by Susan Lewis
Then, just a few short months later Martina, ungrateful bitch that she was, had thrown her out of her life, refusing to see Jake Mallory for the adulterous, deceiving bastard that he was – that all men were.
Consuela choked and spluttered as a great heaving sensation welled from the depths of her. Hatred and fury were spewing their poison into her veins. She wanted no more of this charade, she was done with the shackles of pretence, she was rotten right through to her soul and had no more reason to hide it. Consuela de Santiago had avenged herself on all who had betrayed her. She, the greatest actress of them all, had seen the friends who had spurned her pay with their dignity and their fortunes. She, the dazzling, faithful and noble Spanish wife of an Italian mafioso, had taken his spoiled and haughty daughter’s freedom and bestowed a punishment on her and her fornicating husband that he would never forget. Now he knew the price of turning Martina against the mother who had sacrificed her life for a daughter who wasn’t even her own. Now he knew what it was to suffer as she had suffered.
As she looked in the mirror she saw the light of dementia gleaming in her eyes. She’d seen it so many times before. Her lips were cracked, her skin was sallow, her face was gaunt and old. Her beauty was being erased by the unleashing of her venom, the perfect casing was crumbling beneath the seething might of her hatred. There had been no justice for her in this life, she expected none in the next. Her faith had been eroded by the years of abuse, her belief in salvation she had buried along with her conscience. Her only joy now was to see those who’d wronged her grovel for her mercy, to see the man who had taken Martina and her fortune pay for the way he had cast her aside. She had shown him what it was to lose someone he loved, not once but twice. She had let him know the indignity of prison, the way she had known it, then she had drawn out his suffering with the uncertainty of Martina’s death. She laughed, loudly. He would be in no doubt now.
Delacroix was behind her, holding her steady as the breath heaved in her chest and the malice twisted her face. Their reflections were blurred in the dwindling light, his eyes, so like Jake’s, gazed down at her with indifferent confusion. She had tried once to put out Jake’s eyes so he would never look at another woman, he would surely be praying now that she had succeeded. Danielle Spencer had paid with her life for their one night of passion. Did he know yet, she wondered, that she had Louisa Kramer? If he did, had he guessed where she was? She hoped so for when he came she knew there was every chance he would kill her on sight. It was what she wanted, that he didn’t stop to ask questions, that he gave her no chance to beg for mercy, for once he’d done it, the very instant he’d fired the bullet, he would realize what a terrible, irreversible mistake he had made. And if he didn’t kill her right away, well then he would realize what a terrible mistake that was too.
‘You see, Jake,’ she rasped on a laboured, choking breath, ‘either way, you can’t win. Dead or alive I have more power over you than God Almighty Himself.’
Marianne had been waiting a long time now. Though night had long since stolen the light from the room it was still suffocatingly hot and the stench of her own bodily waste was making her retch. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her heart ached with the pain of Consuela’s betrayal and the fear she might never be found.
She’d regained consciousness early that morning, had heard Erik downstairs, ranting at the lifeless telephone, banging around in the kitchen, then finally she had heard him leave. There had been nothing she could do. Her arms and legs were bound so tightly that her circulation had all but ceased. The gag cut agonizingly across her mouth, the rag in her throat was impairing her breathing. Her head throbbed so relentlessly she could barely open her eyes.
The king-size bed on which she lay was hard up against the wall. When she’d come round she was scrunched into the furthest corner facing the wall, her hands and feet tied tightly to each other behind her back. The stiffness in her limbs and the weakness of hunger had made it hard for her to move, but gradually, inch by inch, while praying desperately for Erik’s return, she had finally managed to manoeuvre herself to the edge of the bed. When he came, if he came, she would let herself fall to the floor and pray that he heard.
Thanking God for blessed mercies Erik tore open the door to Jake’s house – the telephone was ringing! As he ran for it he tripped in the darkness, falling against a chest and sending the nearest lamp crashing to the floor. He swore and grabbed for the phone.
Upstairs Marianne’s bound and twisted body lay on the floor, sobs silently racking her. She had lost her balance and the crash downstairs had masked the sound of her fall.
‘Erik? Erik, is that you, son?’
‘David!’ Erik cried. ‘Thank Jesus Christ. I’ve been trying to get you …’
‘Erik, listen to me,’ Jake’s father interrupted over the crackling line. ‘They released Jake late last night …’
‘Can I talk to him? I’ve got to talk to him, David. Can you put him on?’
‘He’s not here, son.’ David Mallory’s tone told Erik all he needed to know. Jake had paid off lawyers and the police to keep his release from David as long as they could, then had got himself to the nearest airport and had very likely called David when he was already out of Mexico.
‘I don’t know what route he’s taking to Europe,’ David Mallory went on, ‘but that sure as hell’ll be where he’s heading. I haven’t been able to find out how he got out of Mexico yet, but I’m working on it, it might give us some clue as to where he’ll make his connection before Nice. Meantime, it’s over to you, Erik. You’ve got to stop him. Don’t for God’s sake let him get to that woman or he’ll kill her.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Erik answered, at last finding a light switch. ‘But as far as I know he’s the only one who might know where she is.’
Marianne was inching painfully, desperately towards the door. She could hear every word Erik was saying.
‘Are you coming over?’ Erik asked David.
‘No. I’ve got his little girl. I’m taking her home.’
‘Of course,’ Erik said. ‘How is she?’
‘Afraid. She wants her mommy.’ David paused. ‘Do your best for Jake, son. He’s in a bad way. He’s as mad as hell and there’s no telling what he might do to get to that bitch. Personally I’d like to see her dead, but I don’t want Jake spending the next twenty years in jail. He’s got a child here that needs him. Remind him of that.’
‘I will. And David, should he get in touch with you before I find him you’ve got to make him tell you where Consuela could be. Tell him she’s got Louisa.’
Marianne’s eyes were fixed on the sliver of light coming in through the door. It wasn’t quite closed. She had to get to it, she had to knock it closed so Erik would hear. She knew where Louisa was. She could tell him. She could help him stop Jake if only she could make him hear.
‘… you’ve got to find that girl, Erik,’ David Mallory was saying. ‘You’ve got to stop him getting anywhere near Consuela, because if he does …’
‘I know, I know. You don’t have to spell it out,’ Erik interrupted, frowning up at the gallery. ‘Take down this number.’ He reeled off Jean-Claude’s number and went on, ‘If you find out anything call. I’m going to the police now, let’s just hope they don’t take it into their heads to arrest me, but we’re going to need their help on this. Will they know about Jake’s release yet?’
‘I’ll see they do by the time you get there.’
‘Great. And who knows, by some miracle they might find Marianne, the girl who worked for Jake. She’ll know where Consuela is. But for all we know she could be in on it all, or worse, she could be dead.’
Oh Erik! Erik! Marianne cried inwardly. I’m here. Please God, tell him I’m here!
Erik slammed down the phone.
Marianne was almost there. Her chest was burning with pain as she struggled to make a sound.
Erik snatched up his keys and started for the door. He paused, looked up at the gallery again, then moved on.
No! No! Don’t go! Marianne silently screamed.
As Erik reached the door a car skidded to a stop beside his own and Bob, the first mate on the Valhalla, leapt out.
Marianne inhaled a breath of relief then pushed on.
‘Is he here?’ Bob shouted.
‘You mean he’s already in France?’ Erik cried in disbelief.
‘I saw him taking off in the Mercedes from the port.’
‘You didn’t get to speak to him?’
‘Not a chance. He was gone before I could get ashore.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Erik seethed. ‘There’s no time to go to the police, we’ll have to call them. Do you have his licence number?’
‘Sure.’
Marianne thrust herself frantically forward. She was so close now, so very close. She could hear Erik speaking to the police. He was shouting, making too much noise. He’d never hear the door close. She must wait. She positioned herself precariously on her side, praying she wouldn’t roll before she was ready. At last she heard the phone go down. She jerked her shoulder and fell back instead of forwards.
Bob and Erik raced out of the house. Erik stopped to lock up. Marianne shoved her hips against the upstairs door, barely grazing it, but it clicked shut.
Erik turned the key in the lock downstairs, pocketed it and turned to his car.
‘Where are we going?’ Bob cried, jumping into the passenger seat.
‘I wish the hell I knew,’ Erik answered, looking briefly at one of the upstairs windows. Then flooding the drive with his headlights, he slammed the car into reverse, turned and sped off into the night.
Marianne rocked from side to side, weeping and sobbing and begging hopelessly for them to come back.
28
CONSUELA REPLACED THE phone and turned to Delacroix. Her slanted eyes were glittering. She started to speak then paused as the church clock began chiming the hour.
Delacroix turned to the night-darkened window. The rare sound of footsteps could be heard passing, receding into the distance. The room was stuffy, smelt of his cologne, old cooking and cigarettes. A dull lamp in one corner cast an arc of insipid orange light over the cast-iron stove and old-fashioned china sink.
The last chime on the clock sounded.
‘He’s on his way,’ Consuela said, her smile ruminant and catlike.
Delacroix nodded.
‘So considerate of him,’ she went on, her eyes unfocused in thought, ‘to call at my villa to announce his arrival. But I imagine he had to check there first. Frederico told him where to come. It seems he already knew about this place, so we must assume he knows the layout too. I estimate it will take him thirty-five minutes to get here, but we’ll work to twenty.’ Her gaze went to Delacroix and rested there as she quietly contemplated the night. ‘As you know, I don’t expect to live through this,’ she said, ‘so when it’s over take the car, drive to Milan and be on the first plane out. Your payment will be waiting when you feel it safe to return to Buenos Aires.’
Delacroix was fascinated by her. She was so calm it was scary. He slid a pack of Gitanes across the plastic tablecloth towards him. Even with twenty minutes they had time to spare. He knew what he had to do.
He lit the cigarette, puffed smoke into the pungent air and remarked, ‘You look better with the wig.’
Consuela raised a uninterested eyebrow. That he had seen her without it the day before didn’t concern her. Her eyes glowed with a slow, purposeful fervour.
The most chilling of all insanities, Delacroix mused, was one that was as controlled as hers. It was so reasoned a court of law would probably declare her sane.
‘I’m going upstairs now,’ she said. ‘Be sure to put out the light before you leave.’
She mounted the narrow, winding stairs, turning on lights as she went, then off again as she reached the next landing. She moved unhurriedly towards the attic door then stopped for a moment to pat her hair into place.
She pressed down on the handle and the heavy door, weighted by the dresser, swung slowly open. The light inside was on. The room was quite empty.
She gave a small sigh of satisfaction then closed the door behind her. She walked over to the bed and looked down at the blood. There wasn’t as much as she’d hoped for, but it would suffice. She turned the sheet over. There was more there. She positioned it so it could be seen then went to make herself comfortable in a shabby armchair.
The minutes ticked by.
She wondered if Marie-Thérèse was watching her. Marie-Thérèse, so many years walled up here alone in this room. If all went to plan they would spend their lives everlasting together. It seemed fitting.
Some while later the clock outside chimed the half hour. Consuela’s eyes moved to the corner. There was a faint scratching noise. She smiled.
‘Marie-Thérèse!’ she gasped, clutching her throat. ‘Marie-Thérèse!’ Let me go.’
She laughed. She’d scared Santini half to death with that once when he’d come to let her out. Sinner that he was, he was still a god-fearing Catholic. He believed in the possession of evil spirits. She’d spent four months in a convent after that.
She picked up the gun beside her, turned it over in her hands then laid it on her lap in the folds of her skirt. She didn’t think she’d need it, she was quite certain Jake was going to kill her, but it was there, just in case.
He’d be here soon and she idly wondered whether she would get the chance to tell him about Louisa before he pulled the trigger.
There were no lights on the Mercedes as it crept slowly, almost silently into the village. It came to a halt in front of the Maine. The engine stopped. Nothing, nobody, moved. The night was breathless and still.
Jake got out. His eyes moved across the roof of the car to the man getting out the other side.
They waited a moment, then began the descent down buckled, stone steps into a narrow, cobbled street.
The only witness to their presence was a fat, pampered cat sprawled drowsily on a doorstep. Ornate lamps pooled soggy light into the shadows. Minutes later they were at the door of the second to last house. No light seeped through the shutters. No sound came from within.
Jake looked at the man beside him, slid a gun from his pocket and nodded. The man gingerly twisted the doorknob. The latch clicked, the door opened and Jake sprang inside. Everything was still. Behind him the man flicked a switch and the room filled with a sickly orange glow.
Jake edged around the table, moving towards the stairs. The man stayed where he was, guarding the door.
Jake glanced back over his shoulder. His face was pale, his eyes black and empty. Again he nodded, then turning he started quietly up the stairs.
The man turned off the light and closed the door. He waited one minute then crept silently across the kitchen.
Jake took each room at a time. Everything was as motionless as a picture. The gun was steady in his hand. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears. His muscles were tensed, his eyes alert. He reached the attic door and dropped the gun to his side. He turned the handle and the door swung open.
The first thing he saw was blood on the empty bed. His eyes zipped across the room.
Consuela smirked.
He raised the gun with both hands, aiming it straight at her head. ‘Where is she?’ he said.
The cellar was as black as Russian earth. A single candle flickered in one corner. Louisa was hunched beside it, still naked, her wrists and ankles bound with razor sharp wire, her face bloodied and swollen. Her cheeks were caked with dry tears, saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth. Terror had made her pee in the dirt beneath her. Jake had arrived, they’d heard him come in. She knew the plan. She knew what was going to happen.
Delacroix was at the top of the steps by the door. She could just make out his crouched figure in the dim light. His gun was still pointing at her. He was waiting for the signal. The instant a gun fired upstairs Delacroix would kill her.
Jake was waiting. Neither of them moved. Consuela’
s smile was waning.
‘What have you done with her?’ Jake said.
‘Who? Martina?’ Consuela enquired.
Jake flinched and Consuela’s smile returned.
‘You know who.’
Consuela nodded. ‘You know, I’m wondering,’ she said, crossing her legs and interlacing her fingers, ‘if you’ve yet realized that were it not for your fortunate alibi with the police at the time of Danny’s murder, you would be in prison now and Martina would still be alive.’
‘Then that proves you’re not as clever as you think.’
She shrugged. ‘Martina’s death means nothing to me. I don’t think you can say the same.’
Jake’s face was ashen, it was the only sign of the insupportable grief he had yet to face. ‘You know you’re not getting out of this alive,’ he said, ‘so for pity’s sake let her go.’
‘Pity’s sake?’ she repeated.
‘What difference does it make to you if she lives?’ he seethed.
‘To me? None. But it does to you. Oh, I don’t expect you’re capable of loving her now, not after the trauma of Martina’s death, but being the man of honour that you are …’
‘For Christ’s sake, woman, aren’t two deaths enough?’
‘Three,’ she corrected. ‘You’re forgetting Aphrodite. But she doesn’t really count in the same way, does she? I had her killed because she saw Frederico breaking into Morandi’s office. Not quite the same thing.’
