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Authors: Clare Curzon

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BOOK: Last to Leave
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Eddie had the young man laid out on the floor. ‘Does Claudia have a First Aid box?'
‘I've no idea. There used to be one in the kitchen, but I'd question anything in it being sterile.'
‘Whatever. Fetch it. I need to change the dressing.'
She went without a word, using the torch to avoid switching on the corridor lights. In the kitchen the second of the heavy old wooden drawers yielded a circular toffee tin with a Red Cross label peeling off the lid. There was also a half-full bottle of disinfectant. She took both along to her brother.
The two men appeared to have been talking together. Whatever was said, Eddie appeared now to have accepted the young man's story. There was no further mention of police.
‘He has to lie low until first light,' he said decisively. ‘Then I'll get him away by taxi. In the meantime, let's shift him to the cellar. No one's going to walk in on him there. Carlton's already removed all the wines they need for the weekend. I carried them up for him a couple of days ago.'
They managed the man between them. When Eddie had fixed the new dressing and roughly arranged a low hammock out of fruit nets, Nick appeared more relaxed.
‘The bullet's gone right through,' Eddie said. ‘It barely touched the ribs. He'll be all right for a few hours, but to ease things, we just need this.' He selected a bottle from the claret rack, opened it with a corkscrew hanging nearby and brought it across to the other two. There was only a single wineglass for them all to drink from, so they passed it round like a loving cup, the Dellar twins only sipping, and the stranger relishing the wine as a painkiller.
‘I'm also leaving you the torch,' Eddie said, ‘but lie still as long as you can. I'll be back before sun-up.'
All of that had taken place in the early hours of Saturday morning. Definitely odd. Not least because of the calm way Eddie had accepted it all. And getting even odder from then on. Back in her attic room Jessica had lain down again, resolved only to catnap and be ready for when Eddie took
the man away; but there was too much adrenaline at work for her to sleep.
They shouldn't have left Nicholas alone. Anything might happen and he was powerless to look after himself. Suppose he drank the rest of the bottle, then tried moving around on the uneven flagged floor. She couldn't lie here in comparative comfort while …
Slipping on sweater, jeans and trainers, she stole again downstairs to let herself into the cellar.
That was when the real nightmare began.
At the foot of the back stairs she felt wind blowing in from the far side of the house. Not one of the normal Larchmoor draughts. The front door had been propped open with a chair. ‘Eddie,' she called softly. He must be out there waiting for the taxi.
The sound came from immediately behind her, a soft shuffle and a drawn breath. Instantly hands swept round and clamped on nose and mouth, pulling her backwards off balance. She flailed helplessly, couldn't breathe, felt herself falling back against a hard body, then a sharp kick behind the knees brought her down. Squirming on the hall tiles, she tried to tear at the hands bearing down on her face. She felt the savage satisfaction of flesh ripping under her nails. If he raped her, killed her, at least she'd marked him. There'd be evidence …
A low voice threatened. ‘Scream and I cut your throat.' Cold steel pricked at her cheek.
She believed him. And it wasn't Nick's voice. This was one of the men who'd tried to kill him. She shivered and lay still.
Once he had her mouth taped he didn't speak again until he had her trussed hand and foot in the van. Then he set it gently coasting downhill towards the village road where he switched on the engine. A mile from the house the van pulled into a field gateway and he came round to open the rear doors. Jess shrank away, making little animal noises through the gag.
‘Listen,' he said, easing the tape from her mouth. ‘Charles wants you out of the country until he can get back. It seems you're a bit of a loose cannon. If the wrong people get hold of you they could put pressure on him. Do you understand?'
‘And I'm the Pope,' she spat at him.
Then he explained. It was he, Roger Beale, who'd passed the note from Charles to Nicholas who'd handed it to Flo Carden, Claudia's hired help as she left the house after washing-up.
Nicholas had claimed it was for his girlfriend, Jess Dellar, only nobody must know. Flo, simple soul, had agreed to act as go-between in a clandestine affair. She was to go back and push it under Jess's door.
‘So where is Nicholas now?' Jess demanded, still doubting.
‘Back at the house. Your brother's going to get him away.' Yes, that was what Eddie had said he would do. And Jess remembered the name Beale. She'd taken a call from him once at work and handed the phone on to Charles. He'd moved away to continue the conversation, but she'd picked up that it was a friendly one.
‘How do I know you're who you say you are?' she demanded.
He sighed. ‘The last thing I'd want to carry is ID. But I'll show you something.'
He threw back a canvas in the van's opposite corner. It had concealed a smart travel trolley. ‘In it you'll find several outfits all correctly sized; handbag complete with makeup, a credit card in a new name, ditto new passport and a stack of euro banknotes.
‘Your flight tickets are in this envelope. You'll find everything's in order. Instructions here.' He took a single sheet of paper from an inside pocket and handed it to her. ‘When you've memorized that, I shall destroy it. Understood?'
She glared at him while he stared evenly back. ‘I understand all right. It's just I'm still not sure I
believe
you.'
‘So what – I'm a rapist? You're an item for white slave export?' His sarcasm was cutting. ‘A lot of planning has gone into this; just don't go all girlie and mess things up.'
Careful planning. Yes, she could appreciate that. Who else but Charles would be behind such deviousness? Or dare to deprive her of all dignity? It bore his hallmark. And the note sent via Beale had been signed with her private name for her lover. That precaution was in case the note fell into the wrong hands. For the present he'd had to hide their connection.
The man Beale loosed her wrists and ankles. Silently she opened the envelope with the flight tickets, checked on the destination and that a return half was included, the date left open. Her name was given as Laura Nelson.
Then she read the instructions. They were brief, clear, and included restricted freedom of action until the evening flight took off from Heathrow.
It seemed to be kosher; and it did follow on from the order Charles had given her in person before his flight to Washington: that she should accept Carlton's invitation because he needed to know where she'd be this weekend.
‘Right,' she said, handing back the sheet of paper. ‘You can go ahead and destroy it.' She managed a tone of some authority, head held high.
She traded a glare for the steely way he was observing her. ‘There was no need to manhandle me the way you did.'
He permitted himself a sliver of smile. ‘I'd no choice. You could have squawked.'
He was right. If she'd had a single second to draw breath she'd have gone off like the
QEII
leaving dock. You don't stand on ceremony when you're attacked out of the blue. And he'd never have had time to explain fully while they struggled in the corridor with his hand over her mouth.
‘After Nicholas turning up like that, I should have been expecting trouble,' she admitted, sounding almost humble. Beale was one of Charles's lieutenants, after all: knew the ropes. He'd be reporting back on her. ‘God knows it was a weird enough night up till then.'
Now he really smiled; a great melon slice. Nice teeth, she thought wistfully; square and glowing white in the dim light of the van's rear. She would bet they tasted minty. Nice build too. Six foot two or three. He'd look good in beach shorts.
‘Ready to go further?' he demanded.
He meant the journey, of course. Her mind had taken a different tack for a second. ‘Sure. Drive on. Only keep your eyes on the road, because I'm going to change into something rather smarter.'
 
And so, after a long detour until he released her that afternoon at the airport, then a reasonable flight, she had landed by dusk at Marco Polo airport, Venice.
It was much as she remembered it from a student visit three years back, but, walking through towards the boats, she found the telephones had all been changed. None took coins any more. There were no translations in English, French or German, and she hadn't enough Italian to make sense of the instructions.
Forget a common agricultural policy or a common currency – why hadn't someone insisted on a common European language? Which must, she thought, of course, be English, even at risk of war with chauvinist France.
Meanwhile she had to rely on her inadequate
Spanish, which locals were free to accept as Italian with an outlandish accent. It sufficed to get a response first from a youngish woman with a quantity of luggage by her feet, but she too was new to the machines and appealed to a pert-looking lad of ten or so who regarded them both with incredulous scorn. He guided them to a machine that gobbled Jess's 5-euro note and delivered a small card. From this the boy nonchalantly tore off one corner and inserted the card in a telephone's slot, where it was rejected three times in different positions.
Jess watched a dull flush creep up the child's neck and spread into the prominent ears. So un-cool. She felt mortified for him. Eventually he thought to feed the torn end in first, magnetic strip uppermost. A dialling tone sounded. The child faded. The youngish woman shrugged and signalled for someone to come and dispose of her luggage.
Jess called the memorized number, was instructed where to contact her next escort, and purchased a boat ticket for Lido. Then she dragged her trolley to the jetty labelled
Ailaguno
and took a seat on the waiting water-bus.
It waited ten minutes, gradually filling, then chugged into a wide half-circle before shooting off at full throttle. White spray thrown up from the bow eased the heat of an exhausted day. Jess ran a finger under the neck of her new silk blouse and savoured the welcome chill.
Overhead, silver-blue was dimming into indigo, with a fine sickle moon that looked stuck on velvet. All along the shorelines of the islands distant lights were appearing in a denser design than the random stars above. On all sides the lagoon opened out darkly, and for the first time in days Jess relaxed, giving herself up to the throb of the engine and the hiss of spray.
After some forty minutes the boat slowed to pull in at Murano, below the museum. The island seemed dead, and when a few passengers streamed off, sight and sound of them were instantly swallowed up by the tall, blank-faced
buildings lit only by occasional globes fixed high against stone walls. The very darkness of the place and the black, sucking water seemed sinister. It had all been so different before, by daylight.
The
vaporetto
reversed and pulled out into the final stage of the crossing. Another fifteen minutes of roaring and rocking before she recognized the illuminated Campari sign rising high from the water, then the wood and glass shelter of the
debarcadero
at Lido-Venezia.
Here, following her phoned instructions, she disembarked and crossed the square by the taxi rank. All down the main street opposite, in brightly lit windows, closed shops displayed fashion goods, floral arrangements, brilliantly boxed confectionery. Towing the trolley, she crossed over, passing crowded bars,
trattorias
and restaurants where diners lingered over their evening meal. A few closed shops further, and then she turned right into the broad walk of Lepanto.
Twenty steps into the pedestrian precinct a man stepped from a shadowed doorway, murmured ‘Permeso?' and took the luggage trolley from her. Round the next corner a car was waiting with the engine quietly running. The front passenger door swung open. As her baggage was stowed she observed the driver, a handsome, plump woman with raven-dark hair, middle-aged and unalarming.
Reassured, but uncertain quite what she had let herself into, Jessica Dellar accepted the seat offered. The man got in behind, unseen, and without a further word spoken they slid off into the night.
 
She had been mistaken about the woman. She wasn't plump, but well-fleshed and stood splendidly tall, was possibly older than Jess had assumed, and certainly impressive: a sort of Maria Callas presence. Perhaps a diva? Lido was a place where you expected to see celebrities.
Electronically operated gates swung open to admit the
car to a short, curved drive close-walled by evergreens. The house appeared to be of white stone and they entered by a flight of wide steps.
A square hall paved with rose-veined marble had several rooms off it on both sides. At the far end, beside a small jungle of flowering shrubs and a tinkling water feature rose a slender circular stairway supported on matching marble columns.
Impressed, Jess thought ruefully of her cramped little narrowboat where Charles had seemed contentedly at home roughing it. This was a different challenge.
She determined to mind her manners as required in a well-regulated Italian family. ‘How very kind of you to come and meet me,' she said, properly, to the diva. ‘Is Charles here yet?'
Her hostess waved her through to a small salon where a table was laid with supper for one. She appeared not to have heard the question, and Jess thought perhaps she had no English.
‘I am sure you would like some refreshments. The meals on flights are quite impossible, I find,' the diva said. Her voice was low, full-toned, with a hint of laughter in it. The Italian accent was barely detectable.
‘Aren't you joining me?' Jess ventured.
‘I dined earlier, thank you; but a glass of wine would be pleasant while we get to know each other. My name, signorina, is Giulia. You may call me that. I trust your journey was not too uncomfortable?'
‘The return by water was wonderful. The lagoon is magic at night. So mysterious.'
‘Return.
Ah, you have been here before? Good. You must tell me how you would like to spend your time here as our guest.'
Our
, Jess noted, and wondered who else was in the house. The man who had met her had vanished, gone perhaps to garage the car. With all the inner doors open, she was sure he hadn't yet followed them in.
‘I'm Jessica,' she introduced herself, as her hostess removed the cover from a serving-dish.
‘Yes.' Clearly this wasn't news to her. ‘Or you were. Here you are Laura Nelson. Please be sure to remember that.' She waved a casual hand at the laid table. ‘Fresh salmon with a lime and coriander sauce,' she indicated. ‘Baby potatoes. There are various salads. Please help yourself.' She filled two glasses for the girl, one with water and the other with wine.
Although she had spoken of their getting to know each other, she stayed silent while Jess ate, sipping slowly at her own white wine and occasionally admiring her be-ringed fingers.
Despite the woman's apparent detachment once she'd done the welcoming bit, Jess was aware of her as something between hostess and jailer. On duty anyway. There were questions aplenty she would like to have put to her but the atmosphere was forbidding. For the present she must respect the level of discretion Charles's staff exercised, but if it went on too long she knew she'd be breaking out. They couldn't hold her indefinitely without providing some explanation.
She declined the dessert. It was one of those elaborately sculpted Italian confections of sponge, liqueur and icing sugar. The coffee was exactly the way she liked it, strong and unsweetened, with a hint of Mocha.
‘You are young,' Giulia remarked. ‘Myself, I cannot take caffeine at night. I would never sleep a wink. But I think you have had an exciting day and will be ready to retire now.'
The last sentence was spoken as a question, but with an undertone of firmness. Jess decided the woman had been an actress rather than a singer. She left no doubt about the significance of anything she said. It was still irritating that she hadn't answered the query about Charles. The omission had certainly been deliberate. As Jess rose from the table she resolved not to be put off.
‘Sitting most of the day, I really need exercise,' she said. ‘I think I'll take a walk before I turn in.'
BOOK: Last to Leave
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