I can scarcely breathe.
I can scarcely believe it.
My hand touches soft warm flesh burrowed in among the toys, rising and falling beneath my palm. I scatter the toys to one side.
It’s Katie and she’s alive. Thank God.
I’m not a regular church-goer, and I’m not a great Christian, but if there’s a God then He’ll know I’m thanking him with all my heart right now.
‘Katie, Katie. Are you OK?’ I call out, bundling her still sleeping into my arms and lifting her out of the bunk, settling her round my hips and holding her tighter than I’ve ever held her before.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…’
She stirs, opens her bright blue eyes, and looks up at me.
She is so fragile and so pale.
‘I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I’ll never let you go.’
Then she reaches up to stoke her little fingers though my hair.
‘Scarlett,’ she says.
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her say my name.
42
Scarlett
We’ve come full circle.
Back here on the beach it all seems unreal. We’re in exactly the same spot where I fell asleep on the sand when Katie vanished. I’m kneeling right next to her – within touching distance, not taking any chances. Last night she slept in my bed at the hotel and I held her in my arms all night long.
She’s got the red bucket and once again we’re sifting through the sand for shells, naming them, counting them, adding to her collection. I could almost imagine the events of the last two weeks were all nothing but wild hallucinations – a bad trip caused by sunstroke and a spiked cocktail.
Today, there’s a cool breeze, my wits are razor-sharp and there’s no chance I’m going crash out again on the sand.
I went to visit Christina in hospital first thing this morning. She’s out of intensive care now and recovering well from her injuries, though she still looks rough. The burns on her arms and legs are healing up well and the medics are hopeful that she may escape permanent scarring. Fortunately, the operation on her shoulder was a great success. The surgeon managed to extract the bullet. She should regain full movement of the joint.
The nurses tell me she hasn’t stop smiling since Costa told her the wonderful news about Katie. We didn’t talk much, she just thanked me, and cried, and asked me if I could do one more thing for her – take Katie home to New York. She’s going to have to spend a few more days in hospital and she wants to know Katie’s safely back home, back to her kindergarten routine and normality. She thinks this will help her to get over the trauma of what she’s been through.
I think she’s right.
In the last twenty-four hours since we rescued Katie from her Disney-princess prison, she’s hardly spoken, save for two incessant refrains: ‘Where’s Mummy?’ and ‘Go home!’ She knows what she wants. She spent much of yesterday with a child psychologist and a female police officer, being ‘debriefed,’ or ‘counselled’ as they preferred to call it. But I don’t think it will have helped her much – she’s not the most communicative of little girls at the best of times. She needs to get back to her own familiar space. The psych accompanied Katie on a short visit to see Christina but apparently the poor little thing was so overwhelmed and distressed by the hospital environment and the sight of her injured and disfigured mother that she spent most of the time curled up on the chair with her head in her arms.
Before saying goodbye to Christina at the hospital, I summoned up the courage to ask her what had happened in the dark room and how she had managed to escape. Understandably she found it difficult to talk about but she told me there’d been a struggle with the gun when Gabrielle had tried to grab it off her.
‘I was weak and in so much pain but I clung on,’ said Christina. ‘Gabrielle was frantic, screaming hysterically that one of us had to die and challenging me to shoot her or shoot myself. The room was filling with smoke and we were both coughing and choking. I knew we had to get out so I let go of the gun and fled. I yelled at her to follow me up the stairs but she had completely lost her head. I shouldn’t have left her, I know, but it was survival instinct, I suppose.’
‘There’s no need to feel guilty,’ I said. ‘It was all her fault. She was trying to kill you.’ She went on to tell me how she had summoned the courage to throw herself into the sea despite her phobia of water. ‘I should have been terrified of jumping into the sea,’ Christina said, ‘But I didn’t have time to think about it. And just before I jumped into the water to save myself from the fire, I heard a shot. My sad crazy twin must have turned the gun on herself.’
Oh God! What a thought.
I tip out a perfect sandcastle.
I have a nagging pain deep in my gut. After all, I was the one who provided her with the weapon. And I knew there was a bullet left in the gun. One shot to kill herself. I hope that doesn’t put me in breach of some crime. It seems I may have unwittingly assisted a suicide!
I follow Katie down to the water’s edge and take her hand. I can’t wait to get on that plane and out of here.
After visiting Christina in hospital, I spent the rest of the morning being interviewed by Costa’s deputy and a family liaison officer. An ‘interrogation’ would be the more accurate way of describing it. With the possible exception of Costa, I don’t think the police have any belief in my innocence. Anyway, with all this interviewing and debriefing and counselling, I could see it taking a good few days before we were free to leave the island, but Costa has cut through the red tape and given me permission to take Katie home today. His one condition is that I agree to travel back to the island for more interviews ‘if deemed necessary to further the ongoing investigation.’ The investigation is, of course, ‘ongoing’, as there is still a missing person search underway for Gabrielle.
Before we checked out of the hotel, we had another visitor. Mitch called in to say goodbye. He insisted on seeing Katie.
‘I’ve bought you something very special,’ he said to Katie. ‘A pair of Angel Wings for a very special kid.’ He unwrapped the delicate white shells that he had folded carefully in newspaper. ‘They’ll bring you luck. Look, they’re still joined in the middle – that’s very rare.’
Even though she didn’t have a clue what he was on about, Katie was thrilled with the gift. I knew perfectly well that those beautiful shells shouldn’t be removed from the beach (and that Mitch couldn’t care less about ecological trivia like that!) but I was touched all the same. It was kind of him.
Mitch stayed for a coffee and was keen to fill me in on what had happened after he left me on the yacht to go back and alert the police.
‘I rowed back towards the harbour and as soon as I managed to get a signal on that God-damned phone of yours I put a call through to Costa to raise the alarm, then I put in a call to one of my “business partners”. Let’s just say we’ve done a few deals together and he owes me. He met me at the harbour and lent me his speedboat.’
‘How did you find us?’ I asked.
‘I had a pretty good idea where you’d be headed,’ said Mitch. ‘Round the bay to Puerto Rico. I figured if Christina’s sister was trying to get away with the girl, she’d be making for Puerto Rican territorial waters – police and surveillance are much slacker over there.’ He should know – must be one of his bootlegging patches. ‘It wasn’t that hard to find you – that speedboat had some pretty sophisticated satellite tracking equipment on board!’
‘Well, I can’t thank you enough for coming back for us,’ I said. ‘And for rescuing Christina from the sea. You’re a hero.’
He looked pleased with himself. ‘I couldn’t miss out on the chance of a share in that fifty-thousand-dollars reward, now could I?’
After Mitch had said his goodbyes, I brought Katie down to the beach for one last time before we leave. Katie and I are catching a flight to New York this evening, so (with the blessing of the psych) we have just a couple more hours to erase the bad me
mories of this place and to replace them with some good memories of the sun, sea and sand. I glance up from the shells we’re collecting to decorate Katie’s sandcastle and catch sight of Costa, backlit by the sun, strolling over towards us, holding a clear plastic bag. I’ve become quite close to him in a weird kind of way. He’s in uniform, looking very handsome but more officious than usual. He’s promised to escort us to the airport. He squats down next to us, and I see the bag contains the album. Suddenly, I shiver in the breeze.
‘We managed to salvage this photo album from The Phantasea,’ he says. It was in a fireproof safe in the galley. Christina’s asked me to give it to you for safekeeping.’
I can’t bear the sight of it. ‘You should have thrown it into the ashes to burn.’
He stands up and looks out to sea. ‘Maybe all this madness could have been prevented if I’d known Christina was a twin.’
‘It sounds like you’ve got things all wrapped up now,’ I say. ‘Well done.’
‘I have to admit I was baffled by the fingerprints that we were getting all through our investigations,’ he says. ‘At first I assumed they were Christina’s prints but then I realised that most of them were mirror-images of hers. I kept referring back to forensics thinking that the images had been mistakenly inverted. But, of course, it makes sense. The fingerprints belong to Gabrielle – Christina’s and Gabrielle’s DNA is very nearly identical but as they were mirror-image twins the prints are identical but opposite.’
Costa gives me a hug and this time I don’t object. ‘Gabrielle was a very clever woman. She may have been a psychopath but she always stayed one step ahead of us,’ he says.
That’s the most perceptive thing I’ve heard him say.
*
Costa picks up Katie and swings her round while I start to pack up our beach bag.
‘So, it turns out Gabrielle fooled us both. You were wrong about Christina and I was wrong about you. But we were both right about Varcoe. That loser will get what he deserves. I’ll make sure of that. He’s facing a long jail term.’
Katie squeals in delight as Costa lifts her up in the air.
‘Oh, and you were right not to trust DC Kramer,’ he says. ‘He’s crooked as you suspected – but it wasn’t Christina he met at the Coco Shack, it was Gabrielle. She was buying crack cocaine off him. Her drug addiction must have contributed to her loss of sanity. Anyway, Kramer’s been busted and the Commissioner’s taken his badge away. He’s on bail awaiting trial for dealing in drugs’
He looks at me with uncharacteristic humility.
‘I’m sorry. I owe you an apology – for doubting you and for allowing you to put yourself in danger. I was so desperate to get a conviction in this case. I broke all the rules.’
I stand up and take Katie from him into my arms.
‘Well, in the beginning you behaved like a jerk, but in the end, you saved my life.’
I kiss him chastely on the cheek.
‘Are you sure of me now?’
He backs away, laughing.
‘Hey, I’m on duty, people will talk.’
Never stopped him before, funny that!
I sit back down on the sand with Katie. ‘Five more minutes. It’s almost time for us to go.’
I take the album from the bag and turn to the blank page headed Photograph Thirteen.
‘She never did fill in the blank,’ I say.
‘Well,’ he says, taking out his phone. ‘This is the perfect shot to end it with – happy ending.
He snaps a picture of Katie and me playing with shells in the sand.
‘Stop,’ I yell at him. ‘No more photographs – that album is poisonous. It should never be completed and I certainly don’t want to feature in it.’
‘The photo’s for me then, something to remember you by.’ He holds out the screen for me to see, and there we are, with the red bucket full of shells in the foreground, and the turquoise Caribbean Sea behind.
There we are, me, with auburn hair, glowing in the sun, athletic and tanned, looking pretty dammed hot (if I say so myself!), and Katie, the sea breeze playing with her wispy blonde curls, pale from her captivity, delicate and so extraordinarily beautiful with that faraway look in her dreamy blue eyes.
This chapter of my life is over.
‘Give it to me,’ I say.
He hands me the phone and I press delete.
After
Scarlett
It’s almost four o’clock in the afternoon when I ring the doorbell of No 17 Larch Avenue, Greenhaven-in-Rye. The brass nameplate is inscribed with the words Chelsea Mews Cottage in large italic lettering but the house is nothing like a cottage. It’s a grand and imposing pile, approached by a sweeping gravel driveway, built in colonial style of red brick with white pillars on either side of the wide, raised porch and decorative blue shutters. It’s typical of the neighbourhood, which is – according to my taxi driver – one of the most exclusive districts of Westchester County along the Long Island sound.
I hear the bells echoing within but no one comes to the door. Perhaps Christina is still at work but I had hoped Katie would be home from school by now. Of course, I should have called before jumping in a taxi on impulse at JFK airport and taking a ride out here. But I wanted it to be a surprise visit.
I should at least have rung the doorbell before paying off the taxi and sending it away.
After the trials and tribulations of last summer, I was desperate to take a break and have a fresh start. So I took a gap year and I’ve been spending the last few months working on ecological projects in Belize and Costa Rica. I’m homeward bound now, heading back to England, planning to spend this coming summer working in a bar in London before taking up my place to study Criminology at Nottingham University – it’s my second attempt at getting a university degree and nothing’s going to stop me now. I’m done with childcare.
There were problems with my flights back home to London resulting in me being re-routed via New York with four hours to kill at JKF airport. It seemed like fate. I couldn’t pass by this chance opportunity to drop in on Christina and Katie for a flying visit to see how they’re doing.
I’ve had very little contact with Christina since I left – just a few emails. She’s given up her job in the city and found a new job working in a local art gallery on Long Island where they now live. She wants to spend as much time as she can at home with Katie.
A couple of weeks after I accompanied Katie back home to the apartment in Manhattan, Costa sent me an email attaching the official report he had received from his forensics investigators. This was in breach of protocol, of course, but Costa was never one for playing by the rules. The report documented that the badly disfigured remains of a female body had been recovered beneath a workbench on the floor of the boat’s darkroom. Due to the condition of the human remains it was not possible to establish the cause of death with any certainty. A gun and a pair of scissors of the type used for cutting photographic prints had been found on the floor close to the body. It was not possible to obtain fingerprints from either the gun or the scissors as these were charred by the fire. Investigators had, however, found traces of blood and human hair outside the door of the darkroom and on the stairs, in addition to traces of darkroom chemicals.
The blood I could understand – but the hair?
Inevitably, a DNA test of the particles of blood and hair had produced a nonsensical result – a 99.9 per cent match for both Gabrielle and Christina!
Taking account of witness statements provided by both me and Christina in the immediate aftermath, the forensic report concluded that the probable cause of death was asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation from the fire. The report also noted that in light of Christina’s testimony about the precarious mental state of Gabrielle at the time of the incident, the finding of the gun was indicative of suicide as a possible cause of death, although a bullet had not been identified in the bodily remains.
Costa had added a personal message at the bottom to say that he h
oped that life was treating me well and that as for him, he was looking forward to his wife and daughter returning to the island and moving back into the family home. He wrote that the kidnapping of Katie had taught him the importance of valuing human relationships and he was now determined to put his little girl at the centre of his life. For once, I believed he was being sincere.
Well, that email left me distraught and tortured with anxiety for reasons I could not fully process or verbalise to myself. It seemed the report raised as many questions as it answered and I was left with the feeling that the authorities wanted to hush up the whole affair to avoid any negative publicity that would tarnish the image of the BLI as an island paradise.
However, given that I was the person who had supplied the gun, I was thankful that Costa had not ordered a full autopsy. Suicide was not the only possible explanation for the dead body. I had no wish to discuss what had happened in that dark room with Christina. I had no wish to be extradited back to the BLI on suspicion of having acted as an accessory to murder.
Anyway, the resurgence of those traumatic memories strengthened my resolve to go travelling and to put it all behind me.
But it’s impossible to escape the past absolutely.
So now here I am at last – ringing the doorbell – with a sinking feeling that no one is home.
I ring for the third time and peer through the letterbox. A figure moves into my line of vision padding down the stairs and I hear a foreign voice I don’t recognise.
‘Is that someone at the door, Katie? Why didn’t you come and get me, sweetie?’
I step back, and a young woman who’s probably from the Philippines and I guess must be Katie’s new nanny, opens the door.
‘Miss Kenedey is still at work,’ says the woman, who seems gentle and nice. ‘She won’t be home until five.’
‘I’ve come to see Katie,’ I say. ‘I’m Scarlett – Scarlett Reyes. I used to be her nanny last year. Could I see her for a few minutes, please? I’ve got a present for her.’
The woman wavers – not wanting to be rude by refusing the request, but nervous of letting me in. Any minute now she’s going to close the door in my face.
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