Sisters

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Sisters Page 23

by Michelle Frances


  Ellie nodded, used to the platitudes. ‘What was it? My illness?’

  A shadow crossed over Susanna’s face. ‘They never found out.’

  SIXTY-SIX

  Susanna hadn’t slept well. Her night had been invaded by dreams. She’d had a sense of attaining intense wealth, of knowing she could afford anything she set her gaze on. But what would ordinarily have given her a blast of pleasure instead made her wake in panic and fear. She’d risen early, showered and dressed, all the while thinking about her mother’s proposal. It was an ugly one, that much she recognized, but people had done worse for money and there was the ever-present question of survival. Susanna was aware she wasn’t getting any younger.

  She continued the morning with routine tasks in the hope it might distract her. Don’t think about the money, just get yourself some breakfast. But as she chopped a melon, she imagined the large kitchen at her mother’s house. She washed the plate knowing she had the opportunity to never wash a dish again. Instead she’d be able to employ someone, a cleaner who would make chores a thing of the past. But it’s all wrong, she constantly reminded herself. She’d have to confess to those heinous acts. A mother who harmed her own children – who could ever forgive such a thing?

  When Kathleen knocked on the door, Susanna had been in a state of pent-up expectation for several hours. She stood aside to allow her mother to enter the house.

  ‘We’re going out,’ said Kathleen.

  Susanna saw the taxi behind her in the drive, engine still idling.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A picnic. Come on, it’s all arranged.’ Kathleen turned and went back to the car.

  Susanna hovered for a moment, then with a sense of unease got her bag.

  ‘I can’t be outside, remember,’ she said, pointing at her face as she got into the back. Her mother was sitting next to her, dressed impeccably in linen culottes and a short-sleeved blouse.

  Kathleen waved a hand dismissively. ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve got it all sorted.’ She removed her sunglasses and fixed Susanna with a warm smile. It was so unusual, Susanna found herself looking away.

  ‘We’re going to have fun,’ said Kathleen. ‘A bit of mother and daughter time.’

  Susanna was unsure how to react. This new, maternal Kathleen was alien to her. She’d go with it for a while, as it was sure to wear off before too long.

  They drove inland, then west, up into the hills along winding roads that revealed mind-blowing views of the island.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Susanna.

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ said Kathleen, and she looked so pleased with herself, Susanna left it at that. She stared out of the window, drinking in the beauty of the island, wondering if her mother was going to bring up the previous night’s conversation. But Kathleen stayed silent, seemingly entranced by the views herself.

  Maybe she’s waiting until we’re alone, thought Susanna, glancing up at the driver. This wasn’t an ordinary cab; Kathleen had managed to secure a luxury sedan, perhaps through her hotel.

  After a while they turned off the mountain road along a private lane marked with a sign so discreet that Susanna didn’t catch it, except for a glimpse of some understated white and grey lettering. It had seemed elite, expensive, and then up ahead a low, elegant, modern retreat emerged from the pine trees.

  ‘This is our first stop,’ said Kathleen, getting out of the car. ‘I thought you could do with a bit of special care.’

  As Susanna walked into the reception of the spa, it took her breath away. A sense of peace and calm hummed through the air. The decor was refined and professional; clean lines softened by luxurious fabrics. The woman on the desk stood to welcome them, an unpretentious glow of proficiency about her.

  ‘They’ll give your skin the proper attention it needs,’ said Kathleen, and Susanna was so overwhelmed by this act of kindness she felt tears spring up.

  She didn’t see her mother for the next two hours. Instead, the girls with their healing hands applied the gentlest of creams and care, and when she was shown the results in the mirror, for the first time in days she looked like her old self.

  As they left, her mother nodded with approval at Susanna’s appearance. ‘That looks better,’ she said.

  A woman in white trousers and a neat white tunic led them through a door to the outside. Susanna involuntarily flinched, expecting sunshine, but the walkway was covered with a long pagoda, laced with pink bougainvillea. They stopped in a secluded area set with tables, under a white canvas canopy. Each table was set apart from the others by small palms and potted olive trees, giving the impression of being alone in a personal dining space. Kathleen and Susanna were directed to a table at the front with views down the mountain towards the sea.

  ‘And now for our picnic,’ declared Kathleen.

  Susanna wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting – perhaps some nice sandwiches and fruit – but instead a wicker basket was placed on a stand beside their table and they were left to discover the contents themselves: potato and rosemary crispbreads, sliced salami and hams, fresh tomatoes and olives, tiny milky mozzarella balls, little dishes of truffle-infused honey, pieces of pecorino cheese. They ate, the ever-present mountain breeze keeping them cool.

  Susanna had said very little since she’d been taken into the womb-like calm of this retreat and she was aware her mother might be expecting something.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for doing all this.’

  Kathleen waved her thanks away. ‘Just a small thing, a token.’ She paused. ‘Considering how much I have to make up for.’

  Susanna tensed. Now the subject had been touched upon, she knew her mother was waiting. But Susanna felt her insides curl in apprehension and she kept quiet.

  When it became clear her daughter wasn’t about to speak, Kathleen continued. ‘We should’ve still given you money, when you got married. Certainly after your divorce. You always think making the point is the most important thing, sticking to your beliefs. Then when you get older . . . well, who cares? What good did digging my heels in do? Who gives a shit, quite frankly? It was petty and I’m sorry your father and I couldn’t see past our outrage.’

  It made Susanna nervous. Her mother’s admission was extraordinary. She thought back to the years and years of struggle and loneliness, the feelings of abandonment.

  ‘Do you’ – she had to pluck up the courage to say it – ‘do you still think less of me for going against your wishes? For marrying Danny?’

  Kathleen looked at her and Susanna forced herself to hold her mother’s penetrating gaze. ‘He wasn’t the best choice, was he?’ said Kathleen. ‘But I understand. You probably couldn’t wait to escape from us. I don’t blame you, actually. Anyway, Danny’s not really the issue. It’s Ben and Ellie and what happened to them.’ She paused. ‘You must have been desperate.’

  Susanna swallowed. Was this how easy her mother thought this was going to be? Hook her in with a sympathetic question and she’d capitulate into a confession?

  ‘I’ve told you, Mother, I didn’t give Ben and Ellie anything. It was Abby. She was fiercely jealous of her siblings from the minute they were born. I think her father’s absence had a lot to do with it.’

  Kathleen smiled. ‘I understand why you feel the need to continue denying it. Fear, certainly. Not just at admitting the truth to yourself but also of what you think I might do with the information. The answer is nothing. It’s not going to help anyone if you go to prison for killing your own child. Not now. When it comes to Ellie, well, she obviously already knows one of you was out to get her. But you two have had a good relationship since. I’m certain she’d forgive you.’

  Susanna sighed. ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’ She was unsettled by her mother’s insistence and looked out at the view. A villa was perched on the edge of the hillside, its outlook directly facing the sea. It was one of those idyllic places you saw in travel magazines.

  Kathleen followed her gaze. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? Imag
ine living somewhere like that, waking up to the ocean out of your window every morning.’

  Susanna stiffened.

  ‘Timing’s not right, obviously. I haven’t even kicked the bucket yet. But it’s all possible.’ She waved a hand out towards the view, an infinity of blue. ‘Anything would be possible.’

  Then Susanna felt her mother lay her hand over her own.

  ‘I just want to know what I caused,’ said Kathleen, ‘what my actions have ultimately been responsible for. I want to look my sins in the face. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Whatever you’ve done, I’m not going to let you down again.’

  Susanna turned to her then, saw the imploring expression on her mother’s face.

  ‘It would be a brave thing to do,’ said Kathleen, with genuine reverence. ‘Braver than anything I’ve ever done.’

  Susanna felt a glow of recognition, a taste of the parental approval she’d craved her entire life. She yearned for more – to have the sense of inadequacy, the knowledge she’d been a disappointment, taken away forever. All she had to do was meet her mother’s open arms and allow herself to melt into them.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Susanna lifted her glass of sparkling water and took a sip, mainly to buy some time.

  ‘You’re trembling,’ said Kathleen.

  Noticing her hand, Susanna immediately put the glass back down on the table.

  ‘No need to be nervous,’ said Kathleen. ‘I can’t tell you how much better I feel for coming clean. I hope my apology has made you feel vindicated,’ she added, checking Susanna’s face for a reaction.

  Vindicated? Not really, thought Susanna. Sad, yes. Unnerved, certainly.

  She suddenly realized something. She was now responsible for her mother’s peace with the world before she died. And her mother had put her in that position. It didn’t seem fair. Susanna felt a tightness across her chest, a pressure she hadn’t wanted.

  But if she admitted to these crimes . . . did it even matter? If Kathleen was going to keep it a secret, then she could say anything and in the same breath secure her future.

  That would make her feel vindicated, she thought. After all these years, actually getting the windfall that was her rightful inheritance.

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Kathleen, ‘that you might not have thought about. If you tell me what you did, then of course the money is yours. But after you there’s Abby and Ellie. It’ll go to them. So in a way, you’ll also get to make amends.’

  ‘Why don’t you just leave it to them in the first place?’

  ‘Because I don’t owe them.’

  Susanna looked at her mother, saw the watery eyes, the fadedness of her, and marvelled at how such an old woman could still have such a hold over her. She pictured a moment in the future, a time when she got a call from some hospital saying her mother had very little time. Would she be so weak that she’d no longer have the reach and power to make Susanna feel so belittled?

  ‘You never met Ben,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Kathleen was wrong-footed by this change of topic.

  ‘My son. You didn’t ever meet him. He died at eleven months and you never made the effort.’

  Kathleen was rattled. ‘That’s because I made mistakes back then. I told you.’

  ‘Nor did you come to the funeral.’

  ‘Your father was away on business. I couldn’t face it alone.’

  ‘Liar.’ As soon as the word came out of her mouth, Susanna’s heart started to race. Her mother looked as if she’d been physically assaulted. She even raised a papery hand to her cheek. Buoyed by this rare upper hand, Susanna spoke again. ‘You simply weren’t interested,’ she said. ‘He and Abby were too young at the time for you to want to bother with them. It was only when my children got older, when you felt you could have a hand in shaping them, making them what you felt was worthy of being your grandchild, that you paid them any attention.’

  For once, Kathleen had no comeback. It was strangely satisfying, but only in a temporary way. Like eating fast food you’d craved for ages and then regretting it. That’s enough, thought Susanna. You’ve had your say. It was something she hadn’t thought she had in her, to speak to her mother like that. But she wasn’t about to set fire to this new bridge Kathleen had built between them. And anyway, she couldn’t afford to.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  It was strange being on the other side of the desk. Matteo sat facing the two Spanish detectives, feeling the invisible wall of authority that ran across the middle of the tabletop. At the side of the room, Santini sat on a chair, which he occasionally tipped against the wall. Matteo could feel his eyes boring into him.

  He wasn’t under arrest, simply ‘helping them with their enquiries’. The way the phrase was put, it sounded as if they were all in this together. But Matteo knew better than that.

  They’d started by asking him about his job, what it was like working for the Carabinieri, comradely questions designed to make him feel part of one big police club. He’d had a few questions of his own, chiefly, where was Lieutenant Colonel Baroni? He hadn’t seen her since she’d got out of the car at the murder scene that morning, when she’d taken that call. The detectives had claimed not to know much, except that she was in the building somewhere. Matteo had learned that she’d got herself a lift back to the station before him and he suspected her rapid departure had something to do with the telephone call she’d received in the car.

  One piece of information the detectives had been very forthcoming with was the news that the bullet had been extracted from the victim and it matched those in his police weapon. He’d somehow known this to be the case but nevertheless it still hit him like a punch to the stomach. Of course, he had pointed out there were other Berettas like his out there, but they all knew the bullet was probably from his gun. Also, they had no knowledge of who had actually pulled the trigger, but Matteo had a strong sense he knew which of the two sisters it was. Which meant his wife was a killer.

  The lead cop, Detective Carlos Vila, had recently ordered fresh coffees and the questioning was about to continue. He was a tall, lanky man and the froth from his coffee caught in his moustache.

  ‘We’d like to ask you a little bit about your wife, Señora Abby Morelli,’ said Detective Vila. ‘You live together, yes?’

  Matteo nodded. ‘In Elba.’

  ‘It’s a house you both own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Señora Morelli, does she have a job?’

  ‘No.’

  Detective Vila raised an eyebrow.

  ‘She’s retired.’

  ‘Retired? At’ – he checked his notes – ‘thirty-six? This is a very nice life!’

  Matteo shrugged. He didn’t need to discuss Abby’s financial circumstances with this man.

  ‘And how is it, living with Abby?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘She good company?’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘Does she have any history of violence?’

  Matteo bit down his irritation. ‘Of course not.’

  Detective Vila glanced down at his notes again. ‘Except for this accusation from Abby’s mother, Susanna Spencer. That Abby harmed her sister as a child.’

  ‘You’ve got it the wrong way around,’ said Matteo, ignoring the niggling disquiet in his gut. ‘It was Susanna who harmed Ellie.’

  Detective Vila watched him for a moment, then nodded.

  ‘How well would you say you know your wife?’

  ‘Extremely well.’

  ‘Enough to predict her behaviour?’

  ‘None of us can predict what other people will do.’

  ‘Like shoot someone?’

  ‘You don’t know it was her.’

  Detective Vila smiled. ‘No, we don’t. You’re right. But let’s assume for now it was. Your wife and her sister had a very lucky escape. The man who was killed – he is a nasty piece of work. We have wanted to nail him for some time. We believe he had kidnapped a woman before. Robbed he
r and then murdered her. So it could be self-defence. It’s very possible. The thing is, we need to know more about that. About who your wife is.’ The detective paused. ‘So you say you know her pretty well?’

  ‘I’ve just confirmed that.’

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  Matteo made himself stay calm. ‘Three months.’

  Detective Vila gave a look of surprise. ‘Four months? So, you are newly-weds!’

  ‘But we’ve known each other for a year.’

  ‘A year? Still not very long, is it?’

  ‘It’s long enough.’

  ‘OK. So you saw each other regularly during that year?’

  Matteo wondered if he already knew. If he was deliberately winding him up. ‘Not at first, no. She lived in the UK and I lived in Italy.’

  ‘So how often would you say you saw each other? Every week? Every month?’

  ‘We met in July last year. We started dating in September. We’d see each other one, maybe two weekends a month. We got married this April and Abby moved to Italy. I don’t see what relevance this has to anything.’

  ‘You’re right. The most important thing is that we find your wife. Before anyone else gets hurt.’

  ‘She’s not on some killing spree,’ snapped Matteo.

  ‘Let’s hope not.’ Detective Vila let his comment hang in the air.

  Matteo held his gaze for as long as he could. He didn’t want to believe Abby was responsible for any of these terrible crimes. Three acts of violence that had reared their ugly heads in the last three days.

  But he was a policeman. He’d been trained to be attentive, thorough. His whole being was telling him to look further, deeper, beyond his agonized emotions, and face up to the very real possibility that the truth was something he wouldn’t like one bit.

  SIXTY-NINE

  Ellie lay back against the seat and closed her eyes, still filled with a sense of wonder at her sister’s generosity. Her hands rested on her lap, the new blue fabric under her palms. She felt the warm breeze on her skin as it rushed over the car and thought how she could just fall asleep. The coffee Abby had given her earlier hadn’t perked her up; in fact, if anything, after she’d drunk it, she had felt decidedly unwell. Not wanting to complain, she’d kept it to herself and gradually the feeling had passed.

 

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