Desire

by Louise Bagshawe

  ‘You guys got your samples? Got enough?’ he called out. He was ready to get the hell out of here, get back to his own cheap motel and change his shirt.

  They nodded and grunted.

  ‘Hey, boss.’ It was Conchita Sanchez, one of the CSI team, working on the bedlinen. ‘Check this out.’

  She stood up from her crouch and pushed the ultraviolet goggles off the top of her head, offering them to Craig.

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘Semen,’ she said, without a blush. Nothing fazed Conchita. ‘There’s none on the bed like you’d expect. Just blood. Nothing where the girl was lying. ‘But around here . . . by the bedside table . . .’

  He tugged the goggles on and let her turn him around, directing his gaze.

  ‘Yeah. I see.’

  The telltale white stains, very faded from the heat and the exposure, were splashed across a carved walnut table by the side of the bed, and a little on its ornate headboard. Their height suggested somebody had masturbated standing up. He’d seen it before in crime scenes. The killer jerking off over a corpse. A little shudder of revulsion ran through him.

  ‘Will we be able to get anything?’

  It was hot round here. The sample would have degraded badly. He cursed himself for not having sent a team out here before. It was lazy to just accept the obvious. He imagined the press enjoying another orgy of Fibbie-bashing.

  ‘Not much,’ Conchita said. ‘Maybe a partial.’

  ‘Enough to eliminate Steen?’

  That was the key thing, wasn’t it? Because degraded or not, you could say one thing for a semen sample. It hadn’t come from their prime suspect. Just by itself, this would be enough for reasonable doubt. If they knew it wasn’t Josh’s . . . and in fact, he thought, chewing on his lip, unless they could prove it was Josh’s, she likely walked. Because an unidentified semen sample on the bed and headboard . . . Lisa and Josh had rowed violently, she’d been sloppy drunk, they had stormed upstairs shouting at each other in public. Any defence lawyer would argue that Steen was unlikely to have stood over the bed and masturbated at his furiously angry bride.

  She shrugged. ‘Possibly. I’ll get as much as I can for the lab and we’ll overnight it.’

  ‘Do that, then pack up. I want to get all our samples off tonight. Photographs and video for analysis.’ Craig ran his hands through his hair. His mind had leapt ahead, putting it all together. Goddamn Sam Murray; he was right about the girl. He was actually right. And all hell was about to break loose.

  They pulled up half an hour later on Via Asilo, in Ronago, a half-deserted border town under the shadow of the mountains. There was a pretty Romanesque church with a square clock tower dominating a large parking lot filled with cheap cars; locals came here, not tourists. It was anonymous, it seemed safe. Lisa glanced around her and relaxed just a fraction. Who the hell would look for her here?

  Sam put the car in a space, and she didn’t object. Her legs were screaming. She wanted to walk. And she wanted food. Besides, sitting in a car with him was disturbing. The way he talked, so firm, decisive. And his muscles . . . the guy was built. She could see the shape of his biceps, defined under the shirt. He had a confidence, a casual ease about himself, that didn’t revolve around money. She thought how insecure Josh had been; maybe that was why he’d cheated so much. Always looking to get one over, desperate for approval, and hiding it all under a curtain of bluster. But Sam Murray was different. He did things on his own terms, and she had to accept those terms.

  Sam came across as a man who could handle women. And who had had lots of them, just for being himself. Josh Steen had had tons of women, but then he’d been rich. And would always have wondered if it was for himself or his money.

  Sam’s presence unsettled her. The flashes of desire . . . a bad idea. He was the only guy who could help her out of this nightmare. Lisa rebuked herself. Why was she thinking like this?

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she said, to distract herself from her train of thought.

  ‘Sure. We’ll eat.’ Sam opened the door and they got out of the car. It was a little cooler up here in the north, but the day was still bright and sunny. ‘The food will be excellent.’

  Lisa was surprised. ‘You know this town?’

  He shook his head. ‘And nor does anyone else. That’s why you can guarantee it. Italians eat here. There won’t be any tourist traps or bad food. It’ll be cheap and it’ll be good.’

  Lisa’s stomach rumbled, and she blushed. ‘Excuse me.’

  He grinned. ‘We’d better go find someplace. Come on.’

  They walked past the church into the centre of town. There was a dingy little train station, and past it a couple of streets full of shops: the farmacia, the alimentari. The ubiquitous tabacchi. It was a modern place, with ugly tower blocks, and nobody gave them a second glance in the street. Lisa exhaled, liking it.

  ‘I wonder if I could get a job here.’

  Sam glanced at her. ‘Pretty girl like you? Limey? You’d be the talk of the town. Somebody would rumble you in about five minutes.’

  She blushed, hearing him call her a pretty girl.

  ‘There’s no running from this, not really. You’re too famous. We have to solve it. Unless you want to go into a convent or something.’

  She smiled. ‘I don’t think I’m the convent type.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Sam said softly, and the way he looked at her could have stripped the flesh from her bones. She lowered her head, unable to meet his eyes. His desire was naked. It was like a wave of heat bearing down on her. Her body warmed in response, lust pulsing between her legs, a merciless point of fire. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry.

  ‘Here’s somewhere,’ he said, after an awkward few seconds.

  ‘Oh, great.’ Lisa was glad he’d broken the spell. At least she told herself that. She tried to ignore her own disappointment.

  They were standing at the top of a flight of stone steps, leading down to what looked like a greasy spoon; a little sign outside advertising ice cream and cigarettes. Sam walked ahead and she followed him. There was a group of Italian workers playing cards in a tiny front room; they looked up as she entered, their eyes running over her.

  ‘E aperto per pranzo?’ Sam asked.

  The owner grunted and gestured to a room in the back. This was no tourist trap, Sam was right about that. Strip lights on the ceiling, a couple of shabby posters with ski scenes on them. The tables were aluminium, and there were cheap orange plastic chairs. Not a straw-covered wine bottle in sight.

  They were given menus in laminated plastic, written only in Italian. Lisa looked hers over blankly. She didn’t speak the language. A bit of schoolgirl French, that was her limit. God, she was suddenly sick of being abroad, being out of control. A wash of weariness and misery seeped into her.

  The surly owner reappeared. He had clean glasses and a half-litre of red wine in a stone flask.

  ‘E dell’acqua minerale frizzante,’ Sam ordered. He looked at Lisa. ‘Just water for me. I’m driving.’

  Defiantly, she poured herself a glass of wine. A large one. She took a big slug of it, letting the alcohol seep into her, relax her, almost at once.

  ‘I can’t understand anything on here,’ she said.

  ‘Let me translate for you. I’ll read you the whole thing.’

  Lisa shrugged. ‘That’s fine. I guess they’ll have a pizza I can eat.’

  Sam looked at her, considering. ‘Do you like mushrooms? They do a pasta with porcini mushrooms in a creamy sauce. It’s really good, done well. Or spaghetti with clams. That’s great too. And the bruschetta, that’s tomatoes and garlic and herbs on little slices of toasted bread . . .’

  Her stomach growled again, embarrassing her. ‘You pick something,’ she said, surrendering. ‘You seem to know Italian pretty well. I’ll eat whatever.’

  ‘OK.’ He smiled, and turned to the waiter, firing off an easy stream of Italian, asking questions. The guy answered, and Lisa watched respect dawn in
his eyes. Sam was fluent, confident. She hated that even at lunch she was dependent on him. She hated even more that she found it sexy.

  ‘So.’ The waiter returned with a bottle of water, and Sam unscrewed the cap, poured himself a glass and drank deeply. ‘We’re about ten minutes from the border with Switzerland.’

  She felt a shiver run across her skin; the tiny, golden hairs on her forearms lifted. ‘There’ll be police, border guards.’

  ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere. I’m going to drive you across the border, avoiding the inspection posts.’

  Lisa sipped some more wine. The waiter was back, with plastic plates, some cutlery in a paper napkin, and a dish of bruschetta. Lisa blinked; the scent of the tomatoes filled the entire room. These were not anaemic, green things like you might get in London, the colour artificially induced before they were ripe. These were succulent, full. She sniffed hungrily at the scent of garlic and herbs.

  ‘Try it.’ Sam offered her one. She bit into the toasted bread, and a heavenly mixture of tomato and garlic and drizzly olive oil and crunching toast filled her mouth. It was so good, following the rough, full-bodied wine, that she almost groaned. He chuckled, and demolished a couple himself.

  ‘God.’ She wolfed another. ‘I’ve eaten in some of the priciest restaurants in Beverly Hills and never had anything this good.’

  ‘I told you, baby.’

  ‘Doesn’t do to be smug,’ Lisa said. Trying to ignore how much she enjoyed hearing him call her baby. It was amazing, though; even through the fear, the food and wine lifted her spirits, helped her cope. She wondered if it was being on the run that did it. Made the taste of a good meal so extraordinarily valuable. ‘How can you get us over the border in a car without hitting an inspection post?’

  He smiled. ‘This is farmland round here. Lots of woods. Lots of fields. We go across, dip the headlights. Drive over a field, get back on the road the other side.’

  She blinked. ‘You have to be kidding. Drive over a field?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘But the car will stick.’

  ‘It’s been hot. No mud. It’ll be fine. I know roughly where to go, as well. These days,’ he held up his mobile phone, ‘this is all you need to get just about anything. Google Earth, and it’s as clear as day.’

  Lisa stared. ‘This is your masterplan? Drive over a field?’

  ‘It’ll work,’ he said confidently. ‘You need to have a little faith. I’ve done it before. Other borders. You’d be surprised what a car can take.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’m open to better ideas.’

  ‘I don’t have any,’ Lisa muttered. The waiter was back, and laid down steaming plates of pasta; Sam had ordered the pasta al funghi porcini for her, and some arrabiata for himself. She lifted a forkful to her mouth, bit down on it, and was transported straight to heaven. The flavours were dense, dark, full mushrooms, the bite of a little cheese, just enough cream sauce to carry it without clogging. It was an intense experience. She closed her eyes for a second, knocked out. When she opened them, Sam was staring at her, amused.

  ‘What the hell’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He grinned. ‘I’m just enjoying you. Eating.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You get so into it,’ he said. ‘You just throw yourself into the experience. You’re . . . you’re savouring it. A woman who really likes eating. That’s getting rarer.’

  ‘Depends what I’m eating.’

  ‘This stuff is delicious. It should be enjoyed. I like seeing a girl abandon restraint for this.’

  ‘All I did was shut my eyes.’

  He looked at her for a moment, and she had to lower her gaze and busy herself with the pasta.

  ‘Your husband was a fool,’ Sam said softly. ‘God knows why he bothered with those plastic women. You’re sensual.’

  Lisa lifted her head. ‘Sam . . .’

  He made a brushing-aside gesture. ‘I don’t just mean sexy. I mean sensual. You enjoy taste. I’ve seen you get lost in music. It all counts, it’s real. You’re a woman who takes joy in life. I feel sorry for Steen. He was right the first time about you. And then he lost his guts, and tried to change you into a Stepford wife.’

  ‘You’d never do that, would you, Sam?’ she asked. ‘You’d never try to change a woman. You like them all for what they are.’

  He held her gaze. ‘I’ve never cared enough about any woman to think about it. One way or the other. I haven’t wanted a true relationship.’

  She stiffened with annoyance. ‘So you’re some kind of monk?’

  He smiled. ‘Not exactly, sugar.’

  She ate some more pasta. He was already halfway through his giant plate of arrabiata, like nothing kept him from his fuel.

  ‘So what? Sleep with them and forget them?’

  ‘Nobody complained. I just never met anybody.’

  ‘It’s a little sophomoric, don’t you think?’

  ‘Are you passing judgement? You got married to a guy you knew you didn’t love.’

  Lisa flushed scarlet with anger and embarrassment. It was worse because it was true.

  ‘There’s no point in us fighting,’ Sam said. ‘Nobody appointed us guardians of each other. Right now we need to get you to Liechtenstein. Let’s stay focused.’

  She nodded, swallowing. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. Your private life is none of my business. You’re - you’re helping me. I’m grateful, I’m very grateful.’

  Suddenly she didn’t want any more wine. She took a long pull of water and finished the rest of her pasta in silence while Sam called for the bill. Sitting at a table, eating a hot meal . . . it might be a while before they could do this again. She made the most of it.

  He was handing over some notes and coins. She saw the meal had not been expensive. Just as he’d promised. The guy knew his way around, Lisa had to give him that. She was getting the unfamiliar sensation of being protected physically by a man, and she was finding it very erotic.

  Sam stood. ‘Let’s go. We should keep moving.’

  He moved to the door, and she followed him. The thin fabric of his lightweight T-shirt clung to his back, to the muscles there. Sam Murray didn’t walk, he strode; there was something about him, a kind of casual confidence. She felt adrenaline shoot through her, her lips part, her palms moisten. This is because of my situation, she lectured herself. It’s false; it’s a high-octane trick.

  But his muscles were still there. And this was hard, it was really hard. She stiffened her back, told herself to concentrate. They were about to cross the border.

  Sam said nothing to Lisa as he put the car in gear. She had slipped on her sunglasses; instinctively cool, he noted, and part of her high level of native intelligence. Shades were very effective against the casual glance, a look through a car window, another driver stuck in traffic who might peer your way. Humans told a lot through the eyes; covering them was a natural disguise.

  He wondered if she’d done it against pursuit, or against him.

  Her signals were mixed. Sam knew he detected an attraction, at times. Her body betrayed her. He was used to reading women, and Lisa was more vulnerable than most; she loved life, clearly, and her passions tended to be written on her face. She couldn’t hold his gaze at times; her head would bow; her eyes would follow him when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  But then, like at the restaurant, she’d get defensive. Cheated on by her man, attacked by the press. The last few years had trained this woman not to trust. Add in a lousy childhood and it was a toxic mixture.

  Maybe she was right not to trust him. Maybe she should be careful. Sophomoric, she’d said, with withering contempt. And Sam Murray flinched to hear it. She was calling him a little boy, saying he wasn’t a man. Dilettante, playboy. Selfish. All the same insults that Craig had tossed at him over the years. The suggestion that he could not handle a real woman, one with brains and guts, rankled. It made him want to prove something to her. Prove ever
ything to her.

  But there was no time. And he had to get them both over the border. Every day that passed was dangerous for Sam. They’d come looking for the car, for a filed story, for him. Right now, Lisa was the fugitive. Soon it could be him.

  He drove fast, twisting the car down little side roads, away from the towns. And suddenly, there it was, past Caldi; the edge of a farm, a fallow field, mud baked to a light brown under the hot sun, with a barn of corrugated iron and a single-track, half-made road on the other side.

  ‘See that?’ He pointed at the barn. She’d been silent. ‘That’s Switzerland.’

  ‘You’re really going to do this?’ she asked, but he was already there; he’d floored the gas and with a huge bump rode over a ditch, and the car was bouncing against stones and rocks on the dried earth, the suspension shaking as they hit each sun-hardened furrow of the plough. Lisa was staring around her wildly, looking for a furious farmer with a pitchfork or a gun, and then the car bumped through a scrubby thorn hedge and they were on the white track road, heading out towards a village in the distance, where he could see cars passing on the main road network.

  ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Switzerland.’

  Christ! Was there a difference? Lisa looked round at the border country. It was neat farms, flat fields, little chalk-white roads, and the mountains rearing up some distance ahead of them. Maps were just that; on the face of the earth there were no lines. They were in rural, bucolic, quiet land, far from tourism and commerce, and yet she was in another country and under another law. Villages and mud and thin hedgerows. And the car driving comfortably along.

  Lisa kept her sunglasses on, but Sam could see the creep of colour in her face and neck. She was obviously impressed, but would die before admitting it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and he knew it cost her to say it. ‘You were absolutely right.’

  ‘Next, Liechtenstein. Where they don’t check passports. ’ Sam bit the bullet. ‘I’m going to have to phone my editor with the next instalment, Lisa, or they’ll come looking for me. I’m late. He’s bound to be going nuts. The corporation has tens of millions riding on this story.’