The Lost Swimmer (25 page)

•  •  •

The sun's rays cut strong white lines across the tiled floor. Rolling over, I saw the empty bed. I sat up and looked around, eyes heavy, mouth desert-dry with a sandpaper tongue.

‘Stephen?' There was birdsong and the soft lull of the sea. A ferry echoed through the stillness and I could hear a low throbbing of slow-moving boats. Reality hit.

Stephen was gone.

Vaguely I recalled Adriana giving me a strong sleeping potion this morning. I hadn't wanted to take it but in my disorientation I must have acquiesced. Or did Adriana only tell me after I'd drunk it? My memory was blurred.

I rushed to the balcony. Two police cruisers crawled through the water. Further out, the helicopter was a small dot in the sky, swooping along the horizon. I checked my phone, hoping against hope there'd be a message from Stephen. There wasn't.

I threw on my clothes and ran to reception, taking the stairs as the lift now bore an OUT OF ORDER sign.

Marco met me. He had clearly not slept.

‘Any news?' I asked. He shook his head and led me into another tiny sitting room that didn't look out to sea.

Police and other guests mingled in the reception area and I was glad to be away from their sight.

‘There's no sign of him. My friends the police are checking other towns, the railway stations and airports. I will bring you something to eat.'

‘Just water,' I said, my head aching. As soon as Marco left I phoned Burton, who picked up immediately. ‘Where have you been, Bec? We've been worried. And we have the most explosive news.'

‘Burton . . .' I said shakily.

‘What's happened? You sound dreadful.'

‘Stephen's disappeared. He may have drowned.'

Burton was silent. Far below, the police boats thrummed as they swept the coves.

‘Bec, are you there?

‘Yeah,' I croaked.

‘Stephen's a strong swimmer. He knows the sea. Why'd he go in if it was rough?'

‘It was calm.'

‘Were you there?'

‘No. And he hadn't been well in the morning.' Tears spat from my eyes. ‘Burton, if only I had been with him. I was sleeping. If I'd gone down this would never have happened.'

‘We'll come immediately. Where are you?'

‘Between Positano and Amalfi. Hotel Della Mare.'

‘How are the kids taking it?'

‘I'm hoping Stephen will turn up. Walk back in the room like nothing's happened and tell me off for overreacting.' My lips split into an involuntary smile. ‘Like in Athens. He was safe all the time.' I wept silently.

‘So, the kids don't know?'

‘That's right, Burton,' I snapped.

‘Hang in there, I'm booking tickets as we speak. We'll see you in a few hours. Damn, I hope Maria brought her passport. I always travel with mine. Maybe it'll just be me.'

I took a breath. ‘Burton, Stephen's passport's missing.'

‘Well, that's strange . . .' Burton paused. ‘Bec, I'm on my way.'

I went back to my room to put on shoes. I needed to get down to the beach. The image of Stephen's clothes falling onto the stone was nightmare-vivid.

Before I could leave, there was a loud rapping on the door. Commissario Napolitano, Giotto and two other policemen stood in the corridor. Marco was a distance behind, his brow deeply furrowed.

‘Please, Signora Wilding. We need to take you to Positano for questioning,' Napolitano said gruffly.

‘Can't we do it here? I don't want to leave in case Stephen comes back. Or if he's found,' I added, my voice barely audible by the end.

‘We go now.' Napolitano took my arm in a pincer grip and started to lead me out, but I planted my feet firmly on the ground and forced more strength into my voice than I felt.

‘I'll answer anything but I'm staying here.'

The Commissario's cheeks blazed. ‘But you will please come?'

Marco sidled up. ‘Rebecca,' he said firmly, ‘do what the Commissario asks. I'll come with you. Adriana will let us know immediately if there's any news.' He cast a quick glance at Napolitano, who stepped aside to let Marco take my arm. ‘You'll make things worse if you don't oblige him,' Marco whispered hotly into my ear.

I grabbed my phone and handbag and accompanied the tall gaggle of men up to street level and into a small blue car with a white stripe, POLIZIA emblazoned on its side. Giotto and I squashed in the back while the Commissario positioned himself in the front beside a young driver. The other police led the way and Marco followed in his car.

At the hairpin bends the sirens whooped and lights flashed. The cars sped along, stopping for no one.

‘What's the rush?' I whispered to Giotto.

He shook his head. Napolitano turned around, glowering. All I wanted was to be down at the private beach waiting, searching for Stephen, looking for—

Suddenly I silently cursed; Burton had mentioned at the start of his call that he had explosive news. Were Stephen's disappearance and the fraud somehow connected? And if so, how? Whichever way I juggled them, the two pieces of the story didn't fit. Nothing was making sense.

The purple bougainvillea blazed in the sunlight at the turn-off. How much had changed since the day I'd first seen it. Stephen had been moody then. I needed to sit and retrieve the past, sift through it layer by layer and build a picture. My time at the police station must be brief. I vowed to myself to answer everything quickly and efficiently.

Inside the pale building Giotto seated me in a stiff, upright chair in a cavernous room that had a view down to the sweeping bay where ferries plied the water and colourful tourists queued wharf-side, filing on and off the boats. A happy scene, carefree and playful. Had Napolitano chosen this space on purpose? Pleasure craft dotted the horizon. I watched a handful of boats, rainbow sails full of wind as they skimmed the white-capped surface. My mind flashed back to my own beach at home. Like two paintings, one on each side of the world. What was wrong with this picture in front of me?

‘You have financial problems, Signora Wilding?' Napolitano moved swiftly between me and the water, his bulk casting a shadow as the sun poured in behind.

‘No.' I frowned, panic churning my stomach as I willed myself to keep calm.

‘But I think you do.'

How could he possibly know about the university investigation? It was internal, there was no way he could find out, surely?

‘I phoned your husband's stockbroker, who was most obliging. He was not surprised that Stephen Wilding has disappeared.'

Now he had my full attention. I sat forward on the edge of the hard vinyl chair, barely breathing.

‘His stock market bets have gone sour,' Napolitano announced imperiously. ‘In the past weeks, the market has been volatile. Every time it plunged or rose, your husband went the wrong way. He had, is it called, a loan of the margin? And options. He lost everything. Signor Wilding now owes a great deal of money. But you know this, no?'

I shook my head as it drained of blood. I tried to stop the floor spinning.

‘You will lose your house,' Napolitano continued matter-of-factly as he scrutinised me. ‘It was mortgaged against his loans.'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' I snapped. ‘Our house is in joint names. And I certainly never approved anything like that.'

The Commissario shrugged. ‘I talked to his broker and then to his banker, who is in the same firm. They were both very eager to hear from me. They'd like to talk to you, too.'

My heart was beating so fast it was like I'd just sprinted uphill. ‘If any of this is true, I'll be more than talking to them. They have no right to be having these conversations with you. Anything between them and my husband is confidential.' Stress rose tight through me as I thought of the bank revealing these awful things to Napolitano, and I started to wonder if they could possibly be true.

The Commissario raised his shoulders and dropped them. He reached to a table and poured a glass of water. My throat was parched.

‘Could I have a drink please?'

He ignored my request.

‘You were perhaps very angry? Wives have killed for less.' His manner turned from frosty to glacial. ‘How handy it would be for you if he disappeared.'

My mind was grasping for facts. Could Stephen have bankrupted us? He had my power of attorney, something our solicitor had advised when making our wills years ago. It was just conceivable that Stephen could have put the house up without my knowledge. It would make sense of his strange moods of recent times. With horror it struck me that perhaps he hadn't drowned accidentally. If he had lost everything . . .

‘There is life insurance with him gone, no? You could save the house. Your family home.'

‘No. No. You're wrong,' I blurted. ‘But what if Stephen killed himself?' My hands and feet jittered, unable to keep still.

‘Was he the type?' asked the Commissario softly, looking like a lion about to pounce.

I shook my head. Stephen would be devastated and ashamed and certainly wouldn't want to face me. If it was as bad as Napolitano said, he might have panicked. I sat back as I saw a whole world opening.

Stephen might have run away. Not been taken by the sea like my father. He could just need space.

The Commissario was watching me and I didn't care. Let him accuse me of whatever he wanted. Let Stephen lose everything – but if he was alive I would hunt him down. And I would take him in my arms and tell him it would be all right. All of it. As long as we were together, we would find a way to fix everything.

•  •  •

The sea had changed to a deep indigo and a mist was rolling in, heavy and opaque. Napolitano had gone for a break – we had all been here several hours – while Giotto had stayed to keep an eye on me.

I debated whether to request a lawyer or to contact the Australian embassy. But that might make me look guilty. I prayed Napolitano wouldn't learn of the accusation of fraud against me. I was astonished at how innocent I was and how terribly it could all be portrayed. But I was also jubilant. Stephen's worst news had been my best: a disaster from which he'd run. As the minutes ticked by I became ever more convinced that Stephen had not drowned.

Somewhere, perhaps, he had left me a note or a sign? Perhaps it was the clothes wedged in the rocks? I caught myself. The sight of Stephen's blue shorts and white shirt tumbling from the towel flashed again before me. Surely they were the clothes of a dead man? But if he had just gone swimming, why had he tucked them away? Normally he would leave them lying on the rock. Casting my mind again for possibilities, I had a horrible realisation.

‘Giotto, I need to see the Commissario.'

•  •  •

‘Yes?' Napolitano peered down his aquiline nose, thick black eyebrows rising.

‘The day we arrived, a car full of youths hit us from behind. We put in a report.'

‘With me,' chimed Giotto.

‘What happened about that?' I asked, turning.

Giotto frowned. ‘I'll have to check.' He bounced out of the room.

Napolitano walked to the window and stared out into the twilight. ‘A soft night,' he announced. ‘Bellissima.'

‘Couldn't it be possible these youths came back and attacked Stephen? Took his passport? It seems strange to me that Stephen left his clothes wedged in the rocks. It's like someone hid them there. And we haven't found his body. Stephen is alive. We need to act,' I finished, panic rising.

Napolitano turned slowly, silhouetted against the sky. No one had switched on the lights but in the gloom I could just make out a thin smile on his lips.

‘I thought for a moment you were going to accuse the boys of murdering your husband. That would be,' he paused and walked close, ‘novel.' He pulled up a chair, swivelled it around and straddled it, his face inches from mine. I could smell his rancid breath. ‘Let's get real. I want to be home for dinner. My wife is cooking lasagne. I'm glad you mentioned the towel and the clothes. I, too, found them odd. But I think that you put them there, Signora Wilding. To take us for fools. We've checked and your husband hasn't accessed his bank accounts.'

My heart froze.

Napolitano leaned closer. ‘Where is the body?' His eyes burned into me, like those of a salivating dog. ‘What did you do? I know you want to tell me. That is why you are still here.'

‘I stayed to try and help!' I yelped. All I could think was that Stephen hadn't accessed his accounts – my hope started to fade. They were words I'd read so often when people went missing, later found dead. But occasionally, abducted – and saved. ‘There may have been a kidnapping. I'm going to the Consulate.'

‘Perhaps he had a lover? Is that why?' Napolitano blocked me as I stood. He registered my pause. ‘I think Stephen Wilding was seeing another woman, yes? You waited until there was an opportunity to make it look like a drowning.'

I shuddered at the word and headed rapidly for the door, waiting for him to stop me. In a flash I was through into the next room.

‘Giotto?' I called loudly. ‘What did you find?'

I could feel the Commissario behind but I didn't look back.

‘The driver has a record but when the polizia de Napoli went to his house he was not there. They want to talk about several matters; one is theft.'

‘So, he's a criminal?'

‘A small-time thief,' Giotto nodded enthusiastically.

Marco came towards us from the back of the room. ‘Can she go now?' he asked Napolitano.

‘Marco, I'm worried that the youth – what's his name?' I turned to Giotto.

‘Carlo Lotti.'

‘What if Carlo Lotti is involved in Stephen's disappearance? That he made Stephen get his passport while I was asleep?'

‘But if it was kidnap wouldn't they have made contact?' said Marco.

‘Perhaps it's something else?' My mind strained to connect the pieces. Could the Athens account be involved? Or was I losing all perspective?