The Lost Swimmer (31 page)

‘They think the watch is some sort of trophy,' said Erin, her face lined with worry.

‘Mum, you have to leave,' announced James.

‘It's best to go now before things get even more serious,' said Sally. ‘This is the least worst option. No one can stop you at this point. But there's not a minute to lose.'

‘But won't that make me look guilty?'

‘Perhaps. But at the moment they have nothing concrete and they haven't charged you with anything,' replied Sally.

Maria rose and started quickly throwing clothes from the wardrobe into my small carry-on case.

‘Remember that American boy in Sienna they arrested for killing his roommate?' said Burton. ‘It took years before they admitted they'd made a mistake and set him free. You don't want to end up like him.'

I froze at the thought.

‘Marco hinted to us that Napolitano is under a lot of pressure to solve this because of the international coverage it's getting.' Sally took my arm and urged me up.

‘The rest of us will stay here looking for Dad,' said James.

‘I'd like to go with you but I'd only slow you down,' said Burton miserably.

‘They won't let me go either,' called Maria. ‘Unless you need me?' she added hopefully.

‘You'll be fastest on your own,' said Erin.

I tried to think, overwhelmed. I'd driven through Europe many times but where would I go now?

‘We'll keep in touch. Take my phone.' Erin handed it over, eyes glistening with fear and excitement. She pulled her charger from the wall and passed it to me. ‘You're to call Burton. You'll just need to get a new SIM card. Don't under any circumstances use your own phone or they'll trace it.'

‘I can't just run!' I finally said.

‘Mum, you don't have a choice.' James pinned my arms and looked at me so seriously I was reminded of Stephen. My heart melted.

‘What does Marco think?' I grabbed a few of Stephen's clothes from his case and threw them in with mine. In case I found him. In case I never saw him again.

‘Marco doesn't know,' Sally replied firmly.

‘Quickly, Mum. Please?' James implored.

‘We'll form a better plan once you're safely away,' said Sally.

‘Are you sure this is sound legal advice?' I turned to her. ‘It seems dishonest. Cowardly.'

‘Mum, if they arrest you, God knows what might happen.' Erin's voice rose in distress. ‘They're already out of control even to be thinking it's you. They could fabricate evidence.'

‘But no one's arresting me.'

‘Yet,' said Sally. ‘After further questioning they might.'

‘Mum, can you please stop arguing? Sally says you're not breaking the law, so trust her.' James picked up my bag.

‘What are you going to tell the police?'

‘You're following a lead of your own but you rushed out without saying where you were heading,' said Sally. ‘We're hoping Vitale will take our side and convince the police that your behaviour is valid. That you'll be back soon. After all, we're still here.'

Burton's blue eyes were wide with fear. ‘You must go now, Bec.'

‘Please, Mum?' James's face was flushed. ‘For us. For Erin and me?'

Maria opened the door and looked out rapidly in both directions. ‘Coast's clear,' she whispered and James hurried out with my luggage. I grabbed my handbag.

‘My passport!' I rushed to the safe, stabbed in the code and pulled out my valuables.

And then I scrambled out into the corridor and ran. We couldn't all fit in the lift and in the confusion Burton went in with Maria and James, and the rest of us raced up the endless flights of stairs to the road.

‘Can't I at least say goodbye to Marco? Thank him?'

‘No!' they replied in a collective grunt.

‘Buy a SIM card and be in touch,' ordered Erin.

‘It's best we don't know where you'll be for now,' Sally said, ‘and when you do call keep things vague so no one has to lie.'

James was peering fearfully up the darkened road. ‘Can you just get going, please, they'll be here any minute!'

Sally stuffed a wad of euros into my hand. ‘Don't use your credit cards or ATMs for now. You can pay me back when we're home,' she said.

I barely had time to hug my children as they thrust me inside the red sports car and slammed the door. Maria and Burton looked on with deep concern, clearly desperate to come. I didn't want to leave any of them.

‘Don't worry, Bec,' called Burton, ‘we'll look after James and Erin.'

‘As if they were our own,' added Maria, eyes tearing up.

‘Hurry!' cried James.

‘Where are the keys?' I called in alarm.

‘In the ignition,' James and Erin yelled. I gunned the engine and roared off as I saw lights coming from the direction of Positano.

I flew along the narrow road, heading towards Amalfi. It was the middle of the night and the road was mercifully empty. After I rounded the first hairpin bend I didn't see the lights behind again. Shuddering, I realised they must have been the police.

I floored the accelerator and went at breakneck speed, slowing only at the corners where I tooted the horn incessantly and kept going. At the turn-off to Ravello I had to make a quick decision whether to advance along the coast road or head up into the hills. I took a sharp left and began the steep ascent.

I wanted to turn around and go back, but they'd all been so insistent. And I couldn't afford to get arrested. I hurtled through the night, roaring up the mountain, taking hairpin bends with dangerous bravado. It was hard to believe I was the same person who had always been so fanatical about ethics, so responsible for my children. Now I'd left behind my family and friends to face the wrath of the police alone. And where on earth was I to go? To Florence, tracing the steps of our holiday? Might Stephen have gone there? Could he be walking through the Boboli Gardens like we always did, getting lost on the vine-covered paths? Perhaps I should check, ask around our favourite haunts. And yet my instinct didn't feel that this was right.

Maybe he had run to Venice to hide among the throngs of tourists, disappearing in the tiny alleys along the waterways, living a secret life in a city of mystery. I could ask my glass-blower friends on Murano to help me look.

Then it hit me. A blast of clear sight spliced through my sleep-deprived brain. If Stephen had fled, the obvious place would be Paris. He was a creature of habit and he loved the City of Light. And Priscilla was in Paris on study leave. What if the White Spider had been telling the truth after all? I hadn't wanted to believe it but Priscilla could have picked Stephen up from a cove near Praiano in a boat, and then they could have driven to Paris.

Suddenly I felt sick, and foolish – of course that's what he would have done. If they travelled by road and stayed in the Eurozone, there would be no border checks to interrupt their journey. Priscilla must have already hired a car and had it waiting.

I had to get to Paris as quickly as possible, but how? My car could well have satellite tracking, and I couldn't hire a new car because Napolitano could easily get wind of it. I made a split-second decision: I would detour en route to Paris, and I would find another vehicle.

I sped through the night with resolve. But was I now not only fleeing the law but chasing an improbable phantom? I wondered about my sanity.

I
reached the large car park I knew in Mestre, just outside Venice, and quickly abandoned the car. With my carry-on bag I hurried to the wharf and called a water-taxi; a vaporetto, the large waterbus I normally travelled on, would be too slow and too public.

Dawn was breaking tentatively through ragged clouds as the water-taxi cut cleanly through the shallow waters of the lagoon, and the buildings of Venice floated into view in shades of muted ochre, white and palest pink.

As we entered the Grand Canal the boat slid easily between gondolas and churning vaporetto. Celadon water lapped gently at the foundations of crumbling palazzos that grandly, slowly sank into the marsh. I found the familiarity reassuring: here was Ca' d'Oro, the House of Gold, Venetian Gothic at its most luxuriant, there Ca' da Mosto, a palace that had survived the tides since the thirteenth century, its crumbling arches standing proud as we washed down the canal beneath the Rialto Bridge. Soon we came to the wooden beauty of the Accademia Bridge and passed Stephen's and my favourite pizza restaurant, not yet open for the day, its umbrellas closed, its pink geraniums bright in their waterfront boxes. I pictured us eating there – it was why I'd asked the boatman to bring me this way, to try to feel Stephen's presence, use my archaeologist's intuition. Had he been here recently? To my disappointment, I couldn't sense anything.

As we floated out again into the lagoon, the Lion of Venice on his pillar golden in the dawn, I remembered with shock that I was due to give my keynote address here next week. How could I get in touch with the conference and send my apologies?

As we swept past Giardini della Biennale, the lush gardens alive with Venetians and their dogs of all shapes and sizes taking the morning air, I searched for Stephen – but he was not among them. We picked up speed as we skimmed away, and I could think only of him, feeling a volatile mixture of hope that I would see him again and anger at what he had done. A fresh salt wind blasted into the cabin. I threw my head back, breathing in deeply, remembering the many times Stephen and I had made this journey together.
I will find you soon
, I promised.

Venice disappeared like a half-remembered dream as we ploughed on until Murano rose suddenly on the horizon. The water-taxi tore past the large brick edifices of glass factories, some of which had their own small wharves jutting out into the water.

We slowed and turned into a narrow canal that split the small island, and puttered along until we stopped at a wharf of silvery timber, where I disembarked.

The shops that lined the path were shuttered, hiding their glassware of all descriptions. Locals sat in the small cafes. I kept my head down as I rolled my bag along, wishing it was later in the day when the place would be full of tourists.

I was all but running, my ribs starting to ache, as I moved through a wide sunlit square spotted with shade trees, feeling dangerously on display. Finally the door that looked tiny in the massive brown stone building came into view, its huge lion's-head knocker glowing like gold at the end of the rainbow.

I rapped loudly. After what seemed an eternity the door swung open and Guido, a giant with arms the size of tree-trunks, peered out blearily. ‘Rebecca? Come in, come in. You're in trouble, no? I was so hoping you'd come – I've been trying to reach you. You're in the news again this morning. They want to question you further about Stephen's disappearance.' He squeezed me tightly in a bear hug and I crumpled into his body. My old friend.

The smell of wood smoke hung in the air as Guido led me to his private quarters. Beyond was his glass factory, where workers were starting for the day, firing up the kilns. I knew most of them, had spent many drunken nights in their company. I prayed no one would come to ask Guido a question as he sat down beside me on a huge leather lounge.

‘I know that Stephen is alive,' Guido said suddenly in his deep, melodious voice.

My breath caught in my throat. ‘Have you seen him?' I cried.

‘My nephew Ludovico saw him in Paris.'

Time stood still.

‘Where?' I asked, my heart thumping.

‘In the Tuileries Gardens. Ludovico has an exhibition in Paris at the moment. He went for the opening.'

‘Ludovico saw Stephen in Paris?' I echoed like a ghost. The world had stopped spinning.

‘Two days ago – Sunday morning. He was clearing his head after the previous night and went for a long walk, ending up at the Tuileries, where he sat at a cafe beneath the trees. To his surprise Stephen was a few tables away. Ludovico called, but Stephen looked right through him. Then Ludovico wondered if he was mistaken. The man seemed like Stephen but he had no beard, he was clean-shaven, so he did look a little different. And he was with a blonde woman, about your age but definitely not you.' Guido stopped and plucked his massive fingers into the leather lounge. ‘Sorry if I'm being indelicate,' he said.

‘Not at all. I think I know who the woman is.'

‘Ah,' said Guido.

‘Please continue?' I implored.

‘Well, there's not much more to add. The man dropped his voice and mumbled to his companion. The woman, Ludovico thought, seemed frightened and jumpy that Stephen had been recognised. But the man was as calm as the lagoon on a still night – and that convinces me it was Stephen,' finished Guido triumphantly. ‘It's exactly what Stephen would do in that situation.'

It hit me like a rock. How could Stephen do this? To think of him sipping café au lait with Priscilla made me furious. But if it meant I would see him again and my children still had a father . . .

People had affairs all the time. Couples survived. Hope rose, a balloon of warmth and wellbeing suffusing despair. My body was shaking uncontrollably.

‘It's so out of character for him to disappear,' said Guido quietly.

‘The Tuileries Gardens are a favourite place,' I said. ‘It's him.' My eyes bubbled with tears of relief.

‘I tried to email you but I have a new computer and didn't have your address.' Guido wrapped me in his massive arms. ‘So, I called my local police station. I assured them you were no murderer, Becca, and that Professor Stephen Wilding was very much alive.'

Guido's words sang.
Alive.
Surely the best word in the human language.

‘Our Commissario spoke to his colleague Napolitano. Unfortunately the police on the Amalfi coast will not be persuaded. They are adamant that Stephen is dead.'