The Lost Swimmer

by Ann Turner

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ I roared. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’ I hung up as she kept babbling. ‘I must charge my phone. What if Stephen’s tried to call?’ I wrenched open my door.

  ‘Rebecca, wait!’ cried Marco but I was already running towards the small gate at street level that led to a flight of stairs cascading down the mountain to the hotel reception. Maria came after me, beating off reporters with tiny whirling arms, like a hummingbird. Marco moved to retrieve Burton’s wheelchair; they’d have to battle their way inside to the lift. A reporter screeched. Maria had kicked the woman’s shin. We reached the gate and fled downhill.

  Adriana greeted us with hugs and despair. ‘Caro, caro! Come quickly away from those monsters!’ She ushered us into the small sitting room. ‘Vultures.’ Adriana drew the curtains shut, plunging us into gloom. She switched on a lamp that cast a reassuring golden glow, and came and sat beside us on the white leather lounge.

  ‘I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Rebecca. The police have been here looking for you.’

  ‘What on earth has happened?’

  ‘They won’t say. Even Marco could get nothing from them.’

  ‘Do you think they’ve found him?’ My voice cracked and my legs went numb. ‘I must call.’

  ‘Caro, perhaps we might find a lawyer for you?’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong!’

  ‘Rebecca, maybe it would be a good idea?’ Maria said, eyes wide with fear.

  ‘If you think so,’ I mumbled, aware I might not be making the best decisions at the moment. ‘I’d like to ask Burton.’

  ‘Coming!’ he called and wheeled in like the cavalry.

  ‘We think she should get a lawyer,’ said Maria, and Burton nodded. ‘Who knows one?’

  ‘I do,’ said Marco as he followed Burton into the room. He went to a small ceramic table and picked up a phone. ‘Is this okay?’ He looked at me.

  ‘I guess so.’ I was wondering how I’d pay for it.

  Marco spoke quickly into the receiver and hung up. ‘He is the very best. A friend of my late parents. A criminal lawyer.’

  ‘Can we call the police?’ I asked. Marco obliged, summoning Giotto. After a hushed conversation, Marco turned to me.

  ‘There’s nothing. But the Commissario thinks you’re hiding something. Evidently my waiter Alessandro has been aiding them in this view. Are you?’ Marco looked at me directly.

  I sat back, overwhelmingly relieved that I wasn’t hearing Stephen confirmed dead. ‘No, Marco, I’m not. The Commissario can ask me whatever he wants. Once my lawyer arrives.’

  22

  Signor Vitale was model-thin with a full head of glossy black hair. Immaculately groomed in a white linen suit, blue silk tie and soft leather slip-on shoes, he exuded expensive. His English was perfect, spoken in a deep, commanding voice. I was glad that he was on my team and not batting for the opposition.

  He ordered everyone else to leave the room and once we were alone he turned casually, leaning in ever so slightly as he held me in his hypnotic gaze. I kept a surreptitious lookout on my phone, wishing I’d asked Klair what time my kids were arriving in Singapore. I’d played and replayed their heartbreaking messages saying they were on their way, pleading to know what was going on.

  ‘Professor Wilding, I must put to you one question. Did you do it? Did you murder your husband? I promise I will tell no one, but I need to know.’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘If my wife had ruined the family finances I could be violent,’ Vitale shrugged. ‘Anyone could be.’

  ‘We didn’t even fight. He said he loved me, I went to sleep and he went for a swim. Well, I think he swam. I didn’t even know about the finances until later.’

  ‘When he said he loved you, was this unusual?’

  ‘It didn’t seem so at the time.’

  ‘So, you often say this to each other?’

  ‘It’s not rare. Although in recent times it was perhaps a bit unusual.’

  ‘Why?’ Vitale snapped.

  ‘We’d both been preoccupied. In hindsight, I can see that Stephen was sick with worry about his investments.’

  ‘And yet he told you nothing?’

  ‘We both had secrets,’ I sighed.

  ‘And what are yours?’

  Immediately I regretted speaking. ‘Nothing relevant,’ I replied firmly.

  ‘I’ll decide that.’ Vitale stood and walked to the window, lifting a curtain back slightly with one finger and glancing out. ‘Tell me everything. It’s the only way I can protect you.’ He turned back dramatically. ‘Were you having an affair?’

  I shook my head. ‘But I wondered if Stephen was.’ I hoped this would occupy the conversation and I wouldn’t be quizzed again on my secrets, which I had no intention of revealing.

  ‘We’ll come back to that,’ said Vitale smoothly. ‘What were you hiding from him, signora?’

  ‘Please, if we’re to work together, I must stay focused on Stephen. The boatman from the grotto, Charon – I don’t know his real name – told us he saw Stephen with a blonde woman fitting the description of a colleague, Priscilla Chiton. It’s possible Stephen contacted her and asked her to help him disappear. I’ve worried for months if he was seeing Priscilla. And I might have stumbled upon her sandals in Crete.’

  ‘Her sandals?’ Vitale frowned.

  ‘In the Venetian fortress in Heraklion. I thought Stephen might have met her there.’

  ‘And the sandals?’

  ‘She wasn’t wearing them. She’d left them on the stairs.’ I stopped and rubbed my temples, remembering that I’d seen the Englishwoman put on the sandals. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit . . . I saw a woman, from a distance. Forget about the sandals.’

  ‘And you thought the woman looked like . . .’ He checked his notes. ‘Signora Priscilla Chiton? Have you told the police any of this?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then please don’t. It’s very confused. You’ll whip up the Commissario. He’s a man who runs on instinct. Our problem is he’s convinced you are guilty.’

  ‘Without a shred of evidence, because I’m not. Don’t they know how to conduct an investigation down here? And that waiter Alessandro is a maniac.’

  ‘We all know each other very well. It doesn’t pay to be rude.’

  ‘I’m not being.’ Impatience rose. ‘My husband’s missing and every minute the police stand around presuming I’m guilty is time wasted from the investigation. Surely you can see my problem?’

  ‘If he has gone missing, how do you propose we find him?’

  ‘For a start I’d like the boats and helicopter to keep searching. And for the police to interview all the crews on the ferries and check any closed-circuit-television footage. What about the wharves in Sorrento and Naples? The train station? The airport? Although I doubt Stephen went to the airport because he couldn’t use his passport without the police knowing.’

  Vitale stared at me like I was something quite repulsive – something that could be squashed.

  ‘His passport’s missing,’ I added.

  ‘And you don’t think he met with foul play?’ Vitale’s voice was quiet, his dark eyes bright with suspicion.

  ‘It can’t be ruled out, can it?’ One of my knees started jittering of its own accord, beating out a tattoo. I put a hand on it firmly to pin it down.

  ‘I hope for your sake that your theory he ran away is correct,’ said Vitale, suddenly gentle. ‘I think perhaps our instincts about our loved ones are also worth listening to. And I get the strongest feeling speaking with you that you think your husband is still alive.’

  I bit my lower lip to try to stop the quivering. I nodded but couldn’t find any words.

  Vitale crossed the room and took my hand. ‘I shall ask the Commissario to keep looking. But now, take me through moment by moment the day your husband disappeared.’

  • • •

  Two hours later Vitale was satisfied that I was ready to meet the police again. He organised for N
apolitano to come to the hotel, not wanting me to have to run the gauntlet of the press. Before the Commissario arrived, I called Erin’s phone but it kept ringing out.

  Maria bustled in with a plate of food. It was dinnertime and I found I was surprisingly hungry. I devoured the spaghetti marinara and salad gratefully but refused the wine. Burton watched without saying a word.

  ‘You’re unnerving me,’ I finally said.

  ‘I’ve contacted the Australian consulate in Rome. They’re sending someone as soon as they can but they’re short staffed, particularly as you haven’t been charged with anything yet.’

  ‘And she won’t be!’ said Maria.

  Burton took my glass of wine and gulped it down.

  ‘Careful,’ warned Maria, ‘we need you on board, Burton. Rebecca, what’s Vitale like? If you’re not happy we’ll find someone else.’

  ‘He’s good. He’s on my side, I think,’ I added vulnerably.

  Minutes later, Vitale led Napolitano and Giotto into the room. Maria quickly cleared my plate away and she and Burton were asked to leave.

  ‘We have discovered something unpleasant,’ said Napolitano, pulling up a chair that grated on the tiled floor. ‘You have something to tell me about Coastal University?’

  For the first time that question made me flood with relief: at least it wasn’t Stephen’s death he was announcing. ‘It’s where I work.’

  ‘Something else?’ He waited as both Giotto and Vitale took notes. Vitale looked like an animal waiting to pounce. I hoped he really was on my side.

  I said, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Does fraud sound familiar?’

  I tensed and fell silent.

  ‘Does it, Professor Wilding?’ Napolitano raised his voice a notch.

  ‘You’ll have to be more specific.’

  ‘You’re under investigation for misappropriating a very large sum of money. In the millions of dollars.’

  ‘No, not millions.’

  ‘I believe it is. I spoke to Professor DiStasio.’

  ‘I would have thought that’s confidential. And it’s only alleged. Several people are under investigation.’

  ‘There’s a pattern, though, is there not?’

  How had the Italian police managed to find out university business? Had Coastal referred the matter to outside authorities since I’d been away? What was Priscilla’s role in all of this?

  ‘Where did you get the idea of millions of dollars?’ I desperately hoped to get a clearer picture.

  ‘From your local police.’

  My stomach cramped. The matter had gone further and was vastly more serious. I would have to contact DiStasio as soon as I’d finished with Napolitano. Was the fraud somehow linked to Stephen’s disappearance?

  ‘I ask you again,’ beat on Napolitano, ‘to tell me about the fraud. I can only assume you needed the money to cover your husband’s gambling debts?’

  ‘Stephen didn’t gamble. He invested money and the stock market went against him.’

  Napolitano smiled. ‘Did you use the money you stole to help him?’

  ‘She’s confessing to nothing,’ roared Vitale and thumped the little ceramic table so hard it rocked wildly. ‘Say no more, please, Rebecca.’

  ‘But I never did any such thing!’ I was suddenly in the middle of an Italian soap opera.

  Vitale leaped to his feet. ‘I need to talk to my client,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ replied the Commissario. ‘We will continue. There are many millions she has hidden away and if we get to the source of the money trail, I believe it will lead to the answers we need.’

  ‘I wish you would get to the bottom of the money trail. But first you need to find my husband.’ The mood around me was pure testosterone. ‘Please?’ I added.

  ‘Tell us where you dumped the body?’ whispered Napolitano and Giotto’s eyes widened as he looked up from his notes. Vitale gazed at me. I opened my mouth to again profess my innocence.

  ‘No, no, no!’ Vitale shouted. ‘She is saying nothing. You have no proof that there is a body and until you do, this meeting is over. The alleged fraud is in Australia and it has nothing to do with your jurisdiction.’ Vitale grabbed me under both arms, lifted me up and led me out on jellied legs, shutting the door on a fuming Napolitano and an alarmed Giotto.

  • • •

  Marco, Maria, Burton and I sat around my room. No one had spoken for the past few minutes. I was drained but needed the company. The police and Vitale had left the hotel over an hour ago, Napolitano vowing to return as soon as he had more proof.

  Finally Marco shuffled in his chair as if he were about to speak. Everyone turned. He sighed and shook his head.

  ‘I’ve known Rebecca nearly thirty years, Marco,’ said Burton. ‘And I promise she never would have stolen money, not a cent.’

  ‘Then, who is setting you up?’ asked Marco quietly. ‘Might that person have something to do with your husband?’

  ‘I don’t know. But why would they? That’s what I can’t work out.’ My blood ran cold.

  ‘To make everyone think you’re guilty,’ replied Marco.

  ‘It’s possible, isn’t it, Rebecca?’ Tonight Maria looked her age, her face creased with worry.

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ I sighed. ‘Including that Stephen drowned or committed suicide.’ I felt the familiar tears gush up.

  ‘But could Stephen have stolen the money and faked his disappearance?’ continued Marco.

  ‘It would be completely out of character. He’s not like that.’ I shook my head tiredly. I didn’t know what to think anymore.

  ‘Is that because you don’t want it to be true or because it’s impossible?’ quizzed Marco.

  ‘I’m sure he could forge your signature, Bec,’ said Burton, and Marco sat forward.

  ‘Well, he’d never been to Athens, so he couldn’t have set up the accounts,’ I said.

  ‘But Sofia says the bank manager takes bribes. He could have mocked it up to look like someone went physically to the bank, when they didn’t,’ said Maria.

  I gave a long exhale that sounded like a moan. ‘Give me some credit for knowing my husband. Put it this way – Stephen played the stock market. I didn’t know about his losses but I’m not surprised. Horrified. But not in any doubt it’s true. On the other hand, Stephen manipulating university accounts and using my name? I honestly don’t think so.’

  ‘But he would know you think that,’ said Burton gently. ‘Unfortunately it gives him the perfect opportunity.’

  ‘Someone’s set you up, and Stephen has a motive,’ echoed Maria.

  ‘Gamblers who lose all their money can get desperate,’ said Marco.

  ‘He’s not a gambler,’ I mumbled tiredly.

  ‘Bec, you need to face this.’ Burton wheeled close and dipped his head, trying to catch my eyes, which I averted to the ground. ‘It doesn’t seem like coincidence that you’re accused of fraud, Stephen loses all your money and then disappears. Think like a professional.’ Burton’s blue eyes were vibrant and pleading. I lifted my head and he followed my gaze, locking mine into his. ‘Reason this out like the leading archaeologist you are. If we found those three threads in the dirt – missing public funds, lost savings and the disappearance of a key person – what would we hypothesise?’

  I leaned away and broke eye contact. I wanted to retreat, but I had nowhere left to go. ‘All right, I get where you’re heading,’ I replied. ‘But I’d also keep an open mind. I’d form another hypothesis to test against it.’

  ‘Which would be?’ asked Marco.

  I paused, racking my brain, angry at all of them.

  ‘Why don’t we make a list?’ said Maria, sensing my distress. ‘Let’s draw up columns. If Stephen’s alive and if, God forbid, he’s not.’

  We worked into the small hours and were still batting out ideas, going round in circles, as the pink dawn crept into the sky and brightened. It was Monday morning. As soon as it reached nine o’clock I phoned the organise
rs of Stephen’s conference on Capri to check if they’d heard from him. They were from an English university and had only just arrived, with the conference due to start on Wednesday. There had been no messages from Stephen. My heart sank. They were sympathetic and worried and promised to get in touch immediately if there was any contact. As I hung up, a wave of despondency hit. Maria took my hand. With great effort, I went back to working out scenarios of what might have happened, determined to cover every possibility, fighting back nausea.

  It turned into a sunny afternoon. I was struggling to keep awake when a bustling in the corridor outside distracted me. The door burst open. I blinked, standing, not believing my eyes. It was Erin and James.

  ‘My phone ran out of battery and we couldn’t find anywhere to phone in Singapore,’ cried Erin, flying into my arms.

  ‘Mum, tell us everything,’ implored James as he kissed me. I could smell acrid sweat. ‘Dad’s missing, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, I’m so sorry. He is. That part’s true,’ I replied awkwardly, hugging them tight, pinning one under each arm, never wanting to let them go.

  ‘But obviously you didn’t murder him?’

  Erin was clinging to me like a baby possum.

  ‘Of course not. And we don’t know he’s dead.’ The last word stuck in my mouth.

  ‘Those lying reporters said he was.’ James blinked back tears.

  ‘The press do that,’ said Burton. ‘And God knows how they got onto the story in Australia. They’re making everything up.’

  ‘Not unusual,’ said Maria.

  ‘So, what happened, Mum?’ pleaded James.

  ‘Your dad went swimming,’ I frowned, trying to think if it was two days ago. It was hard to keep track of time. Sickened, I realised it was longer. ‘Three days ago. On Friday. And he never came back.’ This time my own tears didn’t well. In the presence of my children I found a sudden stoicism.

  ‘We have to fear the worst, that he may have drowned,’ I said. ‘But – there were a few other things going on. He might have run away. Just for a bit. Just to sort himself out.’