by Susan Lewis
‘What will it take to let Louisa go?’ he said.
Consuela looked deep into his eyes, smiling the smile of a woman who knows she can’t lose. ‘Make love to me one last time,’ she said.
A look of unmitigated disgust twisted Jake’s face. ‘I’d rather die,’ he hissed.
‘Or you’d rather Louisa die,’ she amended. ‘Tell me, can you remember what it was like to make love to Martina?’
Her words seared into the heart of his pain.
‘She loved you so much, you know?’
His strong, handsome face was taut and unmoving.
‘Do you remember how happy you were, the two of you? It was so hard for her, being parted from you.’
Jake’s eyes bored in hers.
‘It wasn’t so hard for you though, was it? It took a while, but you found someone else.’ She laughed softly.
More seconds ticked silently by.
‘She knew you had someone else. She knew about all the women you betrayed her with. She died knowing that. She died knowing that you no longer loved her.’
The scene on the Mexican hillside was replaying vividly in his mind. He held onto it, reliving the joy and the love in his wife’s face as she’d run towards him. She’d known he still loved her. The pain was crippling him.
‘What do you think of your daughter?’ Consuela asked. ‘How old is she now? Two? Almost three.’ She smiled an indulgent grandmother smile. ‘They tell me she’s like Martina. Is that true?’
He didn’t answer.
‘So I’m told she thinks one of the kidnappers is her father. She calls him Daddy. And why shouldn’t she? He was there in her mommy’s bed every morning.’
‘I know what you trying to do, Consuela,’ he said, ‘but it’s not going to work. I have no intention of spending my life in jail for you. Oh sure, I’m going to kill you, but before I do I’m going to tell you why I won’t go to jail.’
She raised a curious eyebrow.
‘You’ve got a gun sitting right there in your lap. If your prints aren’t on that gun now they will be after I shoot you – in self-defence.’
She nodded. ‘And what about Louisa?’
‘I’ll find her.’
Consuela laughed and shook her head. ‘You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Well go on, go ahead and shoot me. Then go find her. She won’t be …’ Her head suddenly jerked to one side as two shots exploded into the room.
‘You fool,’ Consuela said as she realized he’d fired past her. ‘You bloody fool.’
Louisa’s wide, petrified eyes looked at Delacroix. He was at the bottom of the steps, three feet away. His face was masked in darkness. All she could see was the gun. Nauseous fear strangled her. She didn’t want to die, but knew beyond doubt that she was going to. They’d heard the gun shots, Delacroix’s finger was tightening on the trigger. Beyond the terror she felt a strange, unworldly sensation. She was drifting from reality, moving into a timeless void.
When it came, as the gun exploded and she fell back against the wall, for a fleeting, eternal second she was surprised to feel no pain. Just the jolt of her body hitting the wall and the echoing sound of the gunshot … But no pain, no pain at all.
*
At the sound of a muted gun shot Jake’s head whipped round. He stared into the empty landing.
Consuela watched him, waiting for him to register what had happened. Downstairs a door opened then closed. The muffled sound of someone moving about reached them.
A few minutes later Jake’s eyes narrowed as he saw a shadow move at the end of the hall. He turned back to Consuela.
She was holding the gun loosely in her hands and smiling.
‘If you don’t have the courage to shoot me, Jake,’ she said, raising the gun, ‘then I’ll …’ She stopped, her face draining as a stranger stepped into the room.
Her grip tightened on the gun. Her eyes were darting between them. She lifted the gun higher, turning it ready to fire. It flew out of her hands as three bullets tore into her.
With his finger still pressed tightly on the trigger Jake watched her contort. He held her eyes as she glared up at him. There was no emotion in his face.
Consuela tried to speak. The air bubbled in her lungs. Blood pumped from the wounds in her chest. Her teeth bared and her eyes gleamed like a demon’s. Then Jake’s voice drove into the heart of her rage as he told her what by now she had guessed – Frederico had betrayed her.
Her fingers clawed at the chair as she tried to heave herself from it. Blood spewed from her mouth.
The two men watched her impassively as she fell from the chair. Her fingers reached towards the gun. The other man kicked it out of the way.
Downstairs the house was coming alive with noise. Doors banged open. Heavy footsteps thundered on the stairs. Someone shouted. Jake turned. Two men barged past him into the room. Jake looked at the other man who was looking at him. Then throwing his gun on the bed Jake pushed his way past the police who were crowding the way and ran down the stairs.
The door to the cellar was open. More police were inside. Jake forced his way through, stepping over Delacroix’s body. Louisa was slumped in the corner, naked and pale and bleeding where the wires had cut into her.
Kneeling beside her Jake turned her towards him. Her eyes were closed, her face was bruised and cut. He lifted her carefully into his arms, stood and carried her from the cellar. As he passed he was barely aware of someone putting a blanket over her, he was back on a Mexican hillside, carrying his wife in his arms and feeling the love and pain and grief pull through him like a devastating tide.
A detective cleared the way and Jake carried Louisa out into the night. As he walked down the street, heading for the square, two policemen followed.
Erik came sprinting towards him, Bob hard on his heels. ‘Jake!’ Erik cried. ‘Jake, is she all right?’
‘She’s alive,’ Jake answered.
Amongst the police standing at the foot of the steps he spotted Frederico. Their eyes met. Jake nodded briefly then walked on.
A rescue vehicle was parked next to his. When he reached it he handed Louisa over. She was alive, traumatized and unconscious, but alive. He couldn’t go with her. It was over now. It was all at an end.
He watched as the rescue vehicle drove out of the village. Inside he was numb. There would be time later to feel. Too much time.
As Erik’s hand touched his shoulder he turned. They looked at each other in the grey light. There was no need for words. Each man knew what the other was feeling.
‘I’m going to the Valhalla,’ Jake said.
Erik nodded.
Bob walked to the Mercedes and opened the passenger door for Jake to get in.
Erik watched the tail lights disappear through the police cordon at the edge of the village then turned as Frederico came over to him.
‘I’ve just told the police where to find Marianne,’ he said. ‘She’s at Jake’s house in the Var.’
Erik stared at him.
‘They didn’t kill her,’ Frederico said.
Erik turned as the man who had gone into the house with Jake walked towards him. ‘Fernando?’ he said.
Fernando nodded.
The two men looked at each other, seemingly oblivious to the commotion going on around them. ‘Who are you?’ Erik said.
Fernando’s eyes slanted. ‘I think you know,’ he said.
Erik nodded. He’d long suspected that Fernando was a Federal Agent.
‘Who told the cops where to come?’ Erik said.
Fernando’s eyebrows flicked an admission.
‘But not in time to stop Jake.’
‘He killed her in self-defence.’
Erik didn’t know if that was true, nor did he care. ‘I think one of us should call Jake’s old man,’ he said.
‘You go ahead,’ Fernando told him. ‘There’s a bit of clearing up to do around here. Where can I find you when I’m through?’
‘At whichever hospital they’ve taken Loui
sa to.’
‘OK.’ He paused. ‘You’ve been a good friend to him, Erik.’
‘He didn’t deserve what happened to him.’
‘No man deserves that,’ Fernando said. Then added, ‘It’s going to be a long time.’
‘Yes,’ Erik said, ‘I know.’
Sarah came in on the first flight in the morning. Jean-Claude was waiting for her at the airport and drove her straight to the hospital in Grasse. Louisa was waiting for them, ready to leave.
They returned to Jean-Claude’s where Didier had prepared a meal. No one was particularly hungry, but they made a quiet, valiant effort. They sat, as they had just a week ago, on the wooden terrace overlooking the lawn. Everything looked as it always had. Nothing had changed, neither the sounds nor the smells, nor the clinging, claustrophobic heat of the sun.
Louisa’s face, discoloured by the cuts and bruises Delacroix had given her, looked so fragile and vulnerable that Sarah longed to hug her. But she knew better than to fuss over her right now. It was a long road ahead, a very long road that would begin that afternoon when she would have to relive the terrible ordeal of the past seventy-two hours for the police. After that there was the wait until she was free to return to London, the counselling that would surely have to come and, worst of all, the press. The story had been all over the papers that morning, reporters even now were clamouring to get past the police and up the lane to the villa. And for all they knew telephoto lenses were peering at them from the trees even as they ate.
Louisa picked up her wine and catching Sarah’s eye she smiled. Immediately her hand went to her mouth as a cut on her lip reopened. She laughed, shakily, and grabbed a napkin to dab it. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ she said huskily. ‘I’m fine. All in one piece. We’ll be able to go home soon.’
Sarah’s eyes moved to Jean-Claude. They smiled at each other, then catching sight of the infamous, interminably nosy Mrs Name-Drop striding by with Rudy while making an intent, totally unconvincing study of the sky they all burst out laughing. It relieved the tension for a while, but as they talked Sarah was still watching Jean-Claude. What would they have done without him? This kind, sensitive man who had taken them in as though they were family. He would be with Louisa this afternoon, translating for the police as she gave her statement and no doubt doing everything in his power to make it as painless for her as he could.
When they’d finished eating Louisa wandered down to the pool and stood staring into it. After a while Sarah went to join her.
They were quiet for a long time. Then a lump rose in Sarah’s throat as Louisa’s hand slipped into hers.
‘Want to talk?’ Sarah said softly.
Louisa’s eyes were still gazing sightlessly into the clear, sparkling water. ‘I’m not sure,’ she whispered. Then looking up she smiled. ‘Would you do something for me?’ she said. ‘Would you be there when I leave the police station?’
‘Of course,’ Sarah answered.
It was around six in the evening when Louisa and Jean-Claude finally came out of a back door of the main police headquarters in Cannes. Sarah was sitting in her car, illegally parked outside. She watched as Louisa spoke to Jean-Claude, kissed him on either cheek then walked towards her. Sarah knew where they were going. She had no idea if it was the right thing to do, but she wasn’t going to argue, all she was going to do was drive.
As they headed out of Cannes along the coast road, Louisa said, ‘Did you see Erik this afternoon?’
Sarah nodded.
‘How was he?’
‘He seemed OK. Tired. Exhausted. But on the whole, OK.’
‘Where did he spend the night?’
‘He spent most of it at the hospital with you and Marianne, the rest with the police.’
Louisa turned and looked out of the window. She didn’t ask where Erik had spent the morning, she could guess.
The sun was blazing a glorious deep, red glow over the Mediterranean, the rippling waves looked syrupy and peaceful.
When at last they reached their destination Sarah parked the car and they walked together through the milling evening crowds. After a while Sarah stopped outside a café.
‘I’ll wait here,’ she said. ‘You go on ahead.’
Louisa smiled her gratitude and Sarah watched her turn and walk on.
Louisa continued to the edge of the harbour then stood gazing out to sea. In the wonderful light of the setting sun the Valhalla looked as magnificent and celestial as its name.
The great hull rocked gently in the waves, the vast white sails flapped proudly on their masts.
She knew he had been sailing last night, knew in the weeks and months to come that he would do a lot of sailing, seeking his solace in the great blue expanse that he loved so dearly. Her heart was filled with compassion and longing. She wished there were something she could do to ease his pain, but knew there was nothing.
She wondered if he was on board now. It didn’t matter. He would be gone soon, returning to a life she could only imagine. And she …? She smiled. She didn’t know yet what she was going to do, the only thing she was sure of was that she would never forget him. And bidding him a silent farewell in her heart she turned back to where Sarah was waiting.
29
FIFTEEN MONTHS LATER
THE SPRIGHTLY, JUBILANT sound of church bells jangled out over the Wiltshire village. Confetti snowed over the gathering as women in flowered hats with matching shoes and handbags jostled for position around the bride and groom, like the autumn leaves fluttering to the roots of the trees. Men in sober grey morning suits, paisley waistcoats and mint green cravats hovered awkwardly on the periphery waiting to be told what to do. Overhead the sun dazzled its way through the clouds, peering between them like the beaming faces of villagers peering from their curtains. Everyone loved a wedding, especially one like this that was flowing with happiness and ringing with laughter.
In fact it wasn’t a wedding, it was a blessing, for Sarah and Morandi had married two days earlier at a registry office in London. They’d spent that honeymoon at Lucknam Park, a few miles away, the next they were spending in slightly more exotic climes. At least Sarah assumed they were, Morandi was in charge of that and she couldn’t imagine he’d let her down. Well, she could, but she wasn’t going to dwell on that.
She was as radiant as any bride could be, all decked out in creamy lace frills and oozing bubbles of joy as big as her new six-year-old stepson could blow them. Morandi’s expression ranged from bewildered to forlorn to furious depending on who he was looking at the time. Right now he was at the upper end of the scale as he clapped a hand over his son’s face and the bubblegum popped in a fine, pink splodge over a pair of cheery, freckled cheeks. Morandi looked at his hand in dismay. His first wife, Dolly, passed him a handkerchief as his second wife, Tina, cuffed her son round the ear.
‘It was the only way I could get him to wear a suit,’ she responded through her teeth to Morandi’s glare.
Laughing, Sarah scooped little Nigel up in her arms and planted a kiss on his nose. The cameras went crazy and Nigel gleefully poked out his tongue.
Sarah’s sisters were arranging the bridesmaids, all eight of them, since they included all nieces and all daughters and stepdaughters, while her bemused and slightly tipsy father tried to work out exactly how many grandchildren he now had. The total was so awesome he reached into his pocket for his shiny, new flask – a gift from Sarah that morning.
Group photographs over, it was time now for the bride and groom, chief bridesmaid and best man. Morandi treated his fifteen-year-old son, the best man, to a murderous glare. In return Gregory grinned at his old man and winked. Sarah gave a splutter of laughter, smothering it quickly as Morandi turned his unamused eyes on her. The boy had dyed his hair green! There was nothing funny about that. On today of all days, the wretched monster had dyed his hair the colour of his grandmother’s hat and then spiked it towards the heavens like he’d just plugged himself in. When he’d walked jauntily into the church earli
er, swaggering up the aisle and making bows to his appreciative siblings, it had been all Morandi could do not to sock him one. And Sarah, typically, thought it was great! Still, at least his daughters hadn’t let him down, that was providing he was prepared to overlook the ripping fart the youngest had trumpeted at the end of the first hymn. Sarah had almost gone to pieces and for a moment there Morandi had thought the vicar was going to lose it too. What a family!
Louisa was on the footpath leading down to the gate, standing with Sarah’s relatives and watching Erik position the main players. Her sides were aching she had laughed so much. Morandi and his family were the best entertainment she’d seen in ages and Morandi’s dolorous expression combined with his efforts to disguise his son’s hair by resting an elbow on a low hanging branch thereby drooping the foliage over Mark’s head like a wig was causing tears to run down her cheeks.
At last it was time to depart for the reception. Louisa helped Erik stow his cameras back in their cases then waited while he signed a few autographs. He gave a quick few words to the local paper who’d turned out more because of the astonishing tip off that Erik Svensson was photographing the wedding than for the wedding itself, then they climbed into his car and drove off to the local country club.
There was even more hilarity to come and as the day wore on and the champagne flowed as freely as the laughter, Sarah’s excitement coupled with her wicked and lively sense of humour finally worked its magic on Morandi and he eventually, though grudgingly, relaxed. The speeches were shot through with innuendo and ribaldry and a touching amount of affection for both newly-weds. Morandi could only stare in open-mouthed amazement that his appalling, green-haired son could be so articulate, never mind witty. Actually he knew he was a wit, his hair proved that, but that he could string two sentences together that didn’t contain either the word tosser or wanker was such a pleasing revelation to Morandi that he decided he might relent and let him come and live with them after all. Sarah was all for it, of course, if she had her way the entire brood would be living with them, but so far Morandi had put his foot down. He wanted her all to himself and vying for her attention amongst his boisterous flock made him feel almost as ridiculous as he did when he danced.