Folly's Child (50 page)

The tiny island of Savarelli rose like a small green tump from the blue waters of the Mediterranean. Seeing it for the first time from the decks of the hydrofoil that had brought her from Reggio Calabria on the mainland Harriet had experienced a great choking wave of emotion. Was this really the place where her mother had lived her last years, and, if Sally was to be believed, died? It looked so isolated, so lonely, windswept and buffeted by the rough seas those same winds could whip up at a moment's notice. About a hundred and fifty people lived on Savarelli, she had been told, not counting the nuns, but from here it was impossible to imagine it. The island looked virtually uninhabited, a haven for sea birds and no more, certainly not for a civilised woman like Paula.

As the boat drew closer to land Harriet was able to make out the rocky cliffs beneath the mushroom of green and the terraces corrugating the gentler slopes above. She had never seen anything quite like those cliffs, she thought, fashioned into bizarre shapes by the volcanic activity that had thrown up this island like a toy for a giant's child, an outpost of land amongst the underwater fumaroles which made the sea around it seem to boil.

Off the island the hydrofoil bumped to a stop; there was no pier on Savarelli where it could land and the only way in was for Harriet to transfer to rowing boat. As she stepped down into the tiny wildly rocking craft she wondered how she would have fared had the wind been blowing at its fiercest – the crew of the hydrofoil had described the sea as calm today. As the boat took her towards the island the hydrofoil bumped away making for its next port of call and Harriet knew that for the moment at least there was no going back.

The beach was a narrow rocky strip, the stones turned to a kaleidoscope of varying colours by the fumaroles. In one place steam still rose from the ground and wafted like drifting smoke on the wind. A swarthy peasant lad with a couple of mules was waiting for her, sitting on one of the boulders and swinging his legs; there was only one way from the beach to the island's one and only hotel – a hairpin path up the rocky cliffs. Was this the beach where the fishermen had landed with her mother? Harriet wondered. And had they then taken her this same way – up the narrow rocky mule track?

The hotel, white like the icing on a wedding cake, was clearly the focal point of the village, for the scattering of humble pink and white houses spread away from it along the green terraces like fingers from an outstretched hand. Here was the only telephone on the island, here the bar where the villagers gathered to drink wine from the local vineyards. But there was no electricity – civilisation had not extended that far.

Harriet's room was small and basic but scrupulously clean. The walls were rough stone, the floor polished stone tiles arranged in a pattern that reminded her of Crete and the influence of the Minoan civilisation there. A meal was waiting for her – tomatoes, capsicum and olives in a delicious dressing followed by locally caught aragosta – lobster – and to her surprise Harriet found her appetite had returned. So much for the sea air! But it had also had the effect of making her very sleepy. Her investigations would have to wait until tomorrow, she decided.

She closed the wooden shutters, lay down on the rather hard bed with its brightly coloured patchwork bedspread, and before she could even begin to think about her plans or allow her imagination to wander again, she was fast asleep.

Tom O'Neill supposed he had no business going to Darwin Airport. It was out of his hands now. When Greg and Vanessa attempted to board their flight to the States Robert Gascoyne's Darwin colleagues would be there to pick them up and all the might and majesty of the law would be brought into play. He hoped they would grant him the facility to interview Martin at some stage though in an international case like this with such wide-reaching implications he could not be sure that they would. However, the wheels had been set in motion and at least half his brief had been completed – he knew for certain that Greg Martin was still alive. As to Paula Varna, that was another matter. The truth of what had happened to her might be more difficult to come by. Martin was not likely to admit to being responsible for her death – he would hardly want a charge of murder added to his already awesome list of crimes so he was more than likely to suggest she was still alive, leaving Tom with the near impossible task of finding her.

Or was it so impossible? Tom's mouth hardened as he thought of the telephone call he had made the previous evening. After speaking to Harriet he had had a few drinks and buoyed up with Dutch courage he had decided to ring her again. There was so much misunderstanding between them; stupid to pussyfoot around the issue – how much better it would be to come straight out and tell her that however it looked he really was interested in her on a personal level, not simply as a means of getting information for his investigation. Knowing it would be mid-morning in New York he had placed the call. But to his amazement he had been told that Harriet had left – for Italy. At first he had disputed it – there must be some mistake! But the maid was polite, firm, and completely believable. Miss Varna had left an hour ago. She did not know when she was expected back, but yes, she thought the trip had something to do with the Greg Martin business. The information had sobered Tom completely and utterly. He had been speaking to her not more than a couple of hours earlier and she had told him she was staying in the States for the time being, while all the time she had been on the point of leaving for Italy! Why? There was still a hell of a lot that he did not know – and Harriet was a part of it. The fact that she had gone off to Italy whilst her father was still certainly ill – and deliberately hidden her intention from him – proved it. Had she been pulling the wool over his eyes all along? He didn't like to think so. It made a complete fool of him on so many levels. But he was beginning to think that perhaps for the first time in his career he had indeed been a complete fool.

Tom O'Neill, hardened insurance investigator, one of the best in the business, taken in by a pretty face. It hurt – oh yes, it hurt. Tom's jaw set. Well there was not a damned thing now he could do about it except learn a lesson from the experience that he should already have known by heart – don't mix business with pleasure. Tom had thought long and hard about it, and now, wondering how to set about tracing Paula Varna, if she was still alive, he realised that his personal loss was a professional gain. If Harriet did indeed know Paula's whereabouts she could lead him to her and he need suffer no more pangs of conscience, no more squeamishness about ‘ using' her. If it were so
she
had made use of
him
trapped him by the oldest trick in the book – for some purpose he could not yet begin to fathom. Now she could begin paying off some of her dues, he thought, and she would find out just how dangerous a game she had been playing. In the meantime …

In the meantime he was going to Darwin Airport to see Greg Martin picked up. For one thing he was curious to see the fellow in the flesh. For another he would enjoy watching the bastard get his come-uppance.

Tom had ordered an early breakfast – coffee, rolls and jam, taken in his room – and he set out in good time to allow for Greg Martin and Vanessa's checking-in time at the airport. He parked and wandered into the terminus. Even at this early hour it was quite busy, but since it was a good deal smaller than most termini he was afraid he might be conspicuous. Martin wouldn't know him, of course; Vanessa certainly would. He bought a coffee and a newspaper, stationed himself discreetly in a corner from which he could see without being seen, and settled down to wait. The grey dawn crept in through the windows, travellers yawned, drank coffee and trundled suitcases about, and Tom occupied himself with planning his next move. Should he try to contact Harriet again, or go direct to Italy? Karen Spooner, his assistant, had done some pretty meticulous research to discover that Sally had been there over twenty years ago, but after all this time it would be a near impossibility to ascertain just where her destination had been. Tracing Harriet's movements after just a couple of days should be a great deal easier. Of course, what he really needed was a photograph of her. He cursed himself for not having somehow wheedled one out of her – it would have been easy enough when they were in Katherine. He could even have taken one himself if he'd had a camera with him. But in Katherine photographs had been the last thing on his mind.

Two men came through the airport door and Tom's mouth quirked slightly in wry amusement. Although they were casually dressed in lightweight bomber jackets and light coloured slacks he thought they might as well have had ‘policeman' written all over them. They spoke to the girl at the check out desk, who shook her head, then moved to a corner opposite Tom, smoking and watching the door furtively.

Tom began to feel uncomfortable. He thought that if he were Greg Martin he'd spot the three of them – himself and the two policemen – immediately. To him they stuck out like sore thumbs. But to leave now would only call more attention to himself. He might run slap bang into them in the doorway …

A moment later he was blessing his intuition for Vanessa McGuigan came into the terminus. Tom raised his newspaper to cover his face, watching her over the top of it, but she did not so much as glance in his direction. She was dressed with the same understated elegance – loose pyjama-style trousers and a lightweight Burberry style raincoat. She was pulling a large suitcase on wheels and she was alone.

He saw the two policemen stiffen, their watchful eyes following her to the check-in desk.

Hold it, hold it! he warned them mentally. Don't go off at half-cock! She's not the one you want. She is just the window dressing.

Vanessa checked in, her suitcase disappeared from the scales and even from where he was sitting Tom saw the look that passed between the stewardess and the two policemen. For goodness sake! he thought irritated, write it on a banner that she's under surveillance, why don't you? But Vanessa seemed oblivious of the drama being played out around her. She walked coolly to one of the plastic seats and settled herself in it. She looked oddly out of place – as if she should be in the First Class Lounge – and Tom found himself wondering suddenly why she was not. The flamboyant Greg Martin and the beauty queen bimbo travelling tourist? Oh well, he supposed they must have figured they would draw less attention to themselves that way.

Where the hell was Martin anyway? Even if they had not travelled to the airport together surely he should be here by now? But the minutes ticked by and no-one joined the elegant blonde. What was even more disconcerting, she did not appear to be in the least disturbed. Usually someone awaiting the arrival of a fellow traveller shows signs of agitation – even when there is plenty of time they tend to check their watch and look anxiously towards the door every so often but Vanessa did none of these things. She simply sat glancing through a glossy magazine, cool and poised, waiting for the call to go through for departure.

Something is wrong here, Tom said to himself. Somehow something has gone wrong – the plans have been changed. Although there was still twenty minutes to go to departure he knew it in his bones. Greg Martin was not coming.

He shifted, trapped in his corner for fear she would spot him, and sick at heart. You are losing your grip, he thought. The bloody man has slipped through your fingers again. He could see the policemen too were getting restless. Any minute they were going to barge up to Vanessa McGuigan and the whole thing would be blown. Although it would hardly matter. It was blown already.

The message clicked up on the display unit a second before a disembodied voice announced it. The flight to New York was boarding. Vanessa rose, cool, unhurried, not looking around her even once. One of the policemen followed her, the other went outside – going to see if any late arrivals were hurrying towards the terminus, presumably. As she reached the door the policeman approached her, touched her arm, and spoke. Tom could not hear what he said but he could imagine. ‘Miss McGuigan, I wonder if you would accompany me …'

He saw her startled response; for just a brief second her whole demeanour registered something like fear. Then her chin was up, her expression haughty, as she demanded, no doubt, to know what they wanted with her, why she was being prevented from taking the seat she had reserved. More conversation, this time with gesticulations that spoke louder than words. ‘ My luggage is on its way to the United States!' he could imagine her protesting.

The policeman was polite but firm. Moments later he and Vanessa left the terminus, his hand still lightly resting on her elbow.

Tom stood up; passengers for the New York flight had all gone through now, the next lot of bored travellers were congregating.

Outside it was raining, a thick, warm mist. Across the tarmac he could see Vanessa being helped into a waiting car; closer at hand the second policeman was still looking round, the collar of his jacket turned up against the rain, his eyes narrowed in a sort of watchful resignation. Of Greg Martin, or anyone who might have been Greg Martin, there was no sign.

Tom swore, quietly but vehemently, and made for his own car before he was spotted and blamed for this whole fiasco.

The Convent of Our Blessed Lady straddled the hillside on the steepest side of the island of Savarelli, a gaunt old building reached by a stairway of stone steps cut into the sloping ground.

In its time it had provided a haven for the sick, particularly those suffering from mental or psychological disorders, as well as a retreat, but nowadays it was no longer used for this purpose, Harriet had been told when she had enquired at the hotel. Modern medicine and treatments in specialist institutions on the mainland had rendered it unnecessary and the few members of the order who still lived there occupied their days with their devotions and with working together to eke out a communal existence.