To Tell the Truth (14 page)

‘And does Leka know you? Have you met him?’

‘He knows me, but only because I saved his neck one night. I was the driver because his normal driver wasn’t able to come. So I drove him to meet these people for some deal he is doing. It was in the harbour. I don’t know what it was about, but I thought as soon as I see them it is strange. It felt bad. Something in my gut. You know
my instincts are good, Rosie. They were going to kill him, and I saved him.’

Since then, Leka paid him well and gave him good jobs to do because he trusted him with his life.

A couple of days ago, he’d come from the latest job.

He looked into Rosie’s eyes. ‘The boy Taha,’ he said. ‘The Moroccan boy. I saw you with him at the train station. We had been following you.’

‘Jesus, Adrian,’ Rosie said, astonished. She dreaded what he was going to tell her.

He put his hand up. ‘Don’t worry, my friend. He is not dead.’

Rosie bit her lip. ‘Were you sent to kill him?’

He shrugged. ‘I was told to deal with him. They don’t want to see Taha any more.’ He sighed. ‘He is a little boy. Stupid, but he’s only a boy. I let him take the train. I told them I dealt with him.’

He was to get rid of Taha because he had a big mouth and they suspected he was talking to some newspaper woman. He raised his eyebrows and pointed his finger at her. Also, they’d been told that one of the VIP clients had lost his identity card and that the last time he’d had it he was with Taha in one of the apartments. They beat Taha because they thought he stole it, and that he had it, and was maybe selling it to this newspaper woman.

‘But also,’ Adrian’s face grew dark, ‘they didn’t tell me this, but I heard from someone that Leka is thinking maybe Taha has seen something on the day this little girl was stolen. Because the fact is, he was close by in an
apartment with the VIP client. He is an important politician from Britain.’

‘So are you saying they stole the girl? They stole Amy? This Leka and the Russians stole Amy?’ Rosie asked.

Adrian nodded. ‘An Albanian called Besmir took her for Leka. I know who he is.’

‘But why?’

‘I do not know that. But there is nothing they will not do. They are Albanians and Russians. They only care about money. It doesn’t matter if it is a little British girl, or a seventeen-year-old Bosnian girl. They can sell anything.’

He looked away.

‘Although, I think you know, Rosie, that a little British girl is more important, because nobody writes about a seventeen-year-old Bosnian girl who is kidnapped because she wants to find herself a better life. Nobody writes about that, Rosie.’

Rosie looked at him. In all the time she had known Adrian, it was the first time she’d ever seen any signs of vulnerability in him.

‘I will,’ she said. ‘I will write about it, Adrian. We must help each other.’

Adrian sighed. ‘I have to find my sister, Rosie. That is why I came here. That is why I work for these pieces of shit. Because I have to find my sister.’

‘But if everything is connected, then maybe we can help each other, Adrian. We can find your sister and maybe we can find the little girl. I want to help you. And I need your help, Adrian.’

‘I know you do, Rosie.’

CHAPTER 17

Jenny sat on the basket chair in the bedroom, clutching Amy’s pillow. She kept burying her face in it hoping to feel close to Amy. She could still smell the shampoo and aftersun she’d lovingly rubbed on her daughter’s shoulders each evening – but the smell of everything that was innocent and perfect about her beautiful little girl was fading with each day that passed.

She crossed the room and opened the drawer, pulled out a couple of tee shirts and sniffed them. Nothing. Her heart physically ached. In the bed she could still see Amy’s sleepy head and her tumbling dark curls, her bright blue eyes smiling when she woke up and saw her mummy. Jenny felt a stab in her stomach at the thought that somewhere Amy might be waking up each day, afraid, wondering where Mummy and Daddy were, crying for them. She closed her eyes to hold back the tears.

From the window she saw Martin coming in from the beach. He’d gone for a walk after they’d come back from the Reilly house, saying he wanted to clear his head. It
had been a tense, stifling afternoon with the six of them together. How different everything had been ten days ago when they’d arrived for the holiday; the house full of laughter, kids playing, drinks on the terrace and everyone alive with the excitement of escaping the treadmill for two lazy weeks in the sun.

Today they’d been pent up, the small-talk coming in laboured bursts, the atmosphere crackling with suspicion. They’d talked about the Guarda Civil, and Jamie had ranted about their attitude when they interviewed him at the station the day before. He said they’d put him through the wringer, bullying him over the windsurfer’s story.

Jenny avoided eye contact with Jamie throughout the afternoon. She’d been conscious that Martin was watching her, studying both of them. She knew he was suspicious – more than that. And from the way John and Margaret were, she sensed that they too were beginning to doubt. In the pit of her stomach, Jenny knew it was all beginning to unravel. Everything had changed with the windsurfer’s account of the morning Amy disappeared from the beach. The yellow shorts had given it away: everyone knew it was Jamie. They’d all been laughing at Jamie’s bright yellow shorts from the moment he appeared in them at the start of the holiday.

Now they looked at him and knew he had been lying. Nobody brought it up, but the lie was there, the elephant in the room. The atmosphere was oppressive and Jenny was glad when lunch was over and Martin suggested they go back home in case there was any news. They’d all hugged
each other briefly at the door, but she was acutely aware of the coldness of Alison O’Hara’s embrace, and the awkwardness of the Reillys. Jamie had squeezed her shoulder as he hugged her, but still they never looked at each other.

Jenny knew she had to tell Martin – and that it would have to be today. There was no way out. She had phoned Jamie on his mobile as soon as Martin went out for a walk. The conversation was brief, distant. There had been silence when she told him that she was going to tell Martin what had happened between them. Then Jamie said quietly, ‘I know. I’m going to tell Alison.’ Jenny pushed the button to end the call, just as she heard Jamie’s voice say, ‘I’m sorry, Jenny.’

Sorry. The word seemed so weak, so inappropriate for what they’d done and for its consequences. Sorry would never be enough.

She was in the kitchen when Martin came through the patio doors. His face was pale and his eyes dead. He walked past the kitchen table where she sat, went to the sink and filled the kettle.

‘D’you want tea?’

He didn’t look round, but Jenny could read his thoughts. His shoulders were slumped. He already knew.

‘Martin,’ Jenny began, not knowing what she was going to say next. He turned around.

‘Martin. I have something to tell you. Can you sit down please.’

Martin’s face was grey. He shook his head and looked at Jenny, folding his arms.

‘I don’t want to sit down, Jenny. I don’t need to sit down. So. Tell me.’

She could hear her heart pounding. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly move her tongue. There was no beginning to this squalid episode that had cost everything. It wasn’t meant to happen, but it had. How could she explain that?

‘Martin. I was with Jamie when Amy went missing.’

The words hung in the air like the fallout from an explosion. Martin was like a ghost. His eyes never left her. Jenny’s mouth quivered as she spoke.

‘I was with Jamie. We. We were … Oh, Martin, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

She broke down and buried her head in her hands.

‘You were what?’ Martin’s voice was calm. ‘You were what, Jenny? You and Jamie were what?’

He went across to her and pulled her to her feet.

‘Tell me, Jenny. Tell me.’ He began to break. His eyes filled with tears.

‘I need to hear it from you. Tell me.’ He pulled Jenny’s hands away from her eyes.

Jenny stood, tears streaming down her face, looking into the eyes of the man she loved, whom she’d destroyed in one momentary lapse.

‘We had sex, Martin.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh Christ, I wish I could turn the clock back. You have no idea how I wish I could turn the clock back. I’m so sorry.’

Martin held her hands to stop her reaching up to her face. She felt his grip strong around her wrists.

‘Tell me. Tell me about it. Tell me, Jenny. Tell me how
you were … how you were fucking my best friend when our daughter got out of the house. Tell me, you fucking bitch.’

He grabbed her hair, and forced her to look at him. ‘Tell me, you bitch.’

‘Please, Martin, you’re hurting me. Please, let go. Please.’

Jenny wept. Martin released his grip. He took a step back and seemed to buckle at the knees.

‘Tell me, Jenny.’

She couldn’t speak.

‘Was it good sex? Did Jamie make you come really hard? Did he, Jenny? Were you coming when our little girl was looking for you? When she went outside? Is that what happened?
Was
it good sex, Jenny? Was it worth it? Worth losing your fucking daughter for? Worth losing the only thing that is good and decent in this fucking world? Tell me.’

He slumped over the sink, and began to retch. Jenny reached out to him, but he pushed her away.

‘Fucking leave me, you bitch. Fuck off.’

‘Please, Martin,’ Jenny said through her sobs. ‘Please. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how it happened. There was nothing before. Not ever. Never had I even thought about Jamie like that. It just happened. So suddenly … So quickly …’

Jenny sat down again before her legs gave way. She buried her face in her hands. She could hear Martin retching and weeping into the sink. When he finally composed himself and stood up, his face was flushed and streaked with tears. He looked at her and shook his head, sniffing.

‘How could you, Jenny? How could you! Our baby, our little Amy –
my
baby? Oh, Jenny, how
could
you?’

He didn’t wait for her answer, but fled out of the patio doors and onto the beach.

CHAPTER 18

Besmir assumed the driver knew what he was doing, as he negotiated the tight hairpin bends in the dark. After they’d left what passed for a main road he resigned himself to having no control over whether the car stayed on the road or went down the sheer drop into the ravine. Death held no fear or mystery for Besmir. It never had. It was living that had been frightening for him. But that had been a long time ago.

When he’d got into the car at the port in Tangiers, the driver shook his hand and introduced himself as Hassan. As they drove out of the city and into the countryside, he told him that he was twenty-six and lived with his family on a smallholding where they’d farmed for generations. Now he worked in the city, doing labouring jobs in one of the hotels, and also driving for the fat man whenever he needed him. He hated the fat man, but the pay was good, and every five or six weeks he would go home and give some money to his mother and father to help look after them and his three sisters.

Besmir wasn’t interested in Hassan’s life story. His mind was on other things. He couldn’t get the image of the little girl out of his head, and wondered how she was, whether she was crying …

‘She was on television,’ Hassan said. ‘The blue girl. I saw her. A picture.’

‘You saw her? Tell me.’

‘Nothing for you to worry. Nobody sees nothing on the beach.’ He handed Besmir the cigarette packet.

Besmir lit his and then gave one to Hassan.

‘Tell me. Tell me everything that was said on television.’

‘I saw in the afternoon in the bar, after I drop you at the port. First, it was the picture on the television of the blue girl. Not like when she is with us. But very clean and pretty dress on. She was waving her hand and smiling. The hair it was shorter.’

Besmir pictured the girl. He remembered her hair, her soft skin. ‘What else? What else did it say?’

‘They show helicopters and police searching. Then two people with lot of newspaper people and cameras around them. I think they are the parents. The mother was crying. They were with Spanish police, but not speaking. Then a man read something from piece of paper. But I could not understand what he said. But the mother was crying.’

‘What else?’

‘That was all. Just the TV reporter say that the girl is maybe kidnapped from the beach. That the mother came outside and she was gone. Nobody say they saw anything.’

Besmir looked straight ahead, but he was conscious of
Hassan glancing at him. They drove on in silence. He knew Hassan was judging him. He knew he wanted to question why he took the girl, how he could do such a thing. But he also knew he would be too afraid to ask. In the middle of nowhere in the dark, the driver was smart enough to know not to say anything that would upset him. Anyone who can steal a child is capable of anything.

‘Is it far now?’ Besmir eventually broke the silence.

‘No. Not far. But we have to be careful when we go off the next road, because then we must drive with the lights off in case anyone see us. And after some time, we have to walk a little. I know the way. We cannot have a torch to light us. We just have to go slow and careful.’

In the stillness, Besmir was surprised to hear voices and laughter as he and Hassan picked their way out of the undergrowth towards the dim light of the building. He looked at Hassan, his eyes questioning.

‘Is the television,’ Hassan whispered. ‘The woman who stay the night here watches a small television and always it is very loud.’ He touched Besmir’s shoulder. ‘Look. See where the light is coming from? That is the room she sits in. She sit and drink all night, then she sleep. She is supposed to listen for the children in case they cry. But she doesn’t.’ He shook his head and spat. ‘She is a fat, ugly drunk.’

‘Where are the children?’ Besmir whispered as they climbed the fence.

‘You see the light where the room I showed you is?’

Besmir nodded.

‘Well, we go left there, and quietly around the back. The place made of tin. Is a stable, but no animals are there any more, only children. But they keep them there like animals. You will see. Come.’