by Penny Feeny
She poked her stick into a patch of myrtle, checking for snakes. It was possible a dose of venom had paralysed Mimmo, but there were few options left. In the distance she could see the wide beam cast by the lights of the motor launches. The wind was beginning to get up, to whip the sea into a foaming frenzy that could steal a small body from a cave and sweep it carelessly into deep water.
By now Fabrizio had arrived. He’d roared down from Rome and abandoned his car on the Naples quayside so he could take the hydrofoil, disregarding the chance that it might not be there in the morning. Helena would never forget the uncanny pallor of his face when he sought her out, or the droop of his shoulders: all his bravado, his certainty, knocked out of him.
The words rasped in his throat and he wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘What were you doing?’
How many times could you tell the same story? ‘I was counting to a hundred.’
‘And that is all?’
‘We’d already had a treasure hunt for sweets. He knew all the hidingplaces and I thought he’d squeeze into one of them.’
‘Children do not vanish from the face of the earth.’
‘I know.’
She felt a pelting of gravel at her back and swung around, but it was the work of the wind – once skittish, now fierce and blustering. Rain rattled on the tops of the patrol cars, where the carabinieri had gathered to confer. The officer in charge broke away from the group and came up to Fabrizio.
‘We have to call off the search,’ he said. ‘We can’t make any headway in these conditions. The sirocco is coming.’
The sirocco, swirling up from Africa, mottled the landscape like rust, carried such a quantity of sand and grit you felt you were being pricked by a thousand needles when it blew against your flesh. It stung your eyes until they were raw, and clogged your airways. Midnight’s temperature could be as hot as midday’s, the humidity dense.
‘In these conditions,’ echoed Fabrizio, ‘you would leave a small boy to fend for himself?’
‘We’ve been searching for five hours. We’ve covered the hillside and we don’t believe he can be found here.’
‘Then where is he? What about the helicopter?’
The neighbours and volunteers were shuffling back to their vehicles, spreading their hands apologetically: the weather was too bad, the night was too dark. Rain would hamper progress, obliterate tracks, footprints, leads.
‘We’ll recommence at daybreak,’ promised the officer.
Helena sat in a corner with her legs crossed and her shoulders hunched. There were two young women – prostitutes, she guessed – corralled with her in the holding cell. Although political prisoners had once been incarcerated in the fortress of Castello Aragonese, it was now a tourist destination and Ischia’s detention facilities were minimal. Suspected criminals would be escorted off the island to Naples where the prisons overflowed, but Helena had committed no crime. The other women, sucking on unlit cigarettes, chatted to each other as if this were a regular occurrence. Lighters and matches had been confiscated and she could hear an agitated male voice howling down the corridor: ‘Fiammiferi, portami dei fiammiferi.’ As if! she thought. The man’s cry sounded as though he were offering to burn the place down.
After a sleepless night of recriminations, she’d been brought to the police station along with Liddy and Jake. They’d been interrogated separately and then the others had been let go. The police claimed they wanted to ask Helena more questions. In fact, they’d ignored her for hours. From time to time she dozed; now it was morning again and finally – finally – something was happening. She was tapped on the shoulder and escorted to an interview room. The light was switched on. A glass of milk was set in front of her. She stared at it. What she really wanted, she thought, retching at the sickly smell of the milk, was a mirror, a comb and a damp flannel. She didn’t think of herself as vain, but she felt dirty, as if her flesh were crawling with lice and covered in smut.
The glass was still full when the door opened and an officer entered, pulling on his jacket as if he’d arrived late for his shift. He sat down opposite her and opened a notebook. She looked up, shocked into exclamation. ‘My God! Enzo!’
His face registered dismay. ‘So it is you. I hoped there had been some mistake.’
Can I see you again? he’d asked at the Vesuvio, his jaw taut with the tingle of aftershave, his eyes brimming with . . . what? Ardour? Curiosity? Desire? A man on the lookout for a mate. She hadn’t exactly stood him up, but it must have been obvious from those unanswered phone calls that she was avoiding him. And what would he have offered: a decorous passeggiata culminating in caffé and gelati? A visit to the widowed mother who kept antimacassars on the backs of her chairs and caged canaries? A race across the island in the moonlight on his Kawasaki? Discomfort trickled between her shoulder blades. Not this, she thought, he can’t have expected this. She reached for his hand, which he instinctively withdrew. ‘What’s going on, Enzo? You have to help me.’
‘You can speak Italian please,’ he said.
‘Why d’you make me wait so long here? Why not the others? What am I supposed to have done?’
‘We must investigate.’ Lines of distaste ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth. His shirt had been immaculately laundered; Helena supposed any contact with her would sully it.
‘I’ve already told you everything I know.’
‘We are appealing for witnesses, for anyone who was on the beach that afternoon. Some we have identified, but it’s a slow process.’
‘I don’t know what more I can say. How does locking me up help you find Mimmo?’
‘We need you to remember.’
‘Remember what? There’s nothing I’ve left out, honestly. Look, this is ridiculous. You’ve no grounds to keep me here. Somebody needs to contact the British Embassy in Rome and get me a lawyer.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not so simple.’
‘You can’t hold me without charge. Come on, Enzo, you’ll get into trouble.’
‘The trouble is not mine,’ he said gravely.
‘God, don’t you think I feel as sick about this business as everyone else? Mimmo was . . . is . . .’ She swallowed, unable to continue.
‘I am here as a friend,’ he said. ‘An adviser. This meeting now is entirely informal. Everything will be over very quickly if you tell us where they’ve taken him.’
‘What?’
‘Where have they taken him?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The kidnappers.’
Helena had not slept for two nights. The world was spinning on an unfamiliar axis. ‘What kidnappers? Why do you think he’s been kidnapped? I mean, I know it’s a handy explanation but it doesn’t mean it’s the right one. If I could focus properly I might be able to come up with something else, but as it is . . .’
‘You should drink the milk,’ he said.
‘I can’t. It makes me want to throw up. Can I have a coffee?’
‘Okay. I will tell them to bring you something.’
At the doorway he regarded her with a puzzled look, as if she had somehow changed into a different person. She had to convince him they were all barking up the wrong tree, barking mad in fact. He exchanged words with the man standing on guard and came back to her. ‘The coffee is coming,’ he said. ‘And a croissant.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I will pay for it myself.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’ She raised her arm to push her hair back from her face and caught a rank, unwashed odour. There was no window in the room, no way of telling the time of day or the temperature. The freedom of the boat, the beach, the sea were in another world: where she should be, out there with the rest of them. ‘All I care about is finding Mimmo. Why won’t you let me help?’
‘Now it’s difficult,’ he said, sighing. ‘While we have the sirocco, visibility is poor. We aren’t able to use the helicopter. You have made a terrible mistake.’
‘I kno
w I’ve made a mistake! You can’t arrest me for it.’
‘There is evidence,’ said Enzo, ‘you have been consorting with someone who is known to us as a dangerous person.’
‘I haven’t consorted with anyone!’
‘The night at Vesuvio,’ he said. ‘I saw you myself.’
‘You mean those thieves? Brazen bastards. But I’d never seen them before! You know that perfectly well. This is complete nonsense.’ She paused. ‘Is that all you’ve got on me?’
‘We are speaking to a witness who may be able to confirm the conversation. In any case, we must separate you from your accomplice.’
‘I don’t have an accomplice!’ She was in a madhouse, most definitely. Still, she felt grateful that Enzo was her interrogator. When the espresso and cornetto were brought in, she gave him her most appreciative smile – even though the pastry crumbled to ashes in her mouth and the coffee, despite three packets of sugar, was thin and bitter
‘You must understand,’ he said, his palms flat and steady on the table top, ‘these are bad times for this country. We have the Red Brigades. We have the bombings in the north, we have the kidnap and murder of Aldo Moro. These are political crimes, but there are also men who are unscrupulous, who will do anything for money. They may have tricked you, pretended they want to know your movements, the boy’s movements, for another reason. We don’t say yet you are wicked, maybe you have been foolish. But we have to keep you under observation. Then, if you can lead us to them, the result is simple. We will let you go.’
‘But I don’t know these people you’re talking about. Why d’you keep going on about kidnappers anyway?’
Enzo’s expression was solemn. ‘The family have received a ransom note.’
‘Jesus!’ She was stunned to hear Jake’s hypothesis had taken shape. Then she rallied. ‘How do you know the note is genuine?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘Well, what does it say?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t compromise our investigations.’
‘Have you done a handwriting test? Have you checked it against the writing of everyone else in the villa? In both the villas?’
He was picking at a scab on his chin. He had held her once. She tried to recollect the pressure of his hand, the warm tickle of his moustache, but it was no good; the dance had been too brief.
‘This is no concern of yours.’
‘Except I think someone might be trying to get at me.’
‘Who?’
Gabi was the most likely person. But would Gabi be so vindictive as to forge a ransom demand? Wouldn’t her priority be the safety of her son? Unless – and here Helena could empathize – it was the only way to persuade the police to take the quest for Mimmo seriously. She recalled how quick they’d been to call off the search when the weather deteriorated. ‘I don’t know! I don’t know anything.’ She was overwrought; she could feel tears rising.
He passed her a tissue. ‘Signor Verducci will procure you a lawyer,’ he said. ‘One who will speak good English and be able to express to you the situation. But let me go over again the circumstances, so you will see how serious this matter is.’ She covered her eyes; she didn’t want to look at him. ‘A child in your care disappears. The family is well-known and well-connected. A note is delivered. We know some characters, petty criminals, who could be involved in this affair. You have been seen talking to one or two of them. We draw conclusions. If you help us with our enquiries we will show leniency.’
She plucked the tissue into small white scraps; they drifted from her lap to the floor. ‘When?’ she demanded. ‘When was this supposed encounter? Maybe I was just being polite. Someone asks me something, talks to me, I talk back. It was the same with you, remember?’
Enzo stiffened. ‘This is not appropriate conversation.’
‘You’re trying to frame me.’ She stood abruptly but hung on to the back of her chair, as if it might protect her. Enzo also rose and made to approach. ‘If you come near me,’ she said. ‘I’ll scream the place down. I’ll say you tried to rape me.’
‘There is a guard at the door,’ he said. ‘No one will believe you.’
Why had she thought him kind? He was rigid, inflexible, a tin-pot tyrant. She took the hem of her T-shirt in her hands and tried to rip it. She tugged at the waistband of her shorts – already tight and uncomfortable – and the button snapped its thread.
‘Elena, don’t do this.’
‘Let me go!’ When no one came she shrieked again.
‘I think you are ill,’ said Enzo.
She had backed herself against the wall. Wasn’t this the moment in the movies when the overhead lamp began to sway? When the tormentors moved in and slapped their victim’s face with gun butts or wet leather gauntlets? She focused on the lamp in its yellow silicone shade. It should be hanging straight down on its cord, stilled by gravity; instead it was swinging as if someone had given it a push. The walls were listing too, closing in on her. As she fainted she thought she heard him call out to the guard, something about a doctor, but her grasp of language was slipping away.
7
The fat policeman dealt out the photographs like a pack of cards: a series of profiles and full faces. Liddy picked them up and studied them one by one. She tried to seem intent and purposeful, but these men all looked the same. A pair of ears reappeared several times, mouths were set in a straight unsmiling line, deep-set eyes squinted and defied her to identify them. The photographs were spread across the glass top of the dining table in the Baldini villa. Around the edges of the prints, through the thick, green-tinged glass, Liddy could see her knees pressed tightly together facing the relaxed legs of the man sitting opposite. On her right, at the foot of the table, sat a scrawny, quietly spoken interpreter.
The note had come this morning, left by the gatepost. Fabrizio had spotted it, a tatty leaf of paper in a plastic bag to keep off the rain. At first nobody believed it was real: the writing was so ill-formed and childish it could have been Sara’s. But some of the information was chilling: the description of Mimmo’s swimming trunks; the assurance that he was enjoying his favourite biscotti; that further instructions would come. Maresa wailed but Gabi’s reaction had been frighteningly quiet. She left Casa Colonnata open, unlocked, and got into the car with Fabrizio. He’d stormed off with his foot flat on the accelerator and his hand on the horn. The Alfa Romeo twisted around the corkscrew bends like a demented firecracker.
Bobo and Sara were now locked in the kitchen with Rosaria to keep them safe and Maresa – who considered, as Mimmo’s aunt, that she had equal investment in the drama – was on the phone in the hallway. She marched back and forth, thrashing the extra-long cord in her hand like a gaucho’s whip or twining it from wrist to elbow like a lasso. Her body had a language of its own: her shoulders shuddered, her torso rippled, her arms and legs trembled with emotion. And all the while she kept up a relentless flow of questions, demands, suppositions and predictions.
How could Liddy possibly concentrate on the task in hand against such a background? She was shipwrecked and adrift in a place that was suddenly, unbearably foreign. When she’d had Helena to cushion her against any strangeness, Ischia had been breathtakingly beautiful, but now that she’d been whisked away it had turned sinister and threatening.
It was the first thing she asked when the fat policeman arrived. ‘Where is she? What have you done with Helena?’
He dug his thumbs into his broad leather belt. ‘My colleague is conducting her interview,’ he said. ‘And we are trying to locate anybody who may have observed the boy. We have to examine all possibilities. In the meantime, I have something to show to you.’
Liddy dreaded being presented with an item that had belonged to Mimmo: a lock of hair, say. Or something worse. Instead, the photographs had been produced.
‘This is a small island,’ the policeman said, through the young clerk. ‘It isn’t Sicily or Sardinia. We ar
e not accustomed to crime. They come here from Napoli to steal and make trouble. If the boy is in Ischia we will find him. The problem will be if he has already left, been taken to the mainland by boat, for example. But we are in contact with the police there. They will inform us of any sighting . . .’
‘The note . . . doesn’t give you any clues?’
‘The note we are examining. Meanwhile, will you please look at these?’
‘Why?’
‘There is the possibility you may recognize one of the faces.’
‘From the beach, you mean?’
‘Or in the town. Or at the port. Someone who was looking at the boy? Who was acting suspiciously? He might have spoken to your friend.’
‘My friend?’ She thought longingly of Jake, the way he tossed back his head when he laughed, his clever conjuring.
‘The English girl.’
‘Oh, Helena.’
‘So which one?’
‘Which what?’
‘Which man did you see talking to your friend? This one perhaps? Or this?’
‘I don’t know.’ Truth to tell, she and Helena were often accosted in public places by swarthy young men, offering them drinks or cigarettes or scooter rides or the benefit of their superior knowledge. Even in the late seventies, in this secluded southern backwater independent women were a rarity. Not that their attempts at independence fooled anybody. Liddy now felt, more than ever, like a helpless schoolgirl.
‘Does it have to be one of these?’ she begged. ‘Only I’m finding it quite difficult to tell them apart and we come across new people all the time. I don’t want to get anyone into trouble . . .’