The Lost Swimmer

by Ann Turner

  ‘Evidently not as bad,’ Maria shrugged. ‘But when we came back, the papers had gone. Burton was positive he knew where he left them. And not in the official file, of course. Which makes it creepier. If someone from the bank branch had come for them, they were misfiled so they wouldn’t have found them.’

  ‘Vasson?’

  ‘Sofia thinks not. Vasson certainly seemed to be as surprised as we were when we returned and couldn’t find them.’

  ‘That might have been an act.’

  ‘For sure. But he’d been smoking and talking on the phone in a different area. I don’t think he’d noticed exactly where we’d been, let alone the file Burton hid them in.

  Sofia thinks there is only one explanation – someone was watching us. Someone who Vasson didn’t know was there.’ Maria scurried ahead, leaving me to ruminate. The day I went to the bank in Athens someone had come after me. It was conceivable this was the same person. Who were they? Police? I shuddered. I wasn’t favoured by the police here in Italy. It would be a nightmare if the Greek police were after me too.

  Suddenly the forest parted and the sparkling sea lay just ahead. There was an unreality to everything and the sharp contrasts of colours in the clear air by the water mocked and danced. Murky and misty would have fitted, not this image of Paradise that unfolded before us.

  Maria bent and shook the rusty ladder that plunged into the sea. ‘Firm, could be slippery though,’ she muttered.

  I stared at the row of white buoys bobbing on the crystal waves. If Stephen had manufactured his exit, how could he have chosen such a cruel way? He knew how my father’s death had affected me, and he had always been so supportive. Was this all a fantasy I was constructing? Surely Stephen wouldn’t have been so callous as to fake my worst fear? Or was it perhaps some cryptic clue? I turned and began searching for the crevice in the rock where his clothes were found. Everything looked different in the daylight and it took a while to ascertain where it was. There was no tape, no official marking, which bothered me. It was like the police had just stopped investigating, which I knew couldn’t be true.

  I plunged my hand into the deep crack, hoping it wasn’t home to spiders or scorpions. I could feel only cool rock. I swept my hand around, frisking the mountain. There was nothing but air. A soft crunching of gravel sounded down the hill and the hair on the nape of my neck stood on end; I looked rapidly back up the path. No movement. Were we being watched?

  Maria stood. ‘What’s wrong, Rebecca?’

  ‘Shh!’ I strained my ears. All birdsong had stopped. All I could hear was the splash of the sea gently washing against the rocks and sucking back out. Turning, I shrugged. ‘It’s nothing.’

  Maria sighed and trotted towards the broken thatch up the other end, where she picked around the tables and chairs.

  Finally I walked to the water’s edge and looked down. The sea was so translucent I could see the sandy floor. Was it the grave of a dead man? My beautiful husband?

  I bit my cheeks hard to try to stop the tears but they came, incessant, out of control. Through blurred vision I imagined Stephen swimming out. Had he ducked under the line of buoys, holding his breath, opening his eyes and letting the salt sting, adjusting his vision to the underwater world in all its vibrant life deep below? Had he marvelled at a school of fish, small sardines glistening, brushing against his cool skin as they passed? Had the currents swept him away, unsuspecting? Or had the anxiety that he had held at bay for so long gushed up, reaching through his veins like tentacles until he finally let go, allowing it to drive him onwards into the swell, darker now, indigo water so infinite it looked like night?

  As I had slept on the hillside, had he kept swimming, wondering how it all could have happened, how an Economics professor of his pre-eminence had lost everything, bankrupting his family? Costly mistakes, stupidity, lies, his complexity of emotions so strong he couldn’t hold on to a single one.

  I looked out and imagined Stephen increasing his speed until his breathing was ragged, the sea starting to swamp his body, his strong frame now tiny, sucked into the vast ocean current.

  If I had sat up that day and glanced down the mountain, would I have seen him swimming away forever? Disappearing into the blue mist that wrapped gently around him until he was gone.

  21

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve done this before!’ cried Burton, leaning backwards, bumping his wheelchair down step after step in a long flight as we headed into the heart of Positano. Maria was already way in front, hopping like a sparrow. I’d gone into Amalfi and hired a van to make travelling for Burton easier, but the steep mountains along the coast were still going to cause problems whenever we got out of it.

  We passed the bar where Stephen and I had sat gazing at Capri; where he had vowed to be closer to me, to not take me for granted. They didn’t sound like the words of someone who planned to take his own life, yet his stock market gamble must have been awry even then.

  At lunch I’d emailed Erin and James and asked them to be together so I could phone them tonight. I ached that I would not be there to hold them when they heard the awful news. I’d give them my credit card details and get them to fly straight over. ‘Hang on, I’ll meet you down there!’ I called, suddenly realising I hadn’t checked my own bank accounts. Burton waved, unable to stop. I leaned into the shade against an ancient wall and quickly flicked on my phone and logged into my bank. The joint account had been drained, one week ago. I opened my personal account, where most of my savings were held: it too had been drained, four days ago. The only money left was my most recent pay, which had gone in yesterday. I slumped down into the dirt, ignoring the tourists who thronged past. A cool white rage enveloped me.

  Was it cash Stephen was stockpiling for his disappearance? Or was he trying desperately to pay his debts? I checked the time; it was too late to call the bank in Australia, so I sent off an email. Where had the money been paid? How had it been allowed to happen? In my fury I still hoped that it had been transferred to Italy for Stephen’s escape. But how many days had we been here? I couldn’t think clearly.

  All our money was gone. Our life savings. I had studied wealth in civilisations for too long not to know the chilling effect of poverty. I had a job – just. For now that gave me an income, I quickly reminded myself, as I fought off panic.

  I did some quick calculations as I eyed the balance on my two credit cards. I would only just have enough for my children’s airfares. I rose and continued down the steps. How could Stephen have done this? I’d read stories of people living with someone who turned out to have a double life. I’d always thought the aggrieved party was naïve. As my anger boiled over I vowed to track him down – and bring him to account for what he’d done to us.

  • • •

  The tall, rotund sailor dangled his homemade line in the translucent sea, its baited hook visible, surrounded by a school of fish. ‘The crewman you describe, signora, he could be anyone.’

  ‘He was working the Amalfi–Sorrento ferry three days ago. The ten-oh-five that connects with the train to Pompeii.’

  ‘Perhaps try head office?’ He shrugged dismissively.

  Burton drew his wheelchair close. ‘Signor, we want to speak to your fellow crewman because we need to find a man – a gentleman, fit, tall, about fifty – who has disappeared.’

  ‘Missing?’ The sailor grew interested.

  ‘Si, si. Vanished. We wonder if he came on the ferry. Perhaps the evening before last?’

  I held out my phone and showed a photo of Stephen standing inside the Marine Gate at Pompeii. It was a good likeness, capturing him vividly.

  ‘Hmm. No.’ He took another look. ‘Perhaps maybe?’

  ‘Were you working that night?’ asked Burton.

  ‘Si, si.’ The sailor took my phone and scrutinised the image. ‘It’s possible.’ He tipped the phone one way and another, as though trying to make Stephen come to life.

  ‘There are other photos.’ I quickly showed him. He squinted hard, scr
ewing up his weathered face. The ferry’s horn blasted, making us jump and the sailor pulled up his fishing line.

  ‘No. I have not seen this man.’ He handed back my phone and moved to stow the gangplank. As we hurried to dry land I passed him a flier that Burton had printed, the photo of Stephen at Pompeii with our contact details. It was captioned ‘Missing’. My mouth went dry and a sour liquid rose.

  Everything that was happening was impossible.

  ‘Where to next?’ sighed Maria.

  ‘We’ll call the main office,’ said Burton, dialling. But we had no luck there either.

  We walked back to the small crescent of beach and, with Burton quizzing the bartenders and shopkeepers, started pasting the fliers of Stephen. ‘Missing’. I stood glaring at Stephen’s soft, sensuous mouth and kind, brown eyes creased with laughter lines. The few times I’d seen posters of the missing I’d found them tragic. Haunted faces frozen in time. The unreality of the situation swirled about me. Stephen’s vibrant face was far too handsome to be on a poster of the lost. Men like Stephen didn’t just disappear.

  Or perhaps they did when they’d ruined their family’s finances.

  A short while later we were back in the van navigating hairpin bends. I had so little money I would have to return the other hire car. My lips quivered. The sports car was inextricably linked with Stephen. A carefree, happy image burned into my brain. That first day, driving from Naples, the world had opened with freedom and possibilities.

  I pulled the van over and parked in a tiny dirt space on the side of the road, and, dodging buses, hauled out Burton’s wheelchair and helped him manoeuvre into it. We headed for the elevator that would take us down to the Grotta Verdi.

  Tourists made way for the wheelchair as we edged closer to the lift doors. ‘I’m good for something,’ muttered Burton.

  Maria took one hand and Burton my other as we plunged down.

  When we exited at the bottom, Burton’s face dropped. The rocky path above the swirling sea was narrower than I remembered.

  ‘We won’t let you fall,’ said Maria, grasping the wheelchair handles.

  ‘Don’t, please,’ replied Burton. ‘It’s best if I steer alone.’

  ‘I’m right behind you,’ said Maria.

  ‘Me too,’ I said, thinking if he were to slip there was nothing we could do. ‘Maybe we should go back?’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Burton kept moving ahead. ‘Please be careful,’ I called. Soon we were halfway to the entrance, and in a few more minutes we were waiting in line to enter the grotto.

  ‘Wow.’ Maria stepped inside and stopped to let her eyes adjust to the gloom.

  ‘Amazing.’ Burton gazed around, transfixed by the massive limestone stalagmites thrusting up from the sea. ‘Poseidon’s den.’

  A ruckus broke out and from the corner of my eye I saw the wiry little man flapping his arms and running towards us. ‘No, no. No wheelchairs!’ he cried in a thick accent. ‘No, no, you cannot come in. Too dangerous!’

  Burton replied in Italian that we were here to speak to a guide and that it was of crucial importance.

  I scanned the boats as the rowers sang loud bursts of opera that bounced wildly off the cave walls. My heart sank when I couldn’t see the White Spider.

  ‘His name is Charon,’ said Burton wryly and the wiry man laughed.

  ‘They’re all Charon, all of them!’

  ‘Then we need to talk to one Charon in particular,’ I said and pointed, relieved, as the White Spider came gliding into sight, his boatful of distraught passengers clearly eager to disembark.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ he called, tipping his cap. ‘The signora has-a returned. Where is your husband?’ He gave a sly smile.

  ‘That’s what we’re here to ask,’ replied Burton in a friendly tone.

  ‘We were wondering if you’d seen him?’ I said.

  ‘In the village? No.’ The Spider alighted from the boat and stepped aside to let on the next load of hapless sightseers. ‘But why do you ask?’ He loped towards me, a cruel, eager smile lighting his face. ‘Have-a you lost him? Have-a you lost your husband?’ He brushed a cold hand against my arm and I recoiled.

  ‘Si, he’s disappeared,’ replied Burton while Maria scrutinised the Spider with a stern look of disapproval.

  ‘I would expect it,’ the Spider shrugged. ‘Those men are all-a the same. He’s missing? Very-a interesting. Fascinating.’ He looked me up and down. ‘But it’s-a strange, you know?’ he said merrily. ‘Now I remember. Recently I saw-a him in a boat. I thought, Charon, what’s he doing with a blonde woman who is not-a his wife?’ The Spider watched me with pale, eager eyes. ‘It was the evening before last. I was visiting friends at Praiano and we went-a fishing. Along came-a your husband in a speedboat and imagine my surprise when you weren’t-a with him? He had his arm around another woman. Bella.’ He thrust his long, thin arms into the air and traced a quick outline of her shape: a perfect fantasy woman.

  His eagerness repulsed me; I couldn’t trust him.

  ‘How old?’ asked Burton.

  The Spider shrugged. ‘Not-a young. Mid-forties? Maybe older? She had beautiful blue-a eyes. Too good-a for him, I thought. Better with Charon.’ He chuckled cruelly.

  I held the Spider’s gaze. He grinned, revealing stained, tombstone teeth. ‘I must take-a my next tour. You wanna come?’ He waved provocatively as he thrust off into the lime-green water.

  ‘He made that up,’ muttered Maria disdainfully.

  ‘But the woman. Blue eyes, blonde hair, well preserved. Remind you of someone?’ asked Burton.

  ‘A cliché?’ said Maria.

  ‘Priscilla Chiton,’ he declared. ‘It’s conceivable he’s run away with her. Sorry to be blunt, Bec, but I didn’t think Charon was necessarily making it up. And the timing fits. Evening. Stephen could have swum and met her in a cove. Praiano’s between your hotel and Positano, isn’t it? And we know that Priscilla’s not in Australia at the moment.’

  My stomach contracted.

  ‘Breathe,’ whispered Maria, stroking my back. ‘Deep breaths.’

  Tourists were pushing past, talking loudly, their voices echoing against the cave walls. I fought back panic and claustrophobia as I rushed to the exit, grateful to be back in the sunlight and away from the revolting Charon.

  ‘I don’t think I believe him,’ I said as we navigated the path. Anger was taking over: anger at myself for coming, anger at Charon’s games, anger at Stephen for putting me in this position. I wanted to hurl rocks and scream.

  ‘He was fabricating it for effect.’ Maria shook her head. ‘I saw him embellishing as he watched your reaction.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Burton.

  If Stephen really was with Priscilla my rage would be unstoppable. My head spun.

  ‘He was utterly loathsome. Let’s get to the hotel and see if Marco has found anything,’ said Maria.

  • • •

  Cameras pointed at my face as I alighted outside Della Mare’s ceramics shop; microphones were thrust forward. Television presenters with big hair and higher heels thronged towards us.

  ‘Signora Wilding, did you murder your husband?’

  ‘How does it feel to be accused, Signora Wilding?’

  ‘Professor, are you denying any involvement?’

  ‘Rebecca, Rebecca, you must be distraught that your husband is missing?’

  Startled, I darted back to the sanctuary of the van.

  ‘Good God!’ Burton stared at the reporters in shock.

  ‘Someone’s setting you up,’ said Maria angrily.

  A scrawny olive-skinned hand, bejewelled and young, wrenched my door open.

  ‘Professor Wilding, do you deny murdering your husband for his money?’

  I laughed cynically as I struggled to pull the door shut. ‘Drive off!’ cried Burton. I locked the doors and slammed the van into reverse, about to force my way through the pack when Marco came running from the shop.

  ‘Rebecca! Rebecca!’ he bellowed
and then spoke sternly to the press.

  ‘What’s he saying, Burton?’ His Italian was too rapid for me to understand.

  ‘He’s telling them to piss off, basically. In no uncertain terms.’

  Reporters started a stream of conversation in return.

  ‘And they’re telling him it’s public property where they’re standing. They’re not leaving,’ Burton sighed.

  Marco ploughed through the crowd. He ran around to the back door and I quickly undid the locks. I snapped them shut again as soon as he flung himself inside.

  ‘A pack of wolves!’ he cursed. ‘Rebecca, I’ve been trying to phone you.’

  ‘Did you find something?’ I pulled out my phone and saw that the battery had gone dead. I focused on it, terrified by what Marco was about to say.

  ‘Somehow it got reported in Australia. And now the press here are all over it.’

  ‘Marco, has he been found?’ My voice sounded far away, as if someone else were speaking.

  ‘No, no. It’s okay. We didn’t find anything. There’s nothing new.’

  I let out a long breath.

  ‘Sorry,’ Marco leaned forward and squeezed my shoulders. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you, Becca. But your children have heard. They’ve been phoning.’

  The blood drained from me and Maria leaned quickly across to take my hand in hers.

  Burton passed his phone over. ‘You must call them and explain.’

  ‘Too late. They’re on their way,’ said Marco. ‘They were heading straight for the airport.’

  I tried to think what time it would be there. ‘When was this?’ I muttered.

  ‘About four hours ago. Then the press started arriving here.’

  ‘But they couldn’t get a flight that quickly, surely?’ I dialled Erin’s number. It rang out.

  Everyone watched as I stabbed in another number. Cameras outside were pointed at me, lights pierced my eyes. I turned my back on them as Klair picked up.

  ‘Is James there?’

  ‘Rebecca, is that you?

  ‘Yes,’ I snapped. ‘Can I speak to James?’

  ‘He’s not here. He left his phone with me at the airport because it won’t work overseas. Erin’s going to try ringing you when they get to Singapore.’ Klair paused. ‘Are you all right? Is Stephen really missing? They’re saying you’re under suspicion for murder.’