‘I’ll do anything. Anything at all to get her back,’ Tara told them.
She heard them communicating with their headquarters. Voices buzzed and rasped as the details of arrangements were discussed.
Rachel perched on the sofa, her face etched with misery. She looked at her daughter and felt the deep gulf between them expanding by the second.
Tara sat beside the window, her body hunched in despair. She had the sense that all the pain she had experienced in her previous existence had merely been a pale rehearsal for what she was feeling now. In her mind’s eye she saw Alessandra’s silken, unblemished skin, the polished plumpness of her young thighs, the watery clearness of her innocent trusting eyes. She tried not to allow here imagination to explore the little girl’s feelings of bewilderment, shied away from any picturing of true fear or pain.
In a span of unmeasured time she registered the arrival of Saul, watched as he leapt out of his car and run towards the house. In the hallway she flung herself into his arms. He clasped her briefly. His body was stiff with the urgency for action.
Rachel stood watchfully in the background.
Tara saw his eyes move from her to her mother. It flashed into her mind that for a fragmentary moment he regarded them both as enemies; gatecrashers into his life, strangers who had allowed harm to come to his child.
He answered the questions the police put to him with barely concealed impatience and irritation. Tara saw that it was intolerable for him to be constrained to remain passive and still, placing himself in the hands of bland public servants. He needed to be on the move, to be doing something active and positive towards finding his daughter.
Tara was dismayed, but not surprised, when he declined to be transported in one of the police cars to the nearest available venue where a news conference was being set up, and instead strode out of the house to his own car.
She ran after him, feeling the air around him crackling with pent up emotion.
‘Wouldn’t you prefer to do the orthodox thing and travel with the police?’ he asked, looking up at her from the driver’s seat with chilling coldness. He seemed a grim stranger, his spirit as far away from her as though locked in a box at the bottom of the ocean.
‘I’ll go with you,’ she said, firmly resolved.
In the car he was granite-faced and silent. She wanted to speak to him, to reach out and touch him and become close. But a deep instinct told her to keep still and quiet.
His breathing was rough and jagged, his face full of steely purpose. Glancing at his profile it occurred to her that he knew something she did not.
His foot pressed down ever harder on the accelerator. The car swung round a major roundabout and down the slip road of a motorway.
‘This is going out to the west country!’ Tara protested sharply.
‘Yes.’
‘Xavier! We should be going into Oxford.’
‘I’ve no intention of wasting my time at some conference set up by provincial police officers.’
Tara looked hard at him. ‘You know where Alessandra is don’t you?’
‘I know who she is with.’
Her lips parted in astonishment. ‘Who, for God’s sake? WHO?’
‘You haven’t guessed?’ Cold disdain.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus. Just tell me!’
‘The woman you mistakenly tried to befriend. Your rival!’ The scorn in his voice lashed her. Dimly she groped for the clues behind his words.
‘Georgiana!’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘No? Well, maybe it’s hard for you to believe. You were always so keen to see her good points, to play the good Samaritan, inviting her into the house and binding up her wounds.’
Tara flinched as though he had struck her. She had understood his reservations about her forming links with Georgiana, but she had never guessed at the caged animosity seething within him.
His foot pressed relentlessly down on the accelerator. The speedometer registered a hundred and twenty and still accelerating.
‘Slow down!’ She put a hand on his arm. He shook it off.
‘Saul!’ Now there was a thrill of alarm. Primitive, self-preserving fear.
Ahead of them was a clear road. No obstacles, no danger. There was a sudden blast beneath them. A sharp crack like a gunshot and then the scent of rubber and fire. The car veered across the central barrier, crab-like and crazy.
There was no way of stopping.
After the grating blasting impact there was silence.
The double tragedy of Saul Xavier’s car crash and the abduction of his baby daughter on her first birthday made the front pages of all the next day’s newspapers. It emerged from the stories beneath the dramatic headlines that Xavier’s young live-in lover Tara Silk, a talented violinist, had been in the car with him and that her side of the vehicle had absorbed most of the impact.
Xavier had been discharged from hospital after only a few hours, but Miss Silk had been detained. Medical personnel were able to reveal that she had sustained a number of injuries but it was too early yet to disclose further details.
CHAPTER 24
Dr Denton was startled from sleep by the warble of the telephone. It was four in the morning of a drizzly summer dawn. A luminous grey light filtered through the curtains.
His mind began to slowly uncurl from a state of unconsciousness. His was not a profession in which one was required to be ‘on call’ at any time of the day or night. He experienced a stab of alarm.
He placed the receiver against his ear. ‘Yes?’
‘Your patient, my wife Georgiana Xavier has abducted my daughter,’ the voice on the other end announced with brutal disregard for preliminaries.
Dr Denton shook his head like a slapped dog. It then took him no more than two seconds to snap from drugged somnolence into a state of red alert. ‘Xavier!’
‘Did you know this would happen?’ The tone was cold and accusing.
‘Of course not.’
‘You should have warned me.’
‘I would have done if she had given me any specific indications.’ Dr Denton found himself backed against a wall. He tried to rally some semblance of assertiveness. ‘Are you sure your wife is the abductor?’
‘For God’s sake, the evidence is staring us all in the face.’ The lacerating contempt in the icily reasonable voice made Dr Denton understand how Xavier was able to put the fear of God into orchestras.
‘I agree it’s a possibility,’ Denton said lamely.
‘I suppose it was only a matter of time.’ Suddenly Xavier sounded overwhelmed with weariness. ‘In fact I’m surprised neither of us thought of it before.’
Dr Denton maintained a cautious silence – the ultimate defensive weapon.
‘I want you to come with me to get Alessandra back,’ Xavier commanded. ‘I don’t think I trust myself to handle matters calmly.’
‘You know where Georgiana has taken her?’
‘To her parents’ old holiday cottage in Cornwall. It’s the obvious place.’
‘Yes.’ The doctor was inclined to agree.
‘Well?’
Denton passed a hand over his forehead. ‘I’ll leave a message for my secretary to cancel today’s appointments.’
Sitting beside Xavier in a silver Jaguar an hour later, Dr Denton observed the great conductor with a mixture of professional detachment and personal interest.
Xavier bore no outward signs of a man who was undergoing a cruel ordeal. His hands on the wheel were steady, his reactions keen, his speed nerve-chilling.
He spoke little for the first few miles. Then he said abruptly, ‘Alessandra is my only flesh and blood. My parents are dead, I have no close family.’
So his child is more important than anyone, anything, Dr Denton thought. His clinical eye saw in Xavier a man who had spent years in ferocious slavery to his growing musical talent, single-mindedly devoted himself to his massive drive for fame, power and glory. He would have r
egarded the people in his work and social orbit to be little more than shadows; hazy satellites revolving around the sun of his ambition. But now there was another human being he could truly care for; flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. What an intensity of feeling would be focused on that child.
Dr Denton did a quick mental recall of Georgiana’s accounts of her husband’s background and genealogy, both of which had been extremely vague. Denton had put this down to Georgiana’s extraordinary self-centredness. Now, observing Xavier’s demonically disciplined features, recalling the almost menacing emphasis of his statement – My parents are dead – he experienced a fresh surge of interest. The analytical part of his mind began to conceive new theories.
‘You never knew your parents?’ he said quietly to Xavier, gaining in confidence as he slipped back into the familiar role of therapist and priestly confessor.
‘No.’
The silence prickled.
‘That must have been hard.’
‘Not at all. From what I have observed over the years a parent can be one of the greatest crosses some children have to bear. I’m often surprised at how resilient they are, turning out so well when their parents are so woefully inadequate.’
‘We are all a strange and unique mixture of our genetic inheritance and our experience,’ Denton remarked in a professional manner: neutral, unchallenging.
For some people such a comment would have been an irresistible invitation to tell their life story. Xavier made no response. Then he said abruptly, ‘I never talk of the past.’
‘Of your childhood?’
‘The hooded lids drooped slightly, indicating concealment, a shutting out of the external world.
‘Silence is sometimes the best way of dealing with painful memories,’ Dr Denton said with a clinician’s knee jerk response. As soon as the words were out he wished he could draw them back.
‘Don’t patronize me,’ Xavier said.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I take it your interest in me is professional?’
‘I am a human being, besides a psychologist.’
‘It is personal then?’
‘I don’t think that is what I said.’
‘You should practise the art of making up your mind, Dr Denton.’
Denton winced. As psychologist he had learned to view the human condition with an impartial eye and to maintain an open mind on a variety of differing interpretations. On the one hand this, on the other hand that. No single absolute truth. Just an elegant dispassion.
He guessed that for Xavier such flexible attitudes were probably to be written off as contemptible dithering.
Xavier was speaking again. ‘I suspect that your interest in me and my past is very personal indeed. Based on your interest in my wife, which I am sure strays far beyond the professional.’
Denton found himself shocked and impressed by this cool analysis, this capacity for an almost psychopathic clarity of thought in the face of impending disaster.
No, not tragedy, Denton told himself desperately. It will be all right. Things will turn out fine.
‘Alessandra will be safe,’ he told Xavier. ‘Georgiana wants only to possess, not to destroy.’
‘Please God you’re not mistaken!’
‘Amen to that,’ Denton murmured to himself, sending up a fervent prayer.
‘The baby Tara was expecting was aborted last night,’ Xavier announced with brutal unexpectedness. ‘And there won’t be any more children.’ There was an unnerving cold detachment in his tone. He seemed to be issuing some kind of threat.
If anything should happen to my only child.
Denton felt great pity for Tara. And no mean pity for himself at this moment. His mind ran forward to the possible scenario at the cottage and a grey mist of apprehension descended on him, its droplets crawling down his spine with the tread of a poisonous spider.
CHAPTER 25
Georgiana could not understand why the child would not stop crying. ‘I am to be your new mother. You are my own lovely darling,’ she told her. ‘There’s no need to cry.’ And later on, more sharply, ‘You mustn’t cry any more, my precious.’
Things had gone very well to begin with. Alessandra had been happy to go with Georgiana in the car. But at lunchtime when they stopped at a country hotel she would not eat her food. She kicked out her legs and stiffened them to rods of steel as she wriggled to get down from the high-chair.
The waiter brought minced beef and mashed vegetables and then semolina pudding which Georgiana knew were the child’s favourites. But Alessandra simply spat the food out, her face red with disgust and outrage.
Georgiana had been dismayed, and deeply embarrassed. The eyes of all the diners had been on her and the child. Assessing, disapproving eyes. She had never experienced anything quite like it. In the car later Alessandra had yelled solidly for over an hour and then suddenly fallen into an exhausted sleep.
Georgiana began to breathe more easily. Her panic and escalating anger dissolved. She was sure things would go smoothly once they got to the cottage.
She had made her preparations with meticulous care. She had spent hours in Harrods selecting the most luxurious and stylish pram, the smartest pushchair, the most splendid cot. All of these were safely installed in the cottage. The Mercedes now sported a baby seat, and its boot was packed with little dresses, dungarees, anoraks, toys and books. The refrigerator at the cottage was stocked with baby dinners, milk and eggs.
Georgiana judged that she had made a full and exhaustive consideration of a child’s needs. In doing this she had let her thoughts run back to her own childhood and followed the blueprint of her parents’ care. Her mind fastened entirely on their example. In their life at the cottage she would be them and Alessandra would be her.
How could they fail to be happy?
Alessandra slept until they got to the cottage. As the car drew to a halt she woke up, registered her situation and started to howl once more. Georgiana’s heart beat like a drum. Blood pounded through the veins in her temples. There followed seemingly endless, nightmarish hours of screaming.
The child’s face was red and contorted with rage. Georgiana’s eyes raced over her features and saw first Saul and then Tara. She blinked in confusion. But then she touched the child’s buttery blonde hair and felt reassured.
By midnight she was frantic for the opportunity to sleep. Alessandra seemed to have an iron grip on consciousness. She was exhausted from fear and sobbing but each time she drifted into a preliminary doze she wakened with a start and recommenced her howling.
Georgiana’s eyes hurt. Her skin prickled. The nerves in her arms and legs twitched. The baby supper on the table was rejected, the little jars of liquidised beef, mushy carrots and apple slush giving off a uniformly malty smell which turned Georgiana’s stomach. There was the stench of warm wet nappy too, a result of her half hour struggle to change the squirming, thrashing Alessandra and make her clean and sweet again.
When she had tried to feed the child, the food had ended up spattered all over her dress. Her stockings felt sticky and her pale suede shoes were streaked with glinting threads of drying food.
It was late now and the child’s continuing cries were like scalding needles piercing her. Even the brief silences were torment. One never knew when the peace would be shattered.
Georgiana decided to put the child in her cot and leave her. Even if she yelled the place down. Even if all the village came battering at the door in protest. She must sleep. It was unthinkable not to be able to sleep. How did parents manage when children behaved like this? Could it go on for days? Weeks? She decided to undress in the downstairs bathroom, running both the taps at full so as to activate the noisy plumbing and drown out the human cries coming from upstairs.
She recalled reading reports of parents who had battered their young children, killed them even. Suddenly it was possible to comprehend.
A rosy glow was creeping over the rugged Cornish coast as Xavier and Doctor Denton came
within striking distance of the cottage. The steep road leading down to the shore was glistening with early morning moisture.
‘How long since you were here last?’ Dr Denton enquired, maintaining a conversational tone. His palms were damp with anxious anticipation as if he were on the runway in an accelerating jet.
‘Ten years at least. I don’t care for the English idea of country life.’
‘And Georgiana?’
‘She hated it – the reality of it. Of course there were all the golden memories of childhood wrapped up in the place. Neither she nor her parents ever let go of those. The cottage should have been sold long ago, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it.’
He parked the car at the side of the house. A beech hedge screened the lower part of the house. There was a sizeable English country garden to the front with roses and gladioli flowering in colourful abundance. Sitting on the narrow driveway was a sleek sapphire-blue Mercedes.
‘Ah yes, she’s here,’ Xavier said darkly. He paused, looking up at the first floor windows. The curtains were still drawn. ‘So? What now?’
Dr Denton felt the chill of those penetrating grey eyes. ‘We shouldn’t do anything to alarm her. We should simply act as friendly callers.’
Xavier made a guttural sound of derision. ‘Impossible. I think I might kill her.’
‘I’ll go in,’ Dr Denton said, closing the car door soundlessly behind him. Dread clutched at his guts. His experience had taught him that human behaviour was made up of a high degree of predictability coupled with a hefty dash of spontaneous impulse. And when the personality became disturbed the tendency to obey the edicts of blind impulse was more pronounced. He had spoken the truth to Xavier when he had said that Georgiana’s wish was to possess not destroy. But general trends in motivation were no more than a small part in any life story.
His ears strained for the sound of a child’s cries as he stood outside the front door. His stomach curdled with fear. He tapped gently on the door. He waited. Tapped again. Eventually he lifted the heavy brass knocker. The noise it made seemed to shatter the early morning calm, reverberating in his ears like gunfire.
The Maestro's Mistress Page 19