotland,’ I say.
Six degrees of separation and all that.
‘So you see, we’ve got something in common,’ he says.
My thoughts turn to Christina. I haven’t heard from her all day. I was so preoccupied going through the files that I didn’t have the headspace to concern myself with her unusual radio silence. She’s usually bugging me every five minutes with texts. But she hasn’t responded to mine all day and all my calls have gone to voicemail. The last time I spoke to her was last night just before she went off to Clamities with Damien. She was so determined to drive over to Clearwater Marina despite my warnings. Which makes me think she knows that Katie is hidden on board The Phantasea. But her silence makes me fear for her safety too. The package handed over by a police officer to Christina at the Coco Shack may contain a little stash of candy dust that could be all that Damien needs to pay off his gambling debts. But at what cost? Who or what did she sacrifice in return? I’ve been tipped into this crazy universe where everything is so confusing and uncertain that I can’t make up my mind who’s the predator and who’s the prey.
I’m sure of one thing. She’s playing with fire.
*
The dining room’s deserted by the time Costa drops me back at the hotel. I have to admit I enjoyed the dinner at Clamities, and all the more so because Costa stretched the meaning of ‘strictly business’ and treated me to a slap-up meal. We did get some useful information from our wine waiter who recalled that Damien and Christina had dinner there last night and left the restaurant at about ten-thirty in the evening. Before dinner Costa interviewed the harbour master who confirmed that The Phantasea had been docked in the harbour intermittently throughout June and left its moorings just before midnight last night. It was agreed that Costa would send one of his officers down tomorrow to view CCTV footage from three security cameras located along the quayside. No one we spoke to at Clearwater reported any sightings of Katie but if she had been taken onboard the yacht by Damien or Christina there was a chance that something would have been picked up on one of the cameras. The harbour master also promised to go back through the records of shipping movements logged by the marina since the beginning of June.
Now Costa’s gone home to his wife and kids and I’m facing another miserable night alone in my hotel room. Despite my suspicions about Christina’s role in all of this, I’m increasingly concerned for her welfare as I haven’t had any contact from her for over twenty-four hours so I walk straight up to the front desk to ask whether there are any messages for me, and whether Miss Kenedey dined at the hotel this evening.
The receptionist looks at me in surprise.
‘Mr and Mrs Kenedey checked out this morning,’ she says. ‘Mr Kenedey came to settle their bill first thing.’
So they can’t have been onboard The Phantasea when it set sail just after midnight last night.
I don’t even bother to correct her with the names.
‘He said that Mrs Kenedey was finding it difficult to cope with the constant media attention and so they were going to transfer to a villa in the north of the island,’ she continues.
Alarm bells start ringing in my head. Now that I’ve stopped fantasising about her being a predatory, drug-dealing, psycho-killer, I’m sure Christina would have told me if they were planning to leave.
‘Did Miss Kenedey come down to say goodbye?’ I say casually.
The receptionist tells me she only saw ‘Mr Kenedey.’
‘He ordered room service before their departure as the breakfast room was still closed. He said they wanted to leave early, before the press pack arrived.’ She looks a little flustered. ‘I respect her privacy. She must be very tired. She stayed up in her room. It was her husband who came down to make all the arrangements.’
‘How about the porters?’ I say. ‘Didn’t they go up to the room to bring down the luggage?’ The receptionist goes into the office to ask.
‘No, madam,’ she says. ‘The gentleman carried the cases himself. He said he didn’t need any assistance.’
‘How about last night? Did you speak to or see Christina late last night?’
She tells me she wasn’t on late duty last night and goes back into the office to check with the other reception staff.
It seems that no-one has seen Christina since Damien took her out for dinner yesterday evening, to Clamities, a secluded seafood restaurant, in a remote location, on the other side of the island…
‘Did they leave a forwarding address?’
Before she answers, I know what she’s going to tell me. They left no forwarding address. ‘They asked us to respect their privacy.’ Her tone is frosty.
Well, that’s great. Christina could at least have sent me a message to let me know. And who will be paying my bill?
‘Mr Kenedey said you were going to stay on here at the hotel to act as a contact point for investigators and the media,’ says the receptionist. Her patience is fraying as a queue of new arrivals forms at the desk. ‘Miss Reyes. You have her phone number. I suggest you call her.’
I’m probably just being paranoid so I give up and go over to the bar to order a drink. But it’s not like Christina to go off without telling me. She’s so dependent – always has something or other she wants me to do for her. She’s been unusually quiet.
Has Damien abducted her too?
I gulp down my diet Coke, shivering as the ice hits the back of my throat.
She could be in danger. He could have killed her already, dumped her body at sea. First Katie, then Christina.
I make my way slowly to my room, glancing over my shoulder as I walk down the corridor with that uncomfortable sensation of being watched. I feel so sad going back to an empty room alone. Katie should be tugging me by the hand, running in ahead of me to jump on the bed. It’s so very quiet up here. All the guests are down below eating and drinking and taking part in the good-natured but naff entertainment laid on by the hotel.
I put on all the lights before stepping through the door.
Then I pull out my phone and text Costa.
Hav
e you heard from Christina? She’s gone.
21
Photograph Seven
21 September 2007: Rose Hill Private Hospital, Chelsea
You’re the only person I’ve shown this photograph to, other than James, all those years ago. I printed this copy especially for your album. I want you to feel my pain. The original is in a mother-of-pearl frame, wrapped in dark blue velvet, locked in the drawer of my desk. The baby cradled in the image is so peaceful and content. Her eyes closed, lids fringed with downy lashes, rosebud lips almost smiling, and her miniature fingers resting softly on the cashmere shawl. It was taken in the delivery suite. In the background, you can see tubes and medical instruments and dials – the paraphernalia of birth and pain and death. She’s perfect. We counted her fingers and her toes. She’s mine. She belongs to me and James – our flesh and blood. If I hold my breath and sit absolutely still, I can feel her in my arms. Astonishingly pink, warm, fresh from my womb. My beautiful daughter. Juliet Rosalind. Born at sunrise on Friday 21 September 2007. Stillborn.
*
Gabrielle travelled to the hospital quite serenely in a black cab that morning. She’d even had time to put on her jewellery and a little light make-up to boost her confidence. Her consultant had told her to come in to the delivery suite as soon as she felt the first signs of labour. She had been monitored closely throughout the pregnancy and could not fault her care.
She called James from the taxi en route to the hospital and asked him to join her there. He came out of a meeting to take the call. He had recently been promoted to global research and product development director of the leading European international pharmaceutical company where he had worked for the last two years. It was flattering that the CEO, O’Sullivan, had entrusted him to clinch the deal, James told her. He would get away and join her at the first opportunity – he’d be at the hospital by lunchtime at the latest, he said.
Gabrielle’s attempts to become a mother had been plagued with misfortune. They’d been trying for a baby for over four years and she had suffered from a series of miscarriages: early miscarriages, late miscarriages and mid-term miscarriages – she’d been through them all. In the face of these personal tragedies, it was a testament to her talent, energy and drive that she had achieved such renown and financial success in her career. She owned classy photography and film studios in London and New York that were fashionable with top models and the designer set (as well as providing her with a lucrative income from bondage and boudoir videos which she produced quietly on the side). She was also highly respected for the quality of her own distinctive black-and-white prints that she exhibited and sold on both sides of the Atlantic. She was successful in every aspect of her professional life. It was only in her attempt to become a mother that she had failed. But she’d been so strong and so brave! Everyone praised her for her resilience – everyone except for Lara.
Lara was brutal. She had told Gabrielle quite plainly that her difficulties were divine retribution: punishment for having forced and emotionally blackmailed Lara into having an abortion and lying about it to James all those years ago.
But this time finally things were going well. She had got past the critical dates and had felt as fit and energetic as could be expected throughout the pregnancy. For the last six weeks she had even begun to enjoy herself, redecorating the spare room and ordering baby clothes online. Though James preferred to wait, Gabrielle had insisted they should be told the sex of the baby, and they had chosen a name (or rather she had): Juliet Rosalind – named after Gabrielle’s favourite Shakespearean heroines, the defiant, romantic and seductive young beauty in Romeo and Juliet and the feisty and enchanting mistress of disguise, Rosalind, in As You Like It.
She settled in to the private delivery suite on arrival and surrendered to the usual early labour hospital routines, the form-filling, the blood pressure checks, the pokings and the proddings. All seemed to be going to plan and she was coping well with the intermittent labour pains until the nurse asked her to lie down so she could listen to the baby’s heartbeat.
Gabrielle lay back and looked up at the ceiling. It was white, clinical; a small black spider was crawling towards the light fitting. The cleaners must have missed its web. She closed her eyes trying to practise some of the mindfulness techniques she had been working on during her pregnancy.
The nurse smoothed cold gel over Gabrielle’s swollen belly and began to roll the monitor over the taut skin. As Gabrielle tried to relax, she became aware that the woman (whose student ranking she had noticed on her badge with irritation earlier) seemed nervous, restless and fidgety. Her skirt rustled. She turned the monitor on and off, fiddled with the bank of switches, tutted to herself, and asked Gabrielle to shift her position on the bed.
Gabrielle’s meditations were interrupted and she began to get impatient.
‘Look, you’re starting to get on my nerves,’ she said. ‘If you don’t know how to work the equipment, you’d better go and get a qualified midwife to come and take over.’
Gabrielle glanced down from the ceiling to look at the nurse. There was an expression of barely contained panic on the woman’s face.
‘I’m just having a little trouble locating the heartbeat,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing wrong. I’m just going to call for Sister.’ She half ran out of the room to the nurses’ station while Gabrielle sat bolt upright, more angry than alarmed. The sister swept into the room within seconds and without so much as a word to Gabrielle, pushed her down onto the pillows, pulled up her gown and grabbed the monitoring equipment.
It would be nice to be treated like a human being once in a while, thought Gabrielle, as she lay there, feeling disembodied, listening to the nurses muttering to each other further down the bed.
‘What’s going on?’ she shouted.
‘We’re trying to get a heartbeat,’ said the sister. ‘I’m going to call for help.’
She leaned across Gabrielle’s face to press the red emergency button on the wall.
*
It was not until three in the afternoon that Gabrielle heard James’ heavy footsteps in the corridor. A voice she didn’t recognise was speaking as the door opened. The medical team must have changed shifts. ‘She’s resting,’ said the nurse. ‘We’ve given her strong sedatives to calm her down. They should also help to numb the pain.’ The nurse stayed in the doorway. ‘I’ll give you some time,’ she said, closing the door behind James.
Gabrielle was lying on the bed in the darkened room, facing away from the door curled up in the foetal position. She opened her eyes as he came into view carrying his briefcase in one hand and swinging a brand-new infant car seat in the other.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ said Gabrielle. She balled up the sheet in her fists as he burbled his excuses.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said James. ‘O’Sullivan dropped me in it, pulled out of the lunch at the last minute and left me to entertain the clients. It’s such an important pitch for us, the contract’s worth millions. Our first breakthrough into the US market. I couldn’t let him down.’ He was slurring his words. He had left the table to call her, he said, but he couldn’t find his phone. The damn thing must have dropped out in the taxi. He would have left immediately had he known the labour was really under way. ‘I’m such a bloody idiot,’ he concluded. ‘Of all the days to lose my damn phone… must be the nerves!’
Gabrielle looked at him with contempt. Nobody had told him. The nurse coming on duty for the afternoon shift must have assumed he’d already heard the dreadful news from another member of staff. ‘So why are you drunk?’ she murmured. His words washed over her as he carried on digging himself a hole: the US clients had insisted on toasting the father-to-be with champagne over the starters, he said, but he could have done without the red wine (five bottles shared between six) and the two whiskies after the meal. Still, it was his last few hours of freedom before taking on his new responsibilities as a father. He should make the most of it, so the clients had said, as they ke
pt refilling his glass. ‘Anyway, I’m here now,’ he assured her. ‘I won’t leave your side.’
‘You’re not going to be a father,’ said Gabrielle. ‘The baby’s dead.’ She watched his face break-up as her words hit like hammer blows. ‘There was nothing they could do. Could have been dead more than twenty-four hours.’
James dropped the car seat on the floor and she watched him swaying over her bed as the colour drained from his face. When he bent down to place his fingers over her bulging stomach, she thrust his hand away, groaned and curled her knees up into a tighter ball. Her features were contorted.
‘I’ve got to give birth to the baby. Go through with the labour. That’s what they’re telling me.’ She spoke through gritted teeth. ‘It’s the safest way.’
She gasped, rigid again, as another contraction pulsed concentric waves of excruciating pain through her body. James fell back into the chair. He sat hunched over, his head in his hands. From the sedated depths of her own misery, she observed his distress as he grasped the full horror of the situation. His back shuddered. She knew he was desperate to comfort her but there was nothing he could say. He had dealt with many tragic cases when undergoing his medical training as a hospital intern but nothing could have prepared him for this soul destroying news.
‘Pull yourself together, man,’ she heard him mutter. ‘Be strong for Gabrielle.’ His mouth twisted and he knelt by Gabrielle’s bed gripping on to her hand, struggling to compose himself as he groaned and sobbed into the sheets.
Neither spoke for several minutes until eventually he said,
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That’s all the words I have.’ He stood up and walked over to the window and banged his forehead against the glass.
‘I don’t know what to do. I’m broken and I know my pain is nothing compared to yours…’ He tailed off. She could imagine the words he left unsaid that were going through his doctor’s brain. My pain is nothing compared to the physical pain she’s going to have to endure in the next few hours giving birth to our lifeless baby, and the emotional pain she’s going to suffer for the rest of her life.
She's Mine Page 18