Twisted

by Lynda La Plante

  Jo remained sitting in the Land Rover as Anna gave her a wave and strolled along the small path they had lined with white seashells collected when they had visited Puerto Vallarta. Anna had such an easy way of moving, swaying lightly in her leather sandals, as she gave a smile of welcome. Her natural beauty never ceased to touch Jo, with her wide-set icy blue eyes, thick lashes, carved cheekbones and lovely wide mouth, and the closer she came to the open window, the more Jo’s heart felt as if it would explode.

  ‘Hey there,’ Anna said as she reached to open the door, and then wafted her hand, as it was hot from the sun.

  Jo opened the door and jumped down, reaching into the passenger seat for the groceries and passing them out to Anna. She froze when Anna gripped her bent neck in her fingers.

  ‘Missed you.’

  She turned her arms, holding the grocery bags. Anna immediately reached for them and then stopped.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m just hot – it’s been a long journey.’

  Anna carried the groceries as Jo walked ahead of her and began to strip off her sweat-stained shirt. She headed to a small area beside the house they had tiled and where they’d hooked up a hosepipe from their outside tap. It was always in the shade, and so the hosepipe water, although never actually cold, was at least refreshing. She turned on the tap and ran the water over her damp hair and tilted her face to feel the spray, using her thumb to squirt the water as if from a showerhead.

  Anna had already gone onto the small porch attached to the cottage with trailing fig leaf plants shaded across the wooden slats. She was sitting with the grocery bags on the table and swinging the diamond tiara round in her hand.

  ‘So why didn’t you get it sold?’

  Jo kicked out a stool from beneath the table and wiped her face with an old torn towel, and sat there soaking wet in her old jeans and bra. Looking at Anna, she knew time was running out for them.

  ‘There was a newspaper in the jeweller’s, an old New York Times, and there was an advert from a legal firm in London.’

  Sometimes Anna’s thick eyelashes acted as a shade when lowered, making it impossible to see her eyes or their expression.

  ‘What have you done?’ she whispered.

  Jo broke down in tears, at which Anna quickly put her arms around her, stroking her thick curly blonde hair.

  ‘Whatever it is, Jo, tell me – don’t lie, don’t ever lie to me.’

  The phone ringing woke Reid and he sat bolt upright, totally disorientated. It was five in the morning and it took a few moments for him to pick up the receiver. It was a call he had never believed would happen. He had virtually given up hope, and it had been over a week since he had asked Agent Morgan at the National Crime Agency for help. The FBI Agent now speaking to him apologized for the time and said that they had traced the call to Boatly’s solicitors as originating from a jewellery store in Mexico City. The FBI had spoken with a local detective who attended the store and further enquiries to the shop had resulted in a sighting that fitted the description of Josephine Polka.

  Reid listened as the man went on to explain that the store was a very upmarket and respectable business in Mexico City, and the detective had spoken in person to one of the partners, a José Hernandez, who at first had been very evasive, but had eventually admitted that he had allowed a customer to use his landline in the shop. She had said it was an urgent call to England. He claimed that she had not paid for the international call, and he said that he was angry about the way she had behaved as he had considered doing business with her. He at first refused to discuss the so-called business, but then acquiesced as he wanted to make it very clear he had done nothing illegal, nor even contemplated doing so. The agent said the shop owner had been keen to prove that he was a completely legitimate honest businessman, and that he had asked the customer to provide documents of proof of ownership.

  Reid was hunched over the phone listening and taking notes while he was told that the woman was trying to sell a very valuable diamond tiara. To prove yet again just how honest he was, Hernandez had forwarded from his partner’s mobile a photograph taken of the piece.

  Once Reid heard the description of the customer, he knew without doubt he had succeeded in tracing the last known whereabouts of Josephine Polka. It was possible that she might still be in Mexico City, but as for an address or contact number, the jewellers were unable to give any details – all they did recall was that she had brought the tiara to the shop wrapped in paper in a plastic carrier bag, which bore the logo MAZATLAN GIFTS. Hernandez was very certain about the bag because it seemed an unlikely way to carry such valuable contents and he was concerned that she might have stolen the tiara so he paid careful attention, even more so when she decided against leaving it with them, even though they had offered to keep it in their safe.

  Reid asked about Mazatlan and was told it was a very beautiful beach area, with golden sands, exclusive hotels and attractive markets, a popular holiday destination for tourists and wealthy Mexicans.

  He lay awake for a long time, asking himself whether his obsession was now becoming farcical. He had fancied Miss Polka, admittedly, but he knew deep down it was her lesbian relationship with Amy Fulford that was feeding his interest. Eventually he got up, showered and dressed and while drinking a cup of black coffee attempted to talk himself out of purchasing an airline ticket to Mexico. He kept on telling himself that it was ridiculous as he was no longer attached to the case, in fact no longer attached to anything even connected to it. He lit a cigarette, having started smoking again, and sat interrogating himself, attempting to face the truth about his obsession, even wondering if perhaps he should make an appointment with the therapist he had been seeing. On the table was the printout of the tiara photograph, emailed to him by the FBI Agent, which he had stared at for ages, trying to jog his memory. He had eventually folded the paper so he couldn’t see it, but now he drew it close as he remembered. It was at Simon Boatly’s house in the bedroom, where he had seen various jewellery cases littered around the floor. He remembered Grant Delany saying that he had not taken anything and many of the old leather boxes were empty.

  He pushed his chair back and began pacing the room, puffing at his cigarette. He was pretty certain Grant had been trying to pocket some of the jewellery but then he had said a lot of the boxes had already been empty and Reid recalled them looking at the large oval-shaped case and the indentation of where a tiara had obviously been kept for years. Hastily he turned to his filing drawer and began searching through it for the notebook he used on the Fulford case.

  Finding it, he sat down and lit another cigarette as he thumbed through his notebook until he found the correct page. Marcus Fulford described taking his daughter to Henley, and she had gone into the house. This had become important at the time as they were checking out the possibility of Amy taking contaminated food into Boatly’s house. However, it was now clear Amy had never poisoned anyone.

  Reid returned to the table and wondered if Amy had gone upstairs and stolen the tiara and other jewellery. If this was the case, it would mean that the girl was planning her disappearance for weeks and she was most probably still alive. He knew it was all conjecture, totally without any foundation, and to even contemplate reporting it to someone like Jackson would be a waste of time. That was unless Boatly’s lawyers had details of the jewellery, for insurance purposes, and could identify the tiara? He was shaking when at nine a.m. he placed a call to them and explained that he was investigating the possibility that property belonging to Simon Boatly might have been stolen, specifically jewellery, and one item might have been a tiara.

  It was a lengthy and frustrating call as he was transferred from one person to another as they attempted to check their files. He emailed them the picture of the tiara, but still he was kept waiting and eventually he hung up as they said it would take time to look into his queries and they would get back to him.

  It was after ten thirty when they did. There was some hesit
ancy as the insurance certificates and photographs of the jewellery they had on record were out of date and no insurance had been renewed. They were concerned that they were unable to clarify all the items that they had not been able to locate. Reid was starting to get irritated, even wondering if Grant Delany had stolen all the jewellery after all. He was relieved when told that they did have a photograph that matched the picture of the tiara in the email, and it belonged to Mr Boatly’s great-grandmother. The record they had was very precise and described the tiara as made up of matching rose diamonds, with a large centre square-cut diamond of four carats set in platinum and gold inlay. It was from the 1920s and valued at three hundred and fifty thousand pounds, but as the estimate was ten years old it was more than likely now worth a considerable amount more.

  Reid could hardly believe it, but they seemed inclined to do nothing, not even to contact the police. When he told them that he had good information that the tiara had surfaced in Mexico, and as they had identified it as being the one belonging to Mr Boatly, it was therefore highly probable that it had been stolen, they didn’t seem interested as it was not within their legal jurisdiction. Reid interrupted and asked whether, if the tiara could be recovered, he would be in line for a finder’s percentage.

  ‘Absolutely’ was the response, and by the time the call ended Reid rashly calculated that his plane ticket and costs for the trip would be covered. He booked a plane ticket within an hour, and he was packed and ready to leave the UK by early afternoon.

  On the plane, his initial excitement palled somewhat as he went back over the call that had brought about his decision. It was possible that Miss Polka might have become scared once she learnt the value of the tiara, or saw that José Hernandez was suspicious of how she had come by it. His confidence that Amy Fulford could be with Miss Polka began to lessen and he had a sinking feeling that he had allowed his obsession to override his senses, and yet it was too late to turn back. He pulled down his tray table and began to study the maps he had bought, realizing if he was to first stop in Mexico City and question the jewellers it would mean a further delay. He decided he would rent a car, drive from Mexico City to Mazatlan and begin his enquiries from there. He had in his suitcase photographs of Amy Fulford and Josephine Polka and knew that whatever names they were using would be immaterial if he could get the pictures identified. Yet again he was certain that he was right and that Amy Fulford was alive and had engineered her disappearance with clinical and clever subterfuge. He leaned back, closing his eyes as he went over his interaction with Miss Polka at the school, how she had behaved and reacted to his questions. Had she been lying to him, was she that good an actress? Yet again a wave of scepticism swept over him, and he hoped against hope that for once he had not reached a total dead end.

  Chapter 43

  Anna had been sitting outside the cottage on an old wooden bench for hours. She had lit a night-light in a lantern and the mosquitoes gathered above it like a small black cloud. Jo had looked out from the window numerous times, but could not or refused to interrupt or go and sit beside her. She had begun packing the few things they had brought, and the canvas bags for their paintings and books were ready to be put into the Land Rover. Anna’s rucksack was almost full, the top left open for anything else she wanted to take.

  Earlier that morning Anna had frightened Jo as she had driven off without saying a word. She had been gone for over two hours, and unbeknown to Jo, had spent the time in an internet café discovering all she could about her father and mother. She had read the newspaper coverage of her own disappearance, and had even been able to bring up the footage of a few of the programmes that had been broadcast on British network television.

  Jo had not seen her cry. Her reaction had been one of utter silence when she had told her about the visit to the jewellery store in Mexico City, the phone call to London and how she had subsequently gone to the internet café. Anna had shown little reaction to the news that her father was dead. However, when she had herself read about him and that the police were no longer searching for her, and no other suspects had been arrested, she had bowed her head in shame. By the time she returned to the cottage she was aware of the consequences her disappearance had created, and was almost overwhelmed with a sense of guilt. She had not discussed with Jo the need to uproot and find somewhere else to hide. She was even uncertain that she would agree to it; for herself she had found peace and had been happy for the first time in years. She was realizing the implications and cost of what she had done, and was now contemplating returning to England, but was intelligent enough to realize that she would have to face a barrage of questions from the police and might be charged with wasting their time for not coming forward earlier. Nowhere had she read of the poisoning or the threats that had been made, so she was unaware of exactly how her father had died. The article simply stated that he had not recovered after collapsing while being questioned and the police were no longer looking for a suspect connected to his daughter’s murder.

  Jo heard the scrape of the bench and knew immediately that Anna had moved from the yard. It was so dark outside, the small lantern the only means of light; even the moon seemed to have paled into insignificance. She stepped outside, and could see Anna standing by the hosepipe they used as a shower. She was bending down a few feet away from it, and Jo walked softly towards her.

  ‘The new crops are coming up well – they like this damp earth and being in the shade.’

  She was pointing to the old wooden crates filled with woodchips and wet newspapers from where the growing mushrooms’ white heads were beginning to sprout.

  ‘My mother taught me how to grow the most edible ones, and how to recognize the dangerous ones, the poisonous ones. She was an authority on all the different species and helped me write an essay about the poison that possibly caused the death of the Roman Emperor—’

  ‘We need to talk, Anna.’

  ‘Not yet, Jo, give me a little more time.’

  ‘We might not have it. I wish to God I had never made that call to London.’

  Anna turned to stare into Jo’s concerned face, and then looked away, her voice hardly audible.

  ‘For God’s sake, let me mourn for Daddy; he did not deserve to be accused of abusing and killing me. He was a stupid weak man, but not a bad one.’

  ‘I know, dear.’

  Her voice grew softer still. ‘No, you don’t know, you don’t know at all.’

  ‘Then talk to me, because I need to know. I am so scared I am losing you, Anna, I don’t think I could bear it.’

  She wanted to hold out her arms and hug Anna tightly, but was incapable of doing so because she was afraid she would be rejected. Instead she looked on hopelessly as Anna continued to press her foot down onto the trays of mushrooms. The void between them felt impossible to bridge and to stop herself from crying Jo walked into the cottage and closed the door.

  The small bed of wooden planks cobbled together covered with a straw mattress was not exactly comfortable, but was just about adequate and the duvet was feather-light. Two candles lit the stone-walled room and the shutters closed out the cold night air. Jo could hear footsteps on the old wooden porch floor, the scrape of the chair, and lastly she heard the low sound of sobbing as Anna entered the cottage.

  At some point in the night Jo had fallen into a restless sleep, waking before the sun rose and creeping to open the bedroom door to see into the main room of the cottage. Anna was sleeping in front of the fire she must have lit, her head resting on a quilt pillow and her long tanned legs lazily crossing each other. Her slender arms were resting in a ballet pose and her skin shone as if oiled, her white-blonde hair like a child’s framing her perfect face. Placed beside her were pages and pages of her scrawled looped writing and Jo noticed that she had printed her own name on the first page. She hesitated for only a moment before she eased them away and took them back to the bedroom.

  My darling Jo, I have tried to make the right decision, and as much as I believe it is the
only thing to do, it is also difficult for me to even contemplate returning to England. I know how much you love me, and love living here in our little home and find the environment perfect for your painting. However, the time has come for me to go my own way and sadly without you. I will be forever grateful for what you have done for me and you have more than likely saved my life, but I now have to face reality as I cannot continue to live in our make-believe world. I am not Anna, but Amy, and I feel a terrible guilt about what happened to my father. I suspect my mother may have brought about his death and in many ways I feel I should return home to get the answers I so desperately need. As you know, I was subjected to my mother’s madness for many years, but it was when I was thirteen that things began to get really bad and she and Daddy started to argue all the time, so much so I actually hated being around them. When they decided to separate Mummy still had her mood swings, but she found solace in her work and life became a little more bearable for a short while, but I soon began to realize that every weekend I spent with Daddy was like a knife to her heart. The point came when I knew I would have to do something drastic to get away from her or I might be killed. Whether or not she intended hurting me, she did, and perhaps sometimes without even being aware of what she was doing. I often used to feel physically sick and had fevers and attacks of vomiting without realizing she was feeding me her deadly concoctions. She rarely cooked, but she sometimes made a spaghetti bolognese, which she knew was my favourite, and always just before she would drop me off to stay with Daddy. He was such a sad creature, so dominated by her, even frightened of her because he refused to acknowledge his own sexuality. He would attempt to portray himself to me as such a virile sexy man, believing his prostitutes and girlfriends were proof he was heterosexual. He so wanted and needed to know I loved him and preferred to be with him instead of Mother. I knew about his rent boys, and his love for Simon, as the way he spoke and smiled about him made it obvious. Mother would never let him go, I knew she was often outside Green Street spying on us, calling poor Daddy on his mobile, she would never leave us alone, and life with her was becoming impossible.