Chapter Fifteen
Nicola walked out of the house while her aunt was having one of her marathon phone calls in the drawing room. Nicola could hear her high, Home Counties voice talking on and on and on, interspersed with shrill laughter.
‘You aren’t serious! She didn’t? Heavens, Daphne, did she really? And what did he . . .? He didn’t?’
She had left Nicola in the conservatory, doing a watercolour of some flowers Aunt Eloise had arranged for her.
‘When you’ve finished that you can go upstairs and start packing. I know we aren’t going to New York until the day after tomorrow, but you’ll need time to pack, you’re going to have to be selective. There’s this tiresome weight problem, you can only take one suitcase, so choose carefully, and remember, we’ll be able to buy anything you need in New York and we’ll be coming back by sea so there won’t be a weight problem coming back.’ She had given one of those unreal, insincere smiles Nicola hated so much. ‘Now, just concentrate on your painting, sweetie. I’ll look in on you later.’
Aunt Eloise was her mother’s sister and looked like her. Nicola had never liked her much, which didn’t matter as Eloise lived in Manhattan and rarely came to London, but her father had invited her over to, in his words, ‘be company’ for Nicola at this time. What he really meant was be a jailer, watch Nicola like a hawk, keep her away from Sean.
She had not seen Sean since he was arrested. Her father had almost had a fit when she said she wanted to visit him.
‘In a prison? My daughter, walking into a prison to see a murderer? Certainly not. The idea is ludicrous. Now, never suggest it again. Eloise, can’t you think of something? Keep her occupied?’
‘New York,’ Eloise had said. ‘Why don’t I take her back to the States with me? Show her a good time, find her other young men to stop her thinking about . . . about that one?’
‘Excellent,’ Francis Belcannon had said in relief. ‘Absolutely. Take her at once.’
But Aunt Eloise had wanted to do some shopping in London, meet with old friends she rarely saw, take in the latest exhibitions and visit the best boutiques. She had not been in a hurry to go back to New York just yet. Francis Belcannon had paid her fare and was putting her up; she was having a free holiday and hadn’t got bored with London yet, although she would. Eloise de Haviland always got bored with everything. She was a great traveller; drifting from Peking to Moscow, from Cairo to Istanbul, buying and chattering, floating like a gilded dragonfly over the surfaces of life everywhere. Even her native New York was largely foreign to her. She never visited some parts of it. Manhattan and Long Island, they were her chosen spots. Everywhere else was uncertain; dirty or dangerous, or full of disturbing people, people without money or influence, who might want something from her, might attack her or steal from her.
She had a beautiful, exquisite, apartment looking over the park, with the sort of security she could trust. Shops delivered. She had carefully checked staff. She never had to do anything for herself.
She had friends, the right sort of friends. She no longer had a husband; he had thoughfully died, leaving her enormous sums of money. She had squads of hopeful men friends, none of whom would ever get to first base because she had no intention whatever of marrying again. A husband merely cramped your style, although a girl like Nicola must marry young, get it over with, get a good divorce and then really start to live with lots of money and lots of freedom to do as you please, get what you want, never have to compromise or do anything for anyone else.
That much Nicola had learnt over the last few days, listening to Aunt Eloise talking in her brittle, lively way.
The life she was being urged into was not what Nicola had dreamt of; she did not want to turn into Aunt Eloise, to be enamelled and self-obsessed, drifting over life endlessly without ever experiencing any depths or experiencing anything fully.
‘Certainly not, you cannot go and this . . . this what-ever.’
‘Sean.’
‘Don’t even say his name. Don’t think it. Forget you ever heard of him.’
‘I love him.’
Aunt Eloise had opened her mascara-ringed eyes, her dark red mouth a circle of distaste. ‘After what he’s done? Sweetie, where’s your self-respect? He was cheating on you with some shop girl and got her pregnant, then killed her. He’s a bastard. You can’t still love him.’
Nicola did, though. Oh, she had been shocked and horrified by what she had been reading in the papers. Their home had been surrounded by press, cameras flashing, men jostling on the London pavement, ringing the door bell, banging on the door. Every time it opened to let Papa in and out, to admit visitors, or permit them to leave, the men outside had surged forward, tried to force their way inside. They had shouted Nicola’s name but had caught no glimpse of her because she was upstairs in her bedroom, weeping on her bed, or spending hours in the bath, where at least she could avoid Papa’s preaching and later Aunt Eloise’s talk, talk, talking.
Nicola had read all the newspapers, curled up on her bed, staring at the grey photographs of the girl whose body had been fished up from the sea by Japanese fishermen.
Why? Why had Sean ever done it with her? What had she got, this flashy looking blonde?
He hadn’t taken Nicola to bed, had said they would wait until they were married. If he wanted to sleep with someone, why not her? Why go elsewhere for what she would have given him eagerly?
Hadn’t he ever loved her? Hadn’t he fancied her, hadn’t he wanted to sleep with her?
Bewildered, hurt, aching with frustration and wounded passion, she had needed to see him, ask him, get him to tell her . . . why? Why, why, why?
But her father and Aunt Eloise would not allow her to visit him in prison, so she had to escape and get her own way. Aunt Eloise kept proclaiming the importance of getting your own way, after all.
The press had given up hanging around. Nicola was able to slip quietly out of the front door and got a taxi right outside; pure luck. She would have walked to Hyde Park Corner, nearby, and got on a bus, if she had to, but a taxi was better. She went to Oxford Street and bought herself some inexpensive jeans and a cheap little thin white sweater, changed into them in the restroom at the Savoy, put the green Dior dress she had been wearing into a bag and left it to be collected. She could pick it up sometime before she left. After all, how could she visit a prison wearing a dress that had cost over a thousand pounds? The quality stood out a mile, just as the cost of the clothes she was wearing now were getting some sideways looks from the staff in the foyer of the Savoy.
But this was one occasion you had to dress down for. She didn’t want to stand out, or attract attention, at the prison. She had also bought a cheap anorak with a hood which she could pull forward over her head, disguising her blonde hair and hiding her face.
All the same, she got stared at by the other prisoners as she waited for Sean to come and sit opposite her.
He looked astonished as he saw her, his face going red.
‘Hello, Sean,’ she whispered shyly, not quite meeting his eyes.
‘Hello, Nicola,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t ever think you’d visit me, in here – your father’s solicitor came, told me the engagement was over and I wasn’t to try to see you again, or write, or anything.’
‘He doesn’t know I’m here. He didn’t want me to come, but I had to see you.’
He shifted uneasily. ‘Look, I’m sorry, OK? I won’t give you excuses, there aren’t any. But I am sorry.’
‘Did you ever love me?’ The question was quiet, but even someone as selfish and dim as Sean could have heard the pain burning behind it.
He swallowed, audibly, looking at her. ‘Yes, yes, more than I realised, myself, and before you ask I never loved her. I just needed to . . . do it, right? I couldn’t with you. I knew that. I respected you too much. But I’m only human and I’m a man. And she was there, and offering. But that was all. It was just sex.’
Her small, pale, delicate fingers twisted together. Sh
e looked at him through her wet lashes. ‘I wish I could believe you.’
‘I wish you did, not that it makes much difference now, it’s too late, I know.’
She kept looking at him, tears dropping from her big blue eyes. ‘You look different. Thinner. I don’t know . . . different in other ways, too. Older. Sad. Oh, Sean, it’s all such a mess.’
He groaned softly. ‘I know. But I do love you, Nicola. I wish to God none of it had ever happened. Honestly. If I could go back . . . I got scared when she said she was going to have a baby. I must have been mad for that one minute. And now your dad will never let me marry you, even if I get out of here, if I’m not found guilty, say. Even then he wouldn’t let me marry you. It’s all over for me.’
She didn’t deny it. She knew her father. ‘They’re sending me to New York, I don’t know when I’ll get back here. But I’ll write to you, I swear. I’ll write whenever I can.’
He looked at her with desperate attention. ‘Will you, Nicola? I’d love that. It would give me something to hold on for. But . . . will you forgive me?’
She whispered. ‘I love you, silly. I really do. I always did. I can’t help forgiving you.’
Sean’s face crumpled like a child’s; a tear slipped down his cheek.
Neil went out with the coastguard, on his orange boat, trawling the sea for any glimpse of Miranda. Alex was looking, too, in his own boat, but Neil preferred not to go with him. Alex was the master in his boat, he made the decisions, making Neil prickle with resentment, and his jealousy of Alex ground inside him like swallowed glass every time the other man spoke of Miranda. He felt far easier with the coastguard, who was a guy he could talk to, and who had never even met her.
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, said the coastguard whose name Neil could not pronounce He was a small, wiry Greek with blue and red tattoos on both arms. He had been a sailor working a Greek cruise ship and spoke rough but comprehensible English.
‘You see, she could be anywhere. Where do we look? The Aegean could swallow a whole ship, let alone one little girl.’
Alex was thinking the same. His black eyes searched the horizon. There wasn’t even another vessel to be seen now. He had sailed out of sight of the island. He must head back in again and search another quarter.
They hadn’t told Pandora yet. Charles was afraid of upsetting her. She might lose the baby.
‘She’s asking why Miranda hasn’t been to see her, of course, but we lied, said she was out with you, sailing.’
‘Soon enough to tell her the truth when . . . if . . . we don’t find Miranda,’ Alex had said.
Charles looked sideways at him, hesitated. ‘She . . . she could be . . . could have . . . drowned, you know.’
‘I know.’ Did Charles think he hadn’t considered that possibility?
‘Lots of people do drown here, they take risks, swim out too far, get cramp . . . it happens all the time.’
‘I know. But Miranda was a good swimmer and she knew the Aegean, she’s been here long enough to know to be careful. I’m going to go on looking for her while there’s still hope.’
‘Of course. Let me come out with you.’
‘No, we need you here, back at the hotel, while Milo and I are out at sea. But thanks.’ He had clapped a hand to Charles’ shoulder, smiled at him. ‘I appreciate the offer.’
‘Are you serious about her?’ Charles had asked, but got no answer, so he had asked, ‘What about Elena?’ But to that he had been given no reply, either. Alex did not talk about his feelings, he kept them to himself.
So, Alex had left, urgently needing to be at sea, looking, doing something, anything. Time was going by and hope was fading, he knew that. Oh, he knew. So many things could have happened to her. She could have been abducted, could have been killed, could have drowned.
But he would not contemplate those possibilities. He had to believe she could be alive, somewhere, and that they would find her.
Miranda was alive but she was very cold, her skin below the water goosepimpled from being in the sea for so long, yet burning from the heat of the sun. She was experimenting with gentle movements to keep herself afloat. She began by moving her feet, flexing them rather than kicking, flicking them sideways. At first it put her off balance, her heart leapt into her mouth as her body sank in the water, so that it lapped at her mouth. She had to fight to keep calm, not to panic.
Gradually the tiny movements became easier; she floated round and round in a circle, beginning to move her body as she kicked, flexing her stomach and hips too, and the chill wore off a little, her muscles warmed up and the cramp died away.
But it was tiring; she increasingly wanted to give up, float, stop fighting, but that would end only one way, in death. She knew that. So she kept up her movements.
Now and again she turned her head sideways to dip her face under water. Her skin was getting badly sunburnt; on shoulders and face. The Greek sun was so hot.
How long had she been in the sea? She had no idea. It seemed like forever. How much longer could she keep going? She couldn’t guess that, either.
At the back of her mind was the memory of hearing Alex talking to Terry Finnigan on the phone, saying he had kept her on the island so that Terry could come and get her when he liked.
The pain of the memory was intense, far worse than her sunburn or the weariness of her tired muscles.
Alex . . . how could he? She wished she could hate him, but she couldn’t; she still loved him. She must be insane. She must stop feeling like that. He had made love to her knowing what he meant to do; it had all been lies, everything he said to her. How could she go on loving a man like that?
Something brushed against her. What was that? She stiffened, shooting a sideways look in shock.
Right beside her gleamed an eye; large and round and shiny.
Her throat pulsed with fear – what was it? She hadn’t heard anything moving. It touch her again, nudging her with its nose like a dog.
Only then did she recognise it, realise what it was that had silently stolen up on her. A dolphin. It was a dolphin.
The silky, bluish silvery skin was cool to the touch. She leant her head towards it and pushed her cheek into it, delighted to have company. It swam closer, curving against her, supporting her, almost as if it understood her predicament.
Suddenly it lowered its head beneath the sea; she felt a strange vibration from it – what was it doing?
Ten minutes later another dolphin swam towards them; the two of them touched noses, blowing into each other, made funny little chuckling noises – were they talking to each other? she wondered.
The second dolphin swam to the other side of her, pushing into her, supporting her, so that she was sandwiched between them, and the strain of trying to stay afloat eased.
The dolphins began to move, taking her with them. Miranda flicked her ankles lightly to keep abreast of them. She could see nothing but sea and sky. Where were they taking her?
She tried to remember everything she had ever heard of dolphins, but could only remember that they were not fish, they were mammals, marine mammals.
It was easy to believe; under the sleek blue and silver skin she felt the pulse of warmth, of blood moving in veins. Her body responded to theirs as if they were human, too.
Some people believed they had a language, could communicate with each other, she remembered.
Had that been what the first dolphin had been doing when he made the water vibrate? Had he been calling for help?
They were believed to like human beings, to enjoy human company – and hadn’t Charles told her on that first day, when dolphins swam round the boat as they were sailing from Piraeus, that they had rescued people from the sea before?
Moving with them, between them, she thought how elegant they were, their bodies sleekly adapted for moving in their watery environment.
Their round, rather mischievous eyes were almost human in their expressions and when they opened their long mouths in a gr
in she couldn’t help laughing back.
Having their company made the whole world look different, gave her hope. She pushed away the painful thoughts of Alex. He had betrayed her, but the dolphins healed the wound of that memory.
She almost fell asleep, so tired it was hard to keep awake. To help herself stay alert she lifted her head and gazed about her.
Was she imagining it, or was that a coastline she could see? Above the waves it ran like a rippling yellow line, coming closer all the time. A beach? Was that where the dolphins were taking her?
A sound cut through wind and waves – an engine? Was it an engine? Was there a boat coming?
She raised herself again, staring in the direction from which the noise came, and saw a yellow boat’s prow cutting through the water, churning up white, marbled spray.
They might sail past without even noticing her. Desperately she lifted her head even higher, hoping they would see her.
The engine cut and the boat slowed; the dolphins stopped moving forward and waited, tails lightly flicking. Somebody in a yellow life-jacket leaned down, hands seized her shoulders, began to pull her firmly but gently upwards.
She bit back a cry of pain. Her skin was so sunburnt it hurt just to be touched on the shoulders.
Slithering over the side of the boat she fell into a man’s arms and looked up into Neil Maddrell’s face.
‘Neil!’ she hoarsely said, almost surprised to find her voice still worked. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you.’
‘Who the hell did this to you? Did you see? Did you recognise them?’ He was undoing her ankles.
‘Greeks, I’d never seen them before.’ She tried to stand up but her legs crumpled underneath her. ‘Must thank the dolphins . . . they saved my life.’
Neil picked her up gently, her head against his shoulder, her legs dangling.
‘Yes, we saw – that was what made us look, the dolphins – and then we saw you, between them. Amazing; I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. You do hear these stories about their superintelligence, people say they do these things, but it seems so incredible, doesn’t it?’
Angel of Death Page 25