‘We can’t survive on water and beer.’ I say.
‘No,’ says Mitch, ‘That’s why I’m going to teach you how to fish.’
He pulls out a fishing rod and a tin of bait from under the seats, and good as his word, by lunchtime I’ve caught six sardines over the side of the boat and we’re camped by the rocks grilling them over a makeshift barbecue using some driftwood I found when he sent me off beachcombing. It turns out Mitch is a pretty skilled fisherman and not a bad cook.
‘Give me a week, and I could teach you how to survive a shipwreck,’ he says.
We spend the afternoon stretched out on the sand in the shade of the rocks, sleeping off the beer and making up for the broken night. Mitch is supposed to be keeping a look out for the yacht but he keeps dozing off. Intermittently I scan the horizon but it’s very quiet – only the occasional fishing boat passing out at sea. It must be a day off for the tourist cruisers.
It’s only as the sun begins to lower in the sky and a cool breeze comes in from the sea that I start to get restless.
‘I can’t face another night in the rowing boat,’ I say. ‘If nothing happens by midnight, please take me back to the hotel.’
‘They’re most likely to sail here under cover of nightfall,’ says Mitch. ‘We’re not giving up now.’
He packs our few belongings into the rucksack and we wade back out to the rowing boat. I row over to the rocks and steer the boat back to the rocky outcrop where we are hidden from view. We drop anchor. Mitch rummages around in the rucksack and retrieves a small bag of weed. He lights a spliff.
‘This is a bit tame for you, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘I thought you only dealt in the hard stuff?’ He doesn’t take the bait.
‘Want one?’ he says, as he sees me eyeing it longingly. ‘Could be a long wait.’
I gave up smoking more than two years ago, but I need something to pass the time.
‘OK, hand it over.’
I know it’s risky. Drugs laws are strict in the BLI but who’s going to see me here?
I don’t know how long we sit there, but it’s at least three joints later, and everything feels surreal when I become aware of vibrations in the air, then a rhythmic beat filling the horizon. I look out to sea and there it is, the shining silhouette of a catamaran yacht like a giant white swan, rounding the headland and entering the lagoon.
The reggae music gets closer and denser, waves of sound, rising and falling in the scarlet sunset above the lagoon. It’s coming from the yacht. I lie down in the boat and shift my position for a better view. If I’m not mistaken, it’s The Phantasea. I take a deep breath as the sleek lines of the catamaran come into focus. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
So we didn’t miss the boat after all.
I’m terrified but excited.
Mitch must be reading my mind. ‘“To die will be a wonderful adventure!”’ he says sardonically and punches the air.
I have to admit, I feel proud of myself. I’d love to see Costa’s face when he gets to learn of this – he needs to know right now – but there’s bad service here so I can’t send him a message. I get out my mobile and snap away at the yacht coming towards us. Then I grab the binoculars and zoom in on the hull. Yes, sure enough it’s The Phantasea. I take out a creased copy of the photograph of the mutt with-the-yacht that I’ve been carrying around with me since I found the original in the police file – it’s a perfect match.
‘That’s it,’ I say to Mitch triumphantly. ‘We did it. That’s the yacht we’ve been waiting for – luxury, best-in-class Ocean Lynx 560 catamaran sailing yacht – The Phantasea!’ I’ve been doing my research.
As the yacht approaches, I lock on with the binoculars. Now my suspicions are confirmed. I always knew that gold-digger was in on this! Damien is on the sundeck, stretched out on a lounger in his coconut palm swimming trunks, cool as a cucumber. He’s holding a glass of something in his right hand – probably a gin and tonic. I zoom in on his face. He stretches out his arm. Now I can see his lips moving – calling for a top up? The reggae is belting out of big black speakers positioned on each side of the sundeck.
In the outdoor lounge cockpit, standing up steering the boat, it’s Christina. She’s wearing white shorts and a billowing cotton shirt I haven’t seen before. Her blonde hair is windswept and whips around her face when a gust catches it. I have to say she doesn’t look as if she’s in distress or acting under duress. When I zoom in on her features, she looks serene, happy even. What kind of mother embarks on a sunset booze cruise on a luxury catamaran when her child has been abducted? She’s got to be mixed up in this somehow.
There’s no sign of Katie. They must have hidden her away in one of the cabins. Perhaps she’s already sleeping. It’s past her bedtime. There’s no time to lose. I think we’re heading for a showdown. This feels like a trap, an ambush.
I take a few more pictures on my phone, zooming in on Christina and Damien.
I’m desperate to get aboard and see Katie, give her a huge hug and find out what the hell is going on. It’s time to call a halt. I’m not taking the rap for their outrageous behaviour any longer. I scan the double hull of the catamaran with the binoculars, looking for any sign of Katie’s presence.
Just then Christina switches the engine to neutral and drops the anchor. Damien calls out to her. She cuts the motor. Through the lens, I see her throw back her head, laughing. She sways over with a gin bottle and a glass tumbler to where he’s lying spread-eagled on the deckchair, yanks off his trunks and slings them overboard. Then she kneels down between his legs like a prostitute.
‘Oh my God!’ I say to Mitch. ‘I never knew it. That woman’s sex mad.’
I put down the binoculars. Predictably enough, Mitch pounces on them.
‘Ah, she’s quite a dame.’ He whistles softly. ‘Sweet lord, I wish she’d deck me!’
‘Don’t get any bloody ideas,’ I say. Even without the binoculars I can see more than I want to. Christina’s getting up off the deck now, standing between his knees. She’s pouring out the gin while Damien pulls down her shorts with his teeth. What a clown! It doesn’t take her long to knock back the gin while Damien does his thing. Now she’s straddling him.
‘OK show’s over,’ I say, yanking the binoculars away from Mitch. ‘We’ve got work to do. We’re in luck, they shouldn’t hear a thing, with that music raging up on deck.’
This is our best chance of getting on to the boat unseen, searching the cabins for Katie, and catching them off their guard – literally in flagrante if they keep at it for long enough.
As the red disc of the sun dips into the black line of sea at the horizon, Mitch pushes the rowing boat away from the rocks with the oar.
‘Lie down,’ he says, ‘your top is catching the light.’
Slowly, he rows the boat in a wide arc behind The Phantasea and tucks into the shadows. Now Christina and Damien have rolled on to a canvas trampoline linking the two hulls of the catamaran at the front. The human circus is still in full swing, so this is my opportunity to climb the ladder at the stern and search inside.
I check my phone to see if Costa has responded.
Damn it, still no reply.
My phone is almost out of charge and I still can’t get a signal
‘Mitch, pass over your mobile, will you. I’ve got to get hold of Costa.’
‘I don’t own a mobile… tool of the devil.’
I can understand why. He doesn’t want to be traceable 24/7. The only mobile device required to ply his trade is a pistol. But I don’t want him coming on board gun-ho and trigger happy – that’s just asking for trouble. He’ll be more useful to me going back to alert the police.
‘You’re going to have to go back,’ I say. ‘As soon as you’re on dry land, get to a phone and call 999 or just hotfoot it to the nearest police station. If I can get a signal, I’ll keep trying to get hold of Costa until the battery dies.’
Somehow, we’ve got to raise the alarm. We need to get the police
out here fast. Christina and Damien could sail off at any time and then we’ll lose track of Katie again.
‘Are you crazy?’ he says. ‘I can’t leave you here on your own. It could be dangerous. If they’ve abducted the little girl, they could do anything.’
‘Cool it, Mitch. I didn’t know you cared.’ I try to lighten the mood. ‘Christina’s not going to attack Katie – or me. She’s Katie’s mother, don’t forget. It’s not like this is stranger abduction. If Katie is there on board with them, she won’t be in immediate danger. Christina loves Katie – she won’t let Damien do her any harm. And Damien won’t touch me when Christina’s around.’
‘I’m not taking any chances,’ says Mitch, tying the rowing boat to the catamaran.
‘Mitch, listen to me,’ I say. ‘He may be a coke head and a con artist, and she may be an alcoholic and a manic depressive – and a sex maniac, based on her recent performances! – but let’s face it, they’re not murderers, or predatory child abusers for that matter. At least, not Christina.’
Mitch takes out the pistol he’s rolled up in a T-shirt stuffed in his bag and opens the cylinder.
‘I need you to get the police – that’s the best way you can help.’
He’s not paying any attention.
‘Get me five bullets,’ he says. Enacting some kind of macho ritual, he sidesteps over to me and nods down towards his hip. I slip my fingers into the pocket of his jeans and pull out a handful of bullets. I count out five and he loads them into the chambers of the gun.
‘They’re off their heads on alcohol or drugs or something…’ There’s a hint of admiration in Mitch’s voice. ‘From what I saw going on up on the sun deck, they could do anything. She’s on fire!’
Mitch is talking in a stage whisper. I see he’s enjoying the drama of the situation and that fifty-thousand-dollar reward gives him a powerful incentive to play the part of superhero in the rescue. He hooks the loaded pistol into his belt.
‘How would it look, if I left you here, all alone, to fend for yourself?’ he says.
‘Relax, Mitch, this isn’t an Indiana Jones movie,’ I say.
‘I’ll go onboard and search for the girl while you take the boat and go for help,’ he says.
‘Mitch – I know her. I lived with Christina for six months in New York, don’t forget. I don’t believe she could actually bring herself to hurt Katie, and I can look after myself. I’m not scared of her and I’m certainly not scared of Damien – I know now he’s just a pathetic loser. I’m convinced this is some kind of botched plot all tied up with Damien’s gambling debts and drugs deals. Look, you told me earlier, we’re almost out of fuel and I’m not strong enough to row this bloody rowing boat back to shore.’
He pulls the pistol out of his belt and stretches out his hand to me.
‘At least take the gun.’
I shrink away.
He gives me a stubborn look and slaps the gun and his hand into mine. His grip is as steely as the gun.
‘Mitch, it’s going to make things worse. You said it yourself, she’s “on fire” – well, it’s just going to inflame the situation if I go on board brandishing a pistol. I need to calm things down, read them the riot act and make them see sense. They’re behaving like teenage delinquents. I’ll tell them it’s all over but it’s not too late to give themselves up and avoid going to jail for a very long time. If they turn the boat, and sail back into port, it can be explained, a moment of madness, a huge mistake, the overwhelming pressure of Damien’s compulsive gambling habit, mounting debts etcetera, etcetera…’
But Mitch is sticking to his guns – literally! ‘Take the gun or I’m not going anywhere.’
I look down at Mitch’s large tawny hand and my small white one, and the barrel of the pistol, poking out between them, gleaming in the setting rays of the sun.
‘OK, you win. Let’s do a swap – you take my mobile and the minute you get a signal, call the police. Make the call as soon as you possibly can before the phone dies – it’s almost out of charge. As soon as you make the call, come back. But if you can’t get through or if the phone conks out, you’re just going to have to row all the way back to dry land and then raise the alarm.’
I give my mobile to Mitch – it feels like handing over a third limb – and close my fingers round the pistol.
‘You’re going to have to show me how to use it,’ I say, feeling the weight of the gun in the palm of my hand.
‘Same here,’ he says fingering my mobile. For the first time, I see his real smile. And in fact, it quite suits him.
27
Scarlett
As Mitch turns the rowing boat and paddles silently away, I hoist myself up the ladder hanging off the platform in the stern of the boat and crawl onto one of the side decks, keeping low so that I’m hidden by the onboard dinghy chained up in the stern. Although I’m wearing only shorts and a cropped T-shirt, I feel weighted down by the responsibility of carrying a loaded pistol stuffed in the back pocket of my shorts where my mobile should be. The catamaran is rocking to the beat of the reggae. If the lovebirds are still working out on the trampoline, I should have a few minutes to search below deck for Katie before showing myself above deck and trying to make them come to their senses.
The entrance opens onto a spacious open plan saloon bathed in natural light – not unlike the lobby of a luxury boutique hotel with soft leather sofas and bar stools and shiny tables in shades of cream and beige. The whole pristine space is an echo chamber for the thumping beat of reggae and the slap of waves against the shell. But it doesn’t look like a crime scene. It looks far too light and smooth and squeaky-clean for that.
There’s a galley at the front end of the saloon, separating the open-air cockpit from the main lounge area. Down a short flight of wooden steps, there are two doors that I’m guessing must lead off to the cabins (en-suite, if I remember the sales blurb correctly!). In my previous life, I would have been thrilled to accompany them as Katie’s nanny on a cruise… if only things hadn’t turned out this way.
Swiftly, I make my way around the cabins. The first is clearly the master bedroom – it’s circular in shape, a curved king-size bed filling almost all the space, loaded with silk cushions and quilts. The bed is unmade, the sheets tussled and twisted with vigorous love-making, I suspect. The concave walls are covered with large photographic prints – abstract patterns that look like collections of brightly coloured cells, photographed against a black background. Looking more closely, I can see that the collection of photographs circling the walls of the cabin represent a sequence of dividing cells – first two, then four, then eight. Of course. I see it now – I remember my GCSE biology – it’s a human embryo, subdividing, in the first days of development. There’s a signature scrawled at the bottom of each print: Gabrielle Hamilton, And then a branded logo: Embryonic Love. And below the signature and logo, a title on each print: Day One – Rose, Day Two –Rose, Day Three – Rose, and so on going round the room, ending with Day Five – Rose. The photographs are striking – I had no idea the beginnings of life could be so beautiful. Come to think of it, the translucent multi-coloured spheres look something like a blossoming rose. On the ceiling there’s a big circular mirror – symbolic of an embryo too perhaps? If a little kinky, it’s rather touching – a love nest celebration of fertility and passion.
I fling open all the cupboard doors. They’re mostly empty, just a jumble of Christina and Damien’s clothes heaped on the floor. They haven’t bothered with hangers. Looks like they’re planning a quick getaway, travelling light. On the top shelf, there’s a camera and three passports belonging to Christina, Damien and Katie – so it was Christina who took Katie’s passport out of my safe! My spirits soar… if Katie’s passport is here, then she’s alive and chances are she’s hidden on board.
Shaking with excitement, I move on quickly to the next cabin door. It’s locked. I cross to the second hull. There are two more doors. Both are unlocked and I fling them open one after the other.
Checking each in turn, the cabins are smaller than the master, a pair of small functional doubles, with sleek furniture, built in cupboards and natural light from large portholes facing out to sea. The rooms look unoccupied, clinically clean and uncluttered. I’d happily have spent a few weeks living in one of these if things had been different! No one’s hidden here. There’s one more door, towards the rear of the vessel.
There’s a sign on the door.
Dark Room - Keep Out
I try the handle.
If they’re hiding her anywhere…
When my eyes adjust to the red lighting, I see that what was once a single cabin has been converted into a high-tech, state of the art dark room and digital processing lab. There’s an array of sophisticated looking computers, printers and projectors on one wall of the cabin. The porthole is completely blacked out and below it there’s a bench set up with an enlarger, three large trays and bottles of chemicals marked developer, stop bath and fixer. Above the shelf there’s a drying rack on which several black-and-white prints have been pegged up to dry. I take a closer look and gasp in surprise. They’re all images of Katie collecting shells in her red bucket, taken on the beach on the afternoon she disappeared. In one of the prints I can even see myself or at least my bottom half, stretched out on a towel under the parasol in my triangle bikini bottoms. I scan the remaining prints. My hands fly up to my mouth. It’s a sequence of portraits of Katie that must have been taken after the abduction. She’s alive… unsmiling and sad but alive… sitting on a sun lounger cuddling her blue bunny. The close-up angle has left no room for the background but there’s timber decking all around the sun lounger. My guess is they must have been taken up on the deck of The Phantasea. My heart pounds with hope. So I was right, she must be hidden on board.
She's Mine Page 23