By Sunday evening, I was pacing my apartment, feeling lonely and afraid. Leo and I had never argued before, and I felt the withdrawal of his love and support, like breath had been sucked from my lungs. I hadn’t heard from Josh either, although I didn’t blame him for staying away.
I hated these auras. And I still had to think about Nick. On an impulse, I decided to go see him. Perhaps I could convince him to take my warning seriously. Maybe not, but at least I had to try.
The journey was easy, the Tube fairly empty, but it was an uncomfortable feeling to be back outside Rebecca’s apartment. The unlit windows made me shiver. I rang the doorbell for Nick’s flat. It was Gary who answered.
“It’s Kate Benedict. I’d like to talk to Nick, please?”
“Nick’s out.” Gary’s tone was brusque.
“Can I come up and talk to you?” I asked. When the front door buzzed, I pushed it open, jogging up the stairs to Gary’s flat before he could change his mind. He opened the apartment door.
“What do you want?”
“Can I come in?”
He hesitated before pulling the door open. The layout of the flat was just like Rebecca’s, but this one was furnished in chrome and black leather with burnt orange walls.
“Would you like a drink? Coffee, wine? Martini?”
“Wine, please.”
While Gary was making our drinks, Caspian appeared, rubbed himself against my leg, and then sprinted away up the hall. I loved the way cats did that, acting on impulses we didn’t see or understand.
Gary handed me a glass and sat on the sofa opposite me. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
His short dark hair was gelled into bristles that seemed to reflect his personality. Either he was just a prickly person or he really didn’t like me for some reason.
“How’s Nick doing?” I asked. “Has he handled the murder inquiry okay?”
Gary shrugged. “I suppose so. He was really upset about Rebecca. He never stops talking about her.”
“You weren’t friends with Rebecca?”
“Not like Nick, no. He used to go up there often, to play with the cat or whatever. He and Rebecca spent a lot of time together.”
So Gary was jealous of Rebecca, I realized. I remembered what Nick had said about being bisexual. Was it possible he was having an affair with Rebecca? But if he were, what about Edward? I found it hard to imagine that Rebecca was two-timing her boyfriend, or that Nick was, for that matter.
I sipped my wine. Gary was drinking something golden and strong smelling; Scotch, I guessed.
“So are you going to tell me what it was you wanted? Nick will be back soon. He’s working late, again.” He gave a theatrical sigh.
“Listen, Gary. I’m going to tell you something that will sound weird, but please hear me out.”
He smirked. “I’m good with weird. Bring it on.”
“I can see auras around people that predict death,” I said, deciding subtlety was not the right approach with him. “And Nick has one, an aura. Rebecca had it too, and a couple of other people I know who have since died.”
“You’re a dangerous woman to know, Kate,” he said, knocking back his drink. “Hold on, I’ll be back.”
He went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of Glenmorangie. He poured himself another generous shot.
“So these auras,” he said. “What do they look like?”
“Clear air rippling around the head and shoulders. The faster the ripples, the closer the danger.”
“And you don’t know what will kill someone or when?”
I shook my head.
“Well, that sucks,” he said. “I mean that’s kind of like telling me I’ll win the lottery but only if I pick the right numbers. What’s the point of being able to foresee something if you don’t know the place or time, or how? As fortune-tellers go, Kate, you’re pretty lame.”
“I agree with you,” I said. I wanted to slap him, but mustered a smile instead. “It does suck. However, we may be able do something to help Nick.”
I explained how the aura had disappeared after Alan changed his plans. “So it’s possible to change the outcome,” I said. “I’m hoping we can pinpoint some areas of potential danger. Do you have any trips coming up, for example?”
“There’s the bungee jump scheduled for Saturday,” said Gary. “And the scuba dive on Sunday.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“What do you think? No, there are no dangerous weekend pursuits, no travel planned. We’re too busy right now.”
“What about changing his routine? Taking a different route to work? Maybe he could skip work for a while?”
“I could make him stay in the house for a month,” Gary said. “That would eliminate accidents with cars and buses I suppose, and random violence on the street.”
“Yes,” I said, thinking he was actually taking me seriously, but then he laughed.
“That’s not going to happen,” he said. “Besides, who’s to say that the danger isn’t a heart attack, or an airplane crashing through the roof, or a gas explosion. Or he could just die of boredom from being cooped up here for days on end.”
He drained his glass and poured another measure of liquor into it.
“And let’s not forget that Rebecca was killed in her own home, where she should have been safe. So, on balance, I don’t think locking Nick in the apartment is a good idea.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickled at Gary’s words. Not being safe at home. Was Aidan safe even when Leo was there looking out for him? I leaned back on the leather couch, which creaked and sighed when I moved.
“Any health issues he’s not attending to? Anything you can think of?”
Gary drained his glass and put it down on the coffee table. “Listen, I appreciate your concern, but…” He shrugged. “Did you talk to Nick about this?”
“I did. But he didn’t take it very seriously. He laughed at me, in fact.”
“I can’t blame him for that.”
I got to my feet and put my half-finished glass down.
“Thanks for listening, anyway,” I said. “Are you coming to Rebecca’s funeral?”
“I doubt it. I’m sure Nick will go.”
He walked me to the door and glanced along the hall towards the stairs that led to Rebecca’s flat.
“I heard some new renters have applied to move in up there,” Gary said. “A married couple. Hope they don’t believe in ghosts. I wouldn’t want to live in a place where someone died. But it will be good to have a couple there, you know what I mean?”
“Not a young woman who takes up too much of Nick’s time?”
“Something like that.”
***
I thought about it for several hours before calling Inspector Clarke. I had no evidence, nothing more than a feeling, but I felt I had to share it. Gary was jealous of Nick. Was he jealous enough to have confronted Rebecca?
Did Nick know? Was he protecting Gary? He seemed to be making up excuses for not getting to the police station to work on the identity picture. Was he stalling for time? Were the visitor sightings just made up to distract the police? I reached Clarke’s voicemail and told him I had some information. When he rang back thirty minutes later, I recounted my conversation with Gary. As always, Clarke was non-committal. I didn’t know if he thought it was useful or extraneous. But that was up to him.
Just before I hung up, I remembered what Rebecca’s parents had said about the toxicology tests and asked Clarke if he had the results yet.
“The initial report shows no alcohol in her system at all,” he said.
“So someone did plant the wine glass and bottle to make it look as though she’d been drinking?”
“That appears to be the case,” he said. “And while I have you on the line, can you remind me where you were on that Sunday evening?”
“I’ve already told you,” I said. “I left the restaurant at about two in the afternoon and went home. I was by myself in my
apartment until Monday morning. I don’t have an alibi, but I didn’t kill Rebecca. What possible motive could I have?”
Clarke’s question unnerved me. For him to even think that I had something to do with Rebecca’s death made me nauseous. I knew he thought I was hiding something. I was, but I couldn’t tell him about the aura over Rebecca. Maybe I would tell him if I had to. Perhaps then, he’d realize I was a nutcase but I wasn’t a murderer. This aura sighting ability was ruining my life in so many ways.
“Thanks for the information about Gary,” he said, ending a long silence. “I’ll follow up.”
I boiled the kettle but forgot to make the tea, went to my bedroom to find a sweater and then couldn’t recall why I’d gone there. I turned on the television and remembered I’d left the water running for a bath. I felt as though I was losing my mind.
All at once, I had a cogent thought and grabbed my laptop. I pulled up the British Airways site and found an available seat on a flight leaving late the following day. The price, on such short notice, was prohibitive, but I bought the ticket anyway. I had to go back to Florence, back to the hill where this had all started. Maybe if I did that, something would change. The aura sightings would go away. My life would return to some semblance of normality.
I sat on the sofa until the early hours of the morning, then got up and packed a carry-on case. I dressed for work, and got to the office early, intent on finishing some important drawings for Josh before I left. As soon as they were done, I went to find him. Finding his office empty, I wandered the corridors looking for him, until Laura told me that he and Alan were out on a site visit and wouldn’t be back until late afternoon. Disappointed to miss him, but glad to avoid Alan, I wrote notes to both of them explaining that I would be away for a few days. I knew Alan would probably fire me, but my job was a minor casualty in this escalating battle. I took the Dockland Light Rail out to City airport, feeling as though I was running out on Nick and Aidan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Four hours later, I walked down the airplane steps at the Florence airport. My heart rate slowed as I took a few deep breaths. The smell of fuel and warm asphalt accompanied me as I followed the other passengers to the air-conditioned terminal building. Cigarette smoke mingled with perfume and aftershave and the scent of leather and grease. The Italian language flowed around me and through me, transporting me away from London and the office.
Dad was waiting for me in his old Fiat and I threw my bag on the back seat before folding myself into the tiny car. He looked well, better than I had expected. He drove quickly, changing down through the gears until we reached the freeway. Even at this hour, the A-1 was filled with cars. He weaved in and out of both lanes, driving like a true Italian. When someone honked at him, he leaned on his horn and muttered under his breath. It was only when we reached our exit that I was able to breathe normally again.
“Trattoria Lucinda?” he asked, already taking the left hand turn towards my favorite local restaurant. There the owner gave me a big hug and led us to a table on the covered patio. It was warm and full of noise: cicadas, children and the chatter of Italians enjoying their evening. My father kept the conversation light. I was grateful for that. Mostly he talked about the book he was writing on Italian gardens. He told me he was planning a trip in the spring to Villa Taranto near Stresa.
“The gardens are beautiful,” he said, while I dug into my pasta amatriciana. “They were created by a Scotsman in the 1930s. I’ve been looking at photos of the dahlia collection, which is stunning. So many colors. There is one I like especially. It made me think of you, sort of an ivory, creamy color.”
“Thanks Dad, plain vanilla, is that what you’re saying?” I smiled to soften the words, but wondered about his choice. Was that really how I came across to people?
“Don’t be daft,” he replied. “I was thinking elegant, refined, calm.”
“Thank you,” I said, surprised and happy.
By the time we got home, I was tired and ready to go to bed. It was comforting to sleep in the bedroom I’d used ever since I was a kid. It looked as it always had. Above the yellow-painted walls, the vaulted ceiling was decorated with pale blue and yellow flowers. A fan hung from a black iron rod screwed into a plaster rosette and a wire looped along the ceiling and down the wall to a switch set in an ornate brass plate. A previous owner had added electricity to the house back in the nineteen-forties, running wires up the walls rather than break into the three hundred year old plaster. The wires were covered with white silk that had yellowed with age and had become as much a part of the décor as the old ceiling frescoes and terracotta floor tiles.
Opening the French windows, I stepped out on to the balcony. The sky was clear and with stars but I couldn’t see the gardens in the darkness. Living in London, I was used to constant light, from street lamps, traffic, billboards. Here, once the sun set, it was dark apart from a few lights that twinkled on the other side of the valley. The cool night air raised goosebumps on my arms and I stepped back inside, and pulled the heavy damask drapes.
***
“I’m going for a walk,” I told Dad the next morning. We’d made toast and coffee and were sitting in companionable silence while he read la Repubblica. His Italian was almost perfect. Mine was good, just a little rusty.
“I’ll come with you,” he said, putting the newspaper down.
“I’d rather go by myself, Dad. I won’t be long and then we can do something together. I just want to walk up the hill to look at the view.”
He looked at me with concern.
“I’ll be fine, I promise.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek. Just a quick walk and then we can go to the market and buy something good for dinner tonight.”
It was a pleasant day, with just a hint of a chill in the air. Sky blue, dry, not hot like the last time I’d come up the hill with my father. My loafers crunched on the white gravel. I heard the muted hum of traffic on the A-1 in the distance. Out of breath when I reached the top, I put a hand on my side to quell a cramp. My legs felt heavy from the exertion of the uphill climb. When did I get so out of shape? Since the run in the park when I saw Sophie, I hadn’t been out again. Physical exercise had fallen to the bottom of my list.
Winding through old olive groves, the white gravel road had originally provided access to a small farmhouse nestled just on the other side of the hill. The owner had long since died or moved, and the farmhouse was derelict. The olive trees were abandoned and untended, with small green olives hanging from their unpruned branches. At harvest time, the villagers would come up to gather a bucket or two, but for the most part the fruits would be left to shrivel on their stems.
I walked to the spot where my mother had got out of the car and talked to me. Closing my eyes, I remembered the moment when we’d hugged, tasted again the saltiness of the tears I had shed, and imagined I could smell my mother’s perfume. I knelt down, feeling the sharp points of gravel digging into the tender skin on my knees.
“I’m with Toby now.” That’s what she had said.
My throat closed up and my chest ached. “Toby,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. I miss you every day. If you can do anything to help me, please do it. I can’t take this any more.”
I wrapped my arms tightly around myself and rocked back and forth, memories of Toby mingling with thoughts of my mother. I missed them both so much. A crow cawed loudly. I opened my eyes, alarm trickling down my spine. The bird screeched again, flapped up to a higher branch, and folded its wings. In the sudden silence, I heard footsteps. Just a few yards away, passing through the shadow of an ancient olive tree was a figure dressed in black, a hood concealing its face. I jumped to my feet, ready to run.
The apparition kept coming, emerging into the sunlight. I saw that it was a nun. My heart pounded. Was this another visitation like the one from my mother?
“Mi dispiace,” the nun called out in Italian. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I didn’t expect anyone else to be up here.”
“My name’s Kate.”
Hearing my Italian, she smiled.
“Thank goodness. I don’t speak English. Will you come and sit with me?”
She led me to the grassy area under the trees, set a basket on the ground and took out a bottle of water. “Here, have some of this.”
The water was cool and fresh. I felt my heartbeat slowing back to normal.
“I’m with the convent down in the village and I came to pick some herbs,” she said. “We make tea with the wild chamomile that grows up here.”
The nun was in her sixties maybe, with dark brown eyes that twinkled under untended eyebrows. Her skin was peachy and soft and she seemed unaffected by her walk up the steep hill, in spite of her heavy black robe and head covering.
She waited until I had finished drinking. “Do you want to tell me what it is that distresses you so much?”
I shook my head. The nun was real, but I still felt dizzy and discombobulated.
“I just need to rest for a minute or two,” I said.
Sister Chiara patted my hand. “I’ll go pick my herbs and you rest here. Then we can walk down together.”
She picked up the basket, walked a little further up the gravel road, and disappeared over the crest of the hill. I lay back, smelling the warm, crushed grass, listening to the busy drone of insects in the trees. Although I was exhausted enough to fall asleep, I forced myself to stay awake, to think about the sequence of events that had brought me back to this place. My mind jumped from one thing to another, like a rock skimming the surface of a lake. I thought of Aidan, but tried to push away the fear of what might happen to him, of Rebecca who was dead, and of Sophie, drowned like my brother Toby. My mother’s words echoed in my head. “Toby wants you to be happy.”
A susurrus of cloth pulled me back to the present. Opening my eyes, I saw that Sister Chiara had returned and was settling herself on the grass a few feet away, pulling her robe down over dark stockings and heavy black lace-up shoes. The basket at her side was filled to the brim with small white flowers that looked like daisies. The distinctive scent of chamomile filled the warm air under the tree.
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