Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  And then, as the knife plunged towards Madeleine’s body, Marian screamed. Screamed and screamed. And suddenly the nightmare of Pittore was with her, and she understood again, as she had on her first night in Felitto, that it had been a premonition: the screams had always been hers. She carried on screaming as she saw Madeleine’s blood flow onto the marble, as the silver blade was plucked from the gaping wound in her chest and moved steadily to her face, where it sank deep into the soft pink flesh of her lips.

  Someone was holding her down, and the wire bit savagely into her wrists as she struggled to break free. They were speaking to her, soothing her, chiding softly in her ears, but she carried on screaming, her voice hoarse and stricken as she begged Sergio to stop.

  Then there was another voice, booming through the silence, arresting Sergio’s hand, and Enrico was standing at the mouth of the cave.

  ‘He’s killed her!’ Marian sobbed, and her head fell to her chest. ‘It’s too late, Enrico. It’s too late.’

  ‘Marian!’

  She looked up, and there was Matthew, pushing past Enrico and running towards her. ‘Matthew,’ she cried, ‘Matthew! She’s dead. He’s killed her.’ Then, before he even had time to reach her, she passed out.

  – Four Months Later –

  – 29 –

  Madeleine Deacon’s murder was still a mystery to the world at large. The police had never released more than the bare facts of what had happened that night in the mountains, and as a result conjecture was rife. It was said that both Paul O’Connell and Sergio Rambaldi had been arrested, and that both had been charged with murder, though which of them had killed Olivia Hastings and which Madeleine Deacon, was still not clear. In the public outcry attending Madeleine’s murder, the discovery of Olivia Hastings’ body in a shallow grave at the back of the bottega had gone almost unnoticed, at least in Italy; in the States the discovery was followed by arrests and the shocking revelation of Olivia’s criminal activities before she disappeared. But in Italy all anyone cared about was who exactly had killed whom up there in the hills. In the end, Inspector Vezzani, the policeman in charge of the case, issued a statement confirming that at the present time Sergio Rambaldi and Paul O’Connell were were being questioned about the murder of Madeleine Deacon, but that the police were satisfied that Paul O’Connell had played no part in the death of Olivia Hastings.

  It was known that Marian Deacon had been present when Madeleine’s murder took place, that she had been rushed to a hospital in Florence straight afterwards, and from there had been taken to the Tarallo villa in Tuscany where she had remained ever since. A virtual army of policemen and bodyguards now surrounded the villa to keep the press at bay, and only once had anyone managed to capture a photograph of Marian as she played with Tarallo’s sons in the villa gardens. Apart from the police, those leaving or entering the villa did so in fast-moving limousines whose tinted windows defied both the photographic lens and the human eye. For lack of anything else to write, some newspapers hinted at a romance between Enrico and Marian, but with nothing to substantiate it, the rumour quickly died.

  Then one journalist got a break from Sergio Rambaldi’s lawyer. Sergio Rambaldi, the lawyer declared, was not responsible for Madeleine’s death; it was Paul O’Connell who had administered the lethal dose of drugs which killed her. As this was the first mention there had been of drugs, the press had a field day, and elaborated the story with a presumed love affair between Madeleine and Sergio. However, when the expected response from O’Connell’s lawyer failed to materialize they started badgering the police again. Under pressure, Inspector Vezzani would say only that until such time as Marian Deacon was well enough to corroborate or deny the statements given by Rambaldi and O’Connell, he was unable to comment. The truth was that Marian, Sylvestra and Enrico had talked endlessly with the police since the night of Madeleine’s murder, and that Inspector Vezzani and his superior officers now knew everything that had happened right down to the last detail; however, the Tarallo family had asked that, until such time as it became impossible to withhold the full facts of the case any longer, only the minimum of information should be given out – and after discussion, the police had agreed to comply with their request.

  Sergio Rambaldi’s lawyer, too, had spent a great deal of time at the Tarallo villa, questioning Sylvestra and Enrico, going over and over the details of Sergio’s life and trying to find enough evidence to declare his client unfit to plead. But as soon as Sergio discovered what his lawyer was about, he had dispensed with his services – he had every intention of standing trial for the murder of Olivia Hastings.

  However, Paul O’Connell had no such intention with regard to Madeleine. At first, of course, he had willingly confessed to her murder – but that was before he knew that Madeleine was actually dead, that Sergio Rambaldi had been arrested, and that Enrico Tarallo knew all there was to know about his plans for Madeleine’s kidnap. In the end, after a great deal of consultation between doctors, the highest ranking police officers and the Tarallo family, both Sergio and Paul had been charged with the murder.

  Now, Paul knew, his only hope of walking from San Vittore prison a free man lay with Marian. She had seen him carry Madeleine into the bottega, she must have witnessed all that had happened afterwards, so surely she must know that Madeleine had still been alive when the knife went into her chest. But unless Marian came forward and said so, there was only his word to say that he had felt Madeleine’s breath on his cheek when he’d kissed her.

  Marian was well aware of what Paul was thinking – the police kept her informed almost daily. She knew also that as soon as she said the word, the charge of murder would be dropped against him. But she wanted him to suffer, she wanted him to tear himself apart with the fear that she might never speak in his defence; she wanted him to know what it was like to be helpless, as Madeleine had been helpless the night he took her to the bottega.

  ‘I understand how you feel,’ Enrico said, as they strolled arm in arm through the villa gardens one morning. ‘None of us wishes to see him set free, but there is always the chance that he will not be. After all, whether he killed Madeleine or not, he has still committed a crime.’

  ‘You mean, kidnap?’ Marian said.

  ‘Yes. Or maybe even attempted murder. With Sergio, of course, there is no doubt – he will be tried for murder.’

  Marian felt the chill of those words run through her body, and as she gazed out at the undulating hills that surrounded the Tarallo villa, she felt the nightmare of that night closing in around her again. She could see Madeleine’s face as she lay on the slab, so soft, so peaceful, so unaware . . . Then the knife ripping into her lovely skin, and the rich, proud colour of her blood as it poured from her chest, while the silver blade dug deep into the delicate flesh of her lips. It was horrible, so horrible that Marian still recoiled from the reality of it, desperately twisting her head this way and that to push the appalling image from her mind.

  She sighed, and drew herself closer to Enrico. Overhead the sky was serene, with not a cloud in sight, and though the air was bitingly cold, the spring sunshine added a brilliance to the flowers that were just starting to bloom and a richness to the green, tangled mass of trees that spread across the distant mountains. Again she shivered; though she had roamed those hills many times since that night, had allowed Enrico to show her their beauty, she knew that if she lived to be a hundred, she would never be able to look at them without remembering. She had gone back to them deliberately, to try and force herself to accept the reality of what had happened, to stop herself shutting it out as though it were nothing more than a gruesome nightmare. To accept it, to try to understand it, was the only way she knew of coming to terms with it.

  Eventually Marian turned and looked into Enrico’s face, her eyes moving slowly over the smooth olive skin, the large nose, the kind, generous mouth and gentle eyes. ‘I don’t know how I would have coped with all this without you,’ she said.

  His face was suffused with sadn
ess and guilt as he looked away. She knew he blamed himself; he believed that if he and Sylvestra had spoken earlier, none of this would have happened. She hugged his arm in an effort to return some of the comfort he had given her these past months, and as she gazed up at him, a slow, affectionate smile came into his eyes.

  ‘The police have been very patient,’ he said, as they turned to walk on, ‘but they cannot continue like this much longer. Inspector Vezzani has wanted for some time that you see Paul and speak with him.’

  ‘I know. I just wish the Inspector could tell Paul himself; that I didn’t have to see him, ever again.’

  ‘If that is what you want, then he will do so, you know that. No one is forcing you to see Paul.’

  ‘But if I don’t, it will all have been for nothing.’

  They stopped at a bench that was set against the wall separating the gardens from the tiers of olive groves behind, and as she sat down, Enrico watched her, marvelling, as he had done many times before, at the truly remarkable woman she was. For all she had suffered, all the grief she had known, she had still managed to bring laughter into the lives of his sons, had touched his own heart with a warmth he had never thought to feel again, and had shown the kind of courage that might put any man to shame.

  ‘I’ll see him,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll see him alone, if that’s what he wants, but only if we do things the way Inspector Vezzani said. I want you to be in the next room, I want you to listen, and in the end I want him to know that you’ve been listening.’

  ‘It will be as you wish.’

  ‘Where will it happen?’

  ‘At the prison.’

  Marian closed her eyes and let her head fall back against his arm. ‘Oh, Paul O’Connell,’ she murmured, ‘if only I’d known what hell you were going to bring into our lives. If only you knew the nights I’ve lain awake thinking about you, planning for you the vilest, most degrading death I could imagine. And now I’m going to do as you ask. Why? Why should I do it?’

  ‘You know why, cara,’ Enrico answered softly. ‘You and I both know that you have no choice.’

  She turned to look at him, a grim smile on her lips – lips that were so close to his, he very nearly gave in to the temptation to kiss her. ‘Because the drugs didn’t kill her,’ she said, ‘and because Inspector Vezzani can’t hide that fact any longer.’ She leaned forward then, resting her hands on either side of her knees as if to propel herself to her feet. Enrico had come to know this restlessness in her, and he put a soothing hand on the back of her neck. ‘If only that was all Inspector Vezzani wanted us to reveal, this would be so much easier, Enrico. So very much easier.’

  They looked up as they heard someone cough, and saw Sylvestra emerge from the blossom-covered path which led to the house. As always, her slight figure was clad in black, and her face was shrouded in a heavy veil. ‘I thought to find you here,’ she said, as Enrico offered her his arm and led her to the bench. ‘You have spoken, you have made the decision, sì?’

  ‘Yes,’ Marian answered.

  ‘Then we must call Inspector Vezzani and have him make the arrangements.’ Her gnarled fingers covered Marian’s and she said, ‘You are very brave, child, and you must continue to be brave, for all our sakes. Then will come the time for you to continue with your life.’ She paused, and despite the veil Marian could feel the warmth and compassion in her eyes. ‘You understand why I say this, no?’

  Marian nodded. ‘Matthew.’

  ‘Sì. He call again, a few moments ago. I speak with him and tell him you cannot come to the phone, but he is very worried about you, Marian. I tell him that you are all right, that we have come to love you and we are happy to take care of you, but he needs to see you. He is deeply hurt that you have turned away from him since this happen to Madeleine, but he understand why. We all understand, cara.’

  Marian’s heart was churning as she pictured Matthew’s face, but somehow she managed a smile as she said, ‘I’ll call him, I promise. As soon as I’ve seen Paul, I’ll ring him.’

  It was just after six in the morning, the sun barely breaking the horizon, when the two cars set off on the long drive to Milan. Marian had been surprised to find the chauffeured limousine waiting for them in the villa forecourt as well as the police car – she thought Enrico was going to drive her in his own car. Then she saw Sylvestra already sitting in the back of the limousine, and giving Enrico a curious look, she got in beside her. Sylvestra hadn’t said she intended to come with them, and Marian wasn’t sure that she should; she rarely left the villa these days, she was old, and the ordeal of the past months had taken its toll on her perhaps more than anyone. But as the trembling fingers reached out for hers Marian smiled and lifted them to her cheek; she understood Sylvestra’s need to be here – she had the right to be here.

  The journey was a long one. None of them talked much, all sunk in their own thoughts. Sylvestra slept for a while, her head resting on Marian’s shoulder and the black lace of her veil fluttering gently as she breathed. In the car behind them sat Inspector Vezzani and three other policemen Marian had come to know over the past four months, but only the Inspector would come into the prison with them.

  At last, just after midday, the two cars turned from the road and came to a stop in front of a barrier. Enrico got out, as did Vezzani, and Marian listened as they talked to a uniformed guard. Though she understood little of what they were saying, she knew that Vezzani’s superiors had contacted the prison governor about their visit. Then Enrico got back into the car and the guard told the driver which of the sombre, grey-stone buildings they were looking for, slapping a notice on the windscreen to indicate that they not only had clearance, but were guests of the governor.

  Some ten minutes later they entered the prison, and then began one of the longest journeys of Marian’s life as they were led through a warren of cold, drab, sinister corridors and stairways, stopping every twenty yards for a gate to be unlocked, then locked again once they had passed through it. They saw no one, apart from prison guards and a few men in white coats whom Marian assumed to be doctors. There were none of the sounds of life being lived, nor any sign of prisoners – it was like walking through a derelict building one knew to be haunted. Marian didn’t know how she was feeling inside, it was as if she had drawn apart from herself in an effort to numb the sensation of dread that had been with her ever since she had made the decision to come. She was aware of nothing now but the hand on her arm which she covered with her own, and the comforting presence of Enrico and Vezzani as they walked behind her.

  Finally the guard who was escorting them, who had not uttered a word since they arrived, stopped at a blue door which he opened without using a key. Enrico and Vezzani stood aside for Sylvestra and Marian to walk in ahead of them, and Marian found herself in a small, stark room containing nothing more than a table and half a dozen metal chairs. She walked over to the window, but it was barred, and the glass was thick and frosted so that she was unable to see out. She turned round as she heard the door close, and found that the prison officer had gone. She looked at Enrico.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, pulling a chair forward for her to sit down.

  She took a deep breath, trying to relax the nervous tension that had suddenly tightened her stomach. ‘I think so,’ she answered, smiling weakly. ‘Where are you going to be?’

  ‘Through here,’ Vezzani answered, pointing to a door she hadn’t noticed before. ‘It is so close that we do not need the radios to hear, we shall leave the door open a little way.’ He glanced at his watch, then his keen eyes moved back to Marian’s. ‘Now, you understand what you are to do? If we have the confession about his parents, then he will stand trial for murder; if we do not, the charge will be only one of accessory to murder – but if his lawyers are very clever there is a possibility that the accessory charge may be dropped, which means he will be set free.’

  ‘I understand,’ Marian answered. They had gone over and over this the day before. She could tell Paul
as many lies as she liked, threaten and cajole as much as she needed, but in the end she was to tell him the truth – that he was not guilty of Madeleine’s murder.

  They all turned as the door opened and a prison officer came in. After exchanging formal greetings, he led the others through to the small room beyond, leaving Marian alone to cope with her nerves.

  It seemed an eternity before the door opened again, and immediately Marian closed her eyes, willing herself to remain calm. She listened to the footsteps, to the guard telling her he would be outside; then, as the door closed again, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. He was sitting behind the table, his blond head tilted to one side and his dark eyes, as they looked back at her, seemed tired and bewildered. His handsome face was grey and haggard, and the lines round his eyes cut deep into the skin. Although the sleeves of his jacket hardly reached his wrists and the buttons strained across his chest, she could see he had lost weight, but as she looked at that powerful body it was as though the whole, horrible nightmare was with her again, and she turned away, not wanting him to see her revulsion.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Paul said quietly. ‘I thought for a while that you weren’t going to. It’s so difficult to know what’s going on when you’re in here, even my lawyers aren’t finding it easy to get straight answers from the police.’

  As she turned back to look at him, her grey eyes were steely, and she knew now that she could handle this – that he would be unable to rouse any sympathy or sorrow in her because her hatred was so solid that there was no room for anything else. ‘Are you expecting sympathy?’ she said coldly.

  ‘Of course not.’ He looked back at her, his gaunt face torn with anguish, then taking a deep breath, he let his head fall forward. ‘Oh Marian,’ he groaned, ‘please, don’t be like that. I understand how difficult this is for you, but I didn’t kill her. You know I didn’t. Please say you believe me. Please say that you knew she was alive when I left.’