She's Mine

by Claire S. Lewis

  He’s full of apologies as he covers his manhood, turns and flees back into the bedroom. I’d be laughing, if the situation weren’t so tragic.

  ‘I’ll let him know you’re here,’ he says as he retreats behind the door. ‘Help yourself to coffee. We’ve finished our investigations inside the house. There’s only the forensic search of the grounds to be completed now, so you don’t have to worry about disturbing the evidence.’

  That’s lucky, I think to myself, given the carnage you’ve left behind!

  While I wait for Costa, I go outside to look round the pool and garden. There’s yellow tickertape surrounding the swimming pool, the decking and the pool house. Keeping outside the tape I take care not to move anything or leave any fingerprints on the tables and sunbeds in case the police need to go back over the area. But I’m aching all over after the ordeals of yesterday and my blast-assisted backflip into the sea, so I give way to the temptation to lie down on one of the sunbeds and close my eyes. A great wave of exhaustion breaks over me – delayed trauma and sleep deprivation have caught up with me at last.

  My recollection of what happened after Costa fished me out of the water is fragmented and confused but I can’t get the searing images of the burning boat out of my head. Even now, lying here in the cool morning air on the sunbed, next to fragrant mimosa bushes, I can feel the heat of the flames and smell the acrid smoke in my nostrils. I recall a struggle with Costa on the police boat during which he restrained me while I screamed at him to turn back to rescue Christina and Gabrielle before the catamaran was consumed by fire. I don’t know if it’s because I’m in some kind of PTSD emotional shut down, but none of it seems real. I’m distanced from it – like I’m in a cinema watching the dramatic climax to an action thriller as I relive the memories of yesterday.

  Abruptly, the peace is broken by the dog barking its head off down in the outhouse. A minute or two later, I sense a shadow looming over me and open my eyes to see Costa observing me from above.

  ‘Hey Scarlett, how’re you doing?’ he says.

  ‘Have you found Katie?’ I say. He shakes his head. My heart sinks.

  He’s carrying a large brown paper bag.

  ‘I bought you pastries for breakfast,’ he says. ‘From Betsy’s, the best bakery in town.’ His jollity is forced. He sits down on my sunbed and I shift to the side shielding my bandaged arm, which is still sore from the cut Gabrielle gave me with the knife.

  ‘How’s Christina?’ I say.

  He tells me he’s just come from the hospital. ‘She’s doing OK,’ he says. ‘The doctor described her condition as stable. Apart from the gunshot wound, she got away remarkably lightly. Minor burns on her arms and legs. She had a lucky escape, jumping into the sea.’ He hands me a pastry. ‘But she looks a mess – I scarcely recognised her with her hair all cropped.’

  ‘That was Gabrielle’s doing,’ I say.

  ‘Why the hell didn’t Christina tell me she had a twin sister?’ says Costa.

  Good question. ‘More to the point, why the hell didn’t she tell you her twin sister was a psycho?’ I say.

  Costa looks perplexed.

  ‘Perhaps she thought she could deal with Gabrielle herself?’ I say. ‘Perhaps she thought it would endanger Katie even more if the police were involved. Perhaps even she didn’t know what her identical twin was capable of?’

  ‘She’s got a lot of questions to answer when she’s up to it,’ says Costa.

  The pastry sticks in my throat. I take a couple of bites and push it to one side.

  ‘Was she able to talk?’ I ask.

  ‘She spoke a little, just a few words. She seems very confused. Not surprising with the head injuries and the gunshot wound and what she’s been through. She was very distressed, asking for Katie every five minutes – “Give me my baby, she’s stolen my baby” – like she was having a bad dream or hallucinating. The nurses said she was in and out of consciousness for most of last night. And of course, she’s in a lot of pain with her shoulder. She’s on sedatives and heavy-duty pain killers.’

  ‘I feel so awful about that,’ I say. ‘It was my fault. I was trying to shoot the bolts off the door and she caught the ricochet. Is the wound infected?’

  ‘They’re going to operate later today, now that she’s stable,’ says Costa. It’ll be a complex procedure but they’ve got some hotshot Miami-based surgeon seconded to our local hospital who’ll be doing it. As you can imagine, coming from Miami he’s got plenty of experience in dealing with gunshot wounds.’

  ‘That sounds dreadful,’ I say. ‘I had no idea it was so bad. She was so very brave.’

  Costa devours his pastry, scattering crumbs over my legs. ‘The bullet’s embedded in the shoulder joint. I’ve seen the X-ray.’

  I thought it was only a flesh wound. Suddenly I feel sick.

  ‘What about Gabrielle? Any news? Did your men find a body?’ I ask.

  Costa wanders over to the side of the pool. He looks down into the water.

  ‘Nothing yet. Current status is missing, presumed dead. But we haven’t given up.’

  He tells me that they haven’t found a body either in the water or on the burnt-out catamaran but it’s early days. Forensics are still working their way through the yacht and they haven’t got to the engine room and the darkroom as yet – that’s where the fire was most intense due to the diesel tanks and the chemicals.

  ‘So we have to prepare ourselves for the worst,’ he says. It doesn’t take much imagination to understand that he’s preparing me for the possibility of a macabre discovery.

  ‘The search and rescue helicopters are out this morning. Looking for anything on the surface. We’ve got divers in the water too. But the seas were rough last night – even if Christina’s twin managed to escape the flames, chances are she drowned. We may never find a body.’

  ‘She had it coming. She was completely off her head,’ I say.

  ‘There’s evidence that fire accelerants were used in the saloon – irregular burn patterns and empty cans of gasoline,’ continues Costa.

  ‘I could have told you that. I saw her pouring out the gasoline myself.’

  ‘That’s hearsay. They want to prove it officially. They’ve taken away samples of the fire debris for chemical analysis,’ says Costa. ‘The recovery team are doing what they can to preserve the evidence. There’s not much to go on since the fire was so fierce but they’ve found a fireproof safe which might contain some things of interest.’

  He comes back to the sunbed and pulls me up.

  ‘Your hands are so cold,’ he says. ‘You must be in shock. You really should get yourself checked out properly. Come on, let’s go and make some coffee. You look in need of it.’

  While he brews the coffee, he tells me his plan for the day. The focus of the investigation is to keep searching for Katie. It’s small comfort that I’m now off his official list of suspects. His main task this morning is to interview Damien in the hope he’ll finally crack and reveal where she’s hidden. Damien’s been rearrested and held in custody on charges of suspected abduction and perverting the course of justice.

  ‘After breakfast, I’m going straight back to the police station to question him again – and this time I’m going to make the bastard squeal. He knows where she is. I’m convinced of it,’ he says. ‘He led me on a wild goose chase yesterday, pretending to cooperate. I believed he was on the point of making a confession and might be leading me to where Katie was hidden, or in the worst-case scenario to the scene of the ultimate crime. But the bastard was faking it. We lost valuable time while I drove him to spots round the island – supposedly retracing their movements. It was a false trail, of course – each time we drew blanks. He’ll pay for it today. I’m going to nail him.’

  I’m only half listening to him. I’ve got my hands in my lap and my eyes fixed on the unusual ribbed pattern scoured into the wooden decking at my feet. I remember that pattern, and it’s not from my previous visit. I recognise it from the prints of Kati
e I saw in the darkroom. I thought the pictures had been taken on the deck of The Phantasea. But now I’m sure the pictures must have been taken here.

  ‘Katie was here,’ I say, jumping up to check the viewpoint and scrutinise the fabric of the sunbeds.

  ‘There were prints in the dark room of her sitting right here by the swimming pool in broad daylight on this very sunbed. How could you all be so incompetent as to let her slip away? We’ve all failed her.’

  ‘It’s not over yet,’ says Costa. ‘Those “good-for-nothing” officers you scared the wits out of this morning, made an important discovery yesterday. They found plane tickets hidden in a Cheerios packet in the larder – for tomorrow, three tickets for a flight from San Juan airport in Puerto Rico to Panama City. My hunch is that Gabrielle and Damien’s original plan was to sail to Puerto Rico today with Katie before catching the flight to Panama posing as holidaymakers, and to lie low there for a few months in Central America until the scent went cold.’

  ‘Surely they didn’t think they could get away with it?’ I say. ‘What about border controls?’

  ‘They’re not too hot on border controls in Puerto Rico or Panama,’ says Costa with a scowl. He sits back in the chair and wipes a few crumbs off his chin. ‘What I don’t understand is why the sister took off in the boat without taking Katie with her?’

  ‘Her sadistic instincts got the better of her,’ I say. ‘In the end, the thing that mattered most to her was to punish Christina. She was a psychopath.’

  ‘Well, I agree with you. It certainly looks like the poor woman was mad! Died in the flames of her own conflagration. As for Varcoe, he’s just scum. Her creature – and a pathetic gambling addict – would do anything to get money to pay off his debts. In my line of work, I’ve come across a few men like him before. Anyway, he’s facing years in prison and he deserves it.’

  Costa’s looking pleased with himself now. This is a bit premature, I feel.

  ‘Before you start congratulating yourself too much, we need to find Katie,’ I say. ‘She’s not on a boat heading to Puerto Rico – the original escape plan has literally gone up in flames.’

  ‘We can’t be sure of that,’ says Costa. ‘There are plenty of boats all round these shores and plenty of people willing to earn a quick buck without asking any questions. She could be anywhere by now if she was handed over to a third party.’

  ‘I still believe it’s more likely Katie’s hidden somewhere close by – maybe in the surrounding woods,’ I say. Costa told me he’s had roadblocks on all the roads leading from the villa so it’s unlikely she could have been driven away. ‘Look, I found some of her clothes on the floor in the bedroom.’ I hand the clothes to him. ‘Your crack team of investigators missed them!’ Costa can’t hide his embarrassment. ‘Katie must have been here not so long ago.’ I reflect that Costa arrested Damien here at the villa yesterday morning, so if the bastard had locked her away somewhere, that means she’s been alone for over twenty-four hours. ‘She’s going to suffocate or die of dehydration. It’s a race against time.’

  ‘You’re right’ says Costa. He jumps to his feet. ‘I’m off to get the truth out of Damien. He’s in for a good kicking. I’m going to make him talk, if it kills me – or him, if that’s what it takes.’ He takes out his radio. ‘In the meantime, I’ll order the team to start searching the woods.’

  He squeezes my hand.

  ‘You’ll be the first to know.’

  As he strides away, he turns.

  ‘By the way, your pal Mitch Hunter did well yesterday. He was the one who pulled Christina out of the sea. Found her flailing around in the water surrounded by burning debris. She practically drowned. Fair play to him – he saved her life.’

  So I was right to give Mitch the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘So will he get a share of the fifty thousand reward?’ I ask Costa.

  He smiles sardonically.

  ‘Don’t be so cynical. The reward is for finding Katie, not saving her mother,’ he says. ‘But… yes… I’ll make sure he gets something – that’s how things work round here.’

  There’s a burst of barking from the outhouse as Costa marches off down the driveway. He reaches the gate, then I watch him turn and walk back again, provoking another outburst from the hound.

  ‘You need to have a rest today, stay here away from the press, there’s a gang of them hanging out at the gate. Have a shower, relax by the pool…’ He gives me a wink. ‘The boys’ll look after you.’

  As he leaves, the dog barks again.

  ‘That bloody dog is driving me nuts,’ I say to myself.

  There’s something about the insistent, frantic barking that’s nagging at me, hammering into my brain, but I can’t quite grasp it. That dog just won’t leave me in peace. I wander down the lane, to take a closer look at it, to check if it is indeed the dog in the photograph in Costa’s file that helped us to identify The Phantasea.

  When I approach the outhouse, the great slavering hound goes completely mental and flings itself against the stable door. The door creaks. Any minute now the botched repair is going to give way. Sure enough when the dog lunges again there’s a sickening crack as the rotting wood splinters into two and it forces its way through the gap. It pelts towards me and I turn to run but I’m not quick enough. The dog bounds up, striking me at shoulder height and throws me backwards so that I’m sprawled on my back, with my face and neck exposed, about to get mauled. I shut my eyes in horror and suddenly it’s all over me, licking my face, tail wagging, jumping about in excitement. I can’t help laughing as I push its muzzle away from my face and roll over, sprawling in the dust.

  As I open my eyes and scramble to get up, something catches my eye – a tiny blue plastic slipper, so tiny that I can hold it between my finger and thumb. It’s a Barbie doll’s shoe – dropped just at the entrance to the outhouse. And I’ve seen it before. It’s part of an outfit worn by Katie’s Sleeping Beauty Barbie doll that Christina bought for her last Christmas. I remember, on more than one occasion, scrabbling round on the floor in Katie’s bedroom looking for a lost Barbie shoe while she sat crying her eyes out on the bed.

  Now if you are looking for a place to hide a little girl, what better place than behind a door, guarded by a slavering hound, whose vicious bark suggests it’ll eat anything that comes close, but who is really just a stupid old mutt who wants to jump all over you and lick your face?! More Nana than Hound of the Baskervilles.

  Costa told me his men had searched the buildings – but I know that macho type. I bet they’re scared of dogs and didn’t venture in here!

  I go in. The place stinks – the dog obviously hasn’t been let out for a while. The outhouse is an L-shaped, mouldering concrete structure, the long part of the L about the size of a single garage. There are no windows or openings in the walls other than the now-broken wooden door at the front, and so I can see as soon as I round the corner that no one is hidden inside. In the smaller section of the L-shaped building, the dirt-encrusted concrete floor is covered with straw and old newspapers, stained with wet patches and dog excrement. I hold my breath and drag the papers to one side with my foot. Concealed beneath, there’s a metal trap door cut into the concrete. It’s bolted. I draw the bolt and hinge the trap door open to reveal a narrow metal spiral staircase leading down into the dark.

  It’s got to be…

  It’s very dark and I almost trip as I go down the staircase. At the bottom I reach for the walls to feel my way round the room. My hand fumbles over a light switch and now the room is flooded with light – I’m blinded by it. When my eyes adapt, I find myself in a bright, clean underground space that from the hundreds of empty racks, looks as if it has been used as a wine cellar in the past. The room has been transformed into a bedsit, decorated for a child with a series of Peter Pan murals depicting scenes of islands and seas and the underwater world in the background, and Wendy and Tinker Bell and Tiger Lily and the wicked mermaids in the foreground. Although the theme is Peter Pan, ther
e’s not a lost boy in sight. The walls feature only female characters. This is indeed, a fitting underground prison cell for a lost girl!

  In one corner of the room there’s a bunk bed. The top bunk is neatly made up with a pink duvet. The bottom bunk is filled with a mountain of soft toys. And Katie’s picture book copy of Peter Pan is lying on the floor. Now I’m sure! This is where they’ve been hiding Katie. In another corner of the room is a child-sized table, strewn with an assortment of paper and pens. I walk over to it. The floor is peppered with pen caps (now that looks familiar!), and to one side there’s a big untidy stack of drawings, simple outlines of crude human figures and mermaids and fishes and shells. I recognise Katie’s hand immediately – it’s her way of processing her thoughts, visualising her day dreams and experiences, by spending hours absorbed in making pictures of her day. This is her work.

  Round the corner, there’s a door leading to a small shower room with a barred opening right at the top providing ventilation. There’s also a kitchenette with a fridge stuffed with bottled water and children’s yogurts and bread, half-eaten packets of sliced cheese and ham, apples and grapes. Three or four used spoons have been dropped in the sink. The door to the fridge is ajar, and discarded on the floor are empty yogurt pots, plastic water bottles and half-chewed apple cores.

  If I’m not mistaken, Katie’s been left here to fend for herself. I’m relieved and horrified to discover the place of her captivity. What kind of warped obsession could have led to this? What kind of sick imagination could spend so much time on creating a picture-book fantasy as a prison for a little girl? How long has this been planned?

  And she’s not here. So where is she now?

  I run over to the bunk bed – it’s the only place I haven’t searched properly. First I lie down on the floor and look underneath it, then I lean in between the bunks and delve into the mound of soft toys on the lower mattress.

  Yes…

  Could it be…?