Folly's Child (57 page)

Maria poured herself another drink. God rot him! God rot all of them! Her hot Italian blood bubbled in her veins, eager for the revenge that the Italians call vendetta. If she ever saw him again she'd kill him – for what he had already done to her, never mind what he might yet do.

My life is over, she thought – what sweet pleasure it would be to take him with me!

The bottle was empty now. With a grunt Maria threw it into the wastepaper basket, kicked off her shoes and sprawled herself on the low sofa. Around her the room shifted a little, going out of focus and back in again, and when she closed her eyes her stomach lurched in an imitation of the sensation of vertigo. But she kept her eyes closed anyway and after a little while she dozed.

Maria never heard the sound that awakened her but she knew there must have been one for suddenly she was alert, her heavy limbs tingling. The rich tones of Pavarotti still filled the room. She lay without moving, listening. Nothing. Then just as she was about to doze off again she heard it – the creak of a floorboard almost immediately above her head.

Instantly she was wide awake and sober. Someone was in the house. She was certain of it. Oh, every place has its creaks and groans but she had spent enough time alone here to know every one of them. She swung her legs down from the sofa and levered herself up. Her heart was pumping furiously. She crossed to the telephone and lifted the receiver to dial for police assistance, then hesitated. They wouldn't believe her. That shit Robert Gascoyne would think it was another of her stories – or simply an overworked imagination. And perhaps it was. The house was quite quiet again now, even Pavarotti had sung his last song. When the squad car arrived at the front door, sirens blaring, they would find nothing and she would look a fool yet again.

Maria replaced the receiver and went instead to her writing bureau, unlocking the small secret drawer. Inside lay her protection, a tiny but deadly pistol with a jewelled handle. She had brought it with her from Italy all those years ago, hidden in her underwear. No one knew of its existence, not even Greg, but she felt safer just for knowing it was there. Now her plump trembling hand closed over the little handle and her beringed finger hovered over the trigger. If there was an intruder in the house he'd better watch out. In her present mood she was ready for anything.

She crossed the room stealthily and opened the door. Nothing. The hall was empty, the front door still firmly closed. She started up the stairs, her bare feet making no sound on the thick carpet.

At the head of the stairs she stopped, breathing heavily. A crack of light was showing around one of the doors – the door of Greg's old room. Her fingers tightened on the pistol. She went towards the light and threw open the door. Then all her breath came out in a gasp.

‘Greg.'

He was bending over his bureau, rifling through the drawers. He looked up, startled, as she spoke, a lick of hair falling over his forehead. Then a slow smile spread across his dissipated, yet still handsome, features.

‘Well, well,' he said, almost mockingly. ‘I thought you'd be three sheets in the wind by this time of night, my dear.'

‘What are you doing here?' she asked harshly.

He extracted a document from the sheaf in the drawer, folded it and placed it in his pocket with a gesture that was almost insolent.

‘There were a few things I needed. I left in a bit of a hurry, if you remember. Don't worry, I'm just going again. I've got what I came for.'

He took a step towards her and she raised the pistol threateningly.

‘Stay where you are!'

His look of surprise was total; for a moment she experienced a heady sense of power. Then he laughed. ‘What the hell have you got there?'

‘A gun,' she said. ‘And it's not a toy either. Stay where you are, Greg, or I warn you, I'll use it.'

He laughed again, a trifle nervously.

‘You wouldn't know how. You are drunk, Maria.'

‘I am not drunk. Not too drunk to shoot you if you try to touch me.'

‘I don't want to touch you. Why the hell should I want to touch you?'

‘You tried to have me killed before,' she said defiantly. ‘Don't deny it.'

‘Well I am not going to kill you now. For one thing all the money I need is now tucked safely away in a South American bank account, for another, I'm not into doing my own dirty work. Let me pass for God's sake. You can't keep me here all night.'

He moved towards her again, again she brought the pistol up, pointing it directly at his chest. He could see how her hands were trembling; in this state she might do anything.

‘All right, all right,' he said in a soothing tone, ‘what do you want me to do?'

She glowered at him, breathing heavily. What did she want? She wasn't sure. She didn't want
him
any more, that much she was certain of, though the sight of him still stirred her oddly. Oh Greg, Greg, we could have been so happy, you and I …

‘Where have you been?' she asked.

A muscle moved in his cheek. She thought he was laughing at her.

‘Oh, around. Darwin, if you must know. I flew in this afternoon. I told you – there were some papers I needed.'

‘Is
she
here?' Maria asked heavily.

‘Who?'

Maria hesitated. Paula, she had been going to say. But of course it wasn't Paula. No one had heard of Paula for more than twenty years. But the police had been here asking about her and so had that good-looking insurance man and the girl who said she was … who? Paula's daughter? Maria's brain felt thick and fuddled. She wasn't making any sense any more.

‘What did you do to her?' she asked.

‘Who?' He looked genuinely puzzled but she interpreted it as shiftiness. ‘Paula. Paula Varna.'

‘
Paula
?'

‘Yes. They all want to know, Greg, and so do I.
I
want to know!'

‘Christ, Maria, that was more than twenty years ago.'

‘I don't care. I still want to know. You owe it to me.' She waved the pistol at him threateningly. ‘I was involved, remember? I was the one who picked you up and got you away after you blew up your boat or have you forgotten? And now I want to know the answers to the questions I was always afraid to ask you. Paula Varna was with you – the bitch – when you sailed. Everyone said so. But she wasn't with you when I picked you up – God help her if she had been! – and you never mentioned her to me. Did you think I was too stupid to read it in the newspapers? Well I wasn't. And now I want to know from your own lips – was I an accessory to murder?'

There was a long pause. All these years and she never asked me before, Greg was thinking. Why is she asking me now? He looked from her face, blowsy and tormented, to the little gun wavering in her hand. Christ, he'd taken a chance coming here. But he'd needed those papers – couldn't leave for the States without them. And he'd thought he could get in and out of the house with his key without her knowing. He had expected her to be asleep by now in a drunken stupor. Well, there was nothing for it now. He had talked his way out of tight situations before and he could do it again. Maria wouldn't harm him. He still exerted power over her. Hadn't she always been crazy over him? That wouldn't have changed. But he didn't care much for the way she was looking at him, all the same.

‘Well?' she said now. ‘Was I an accessory to murder, Greg?'

He shrugged, deliberately casual.

‘How the hell should I know?'

‘She sailed with you. What became of her? Did you kill her?'

He hesitated. Well, there could be no harm in telling her now. Who would believe her – a lush? Besides, he would soon be in the States, starting yet another new life with Vanessa. She would have left already and he planned to join her. He would have gone with her – had even had his ticket – but for the fact that there were certain documents he had left behind in his haste to leave Sydney, and he had decided, confident as ever in his own ability to outwit just about anyone who dared cross his path, to come back and fetch them.

Greg Martin was a vain man – and all too proud of his own cleverness. Twenty years ago he had been on the verge of disgrace and ruin but he had managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Paula Varna had come close to thwarting all his carefully laid plans with her silly threats but he had been astute enough to think on his feet and dispose of her. In all those years he had never been able to tell anyone what he had done; now he was overcome with an irrepressible urge to boast about it.

What harm was there in it? he asked himself again. None. It was all past history.

‘Put that gun away and I'll tell you,' he said. ‘I'm not talking to the nose of a pistol, however pretty.'

Her bleary eyes flicked over him, looking for evidence of a trick. Then she lowered the pistol and put it in her pocket, her fingers still curled around the butt.

‘Go on then,' she challenged him. ‘ Tell me.'

He moved away from the bureau, deliberately casual.

‘I didn't kill Paula. I told you, Maria, I don't like doing my own dirty work.'

‘So what happened to her?'

‘The last time I saw her she was in a dinghy, drifting in the Mediterranean. I shouldn't think she lived long after that. The seas get pretty rough round the Aeolie Islands and it was a very small dinghy. But of course you never know …' He smiled. It was not a nice smile, containing as it did the elements of sadism and self-satisfaction.

‘How did she come to be in a dinghy?' Maria asked – although she could guess.

‘I put her there of course – told her something was wrong and we had to abandon ship. I said I'd follow her. Instead I started the engines and headed full pelt for the mainland where I went ashore, rigged the explosives, and sent the yacht back out to sea on automatic. Neat, don't you think? If anyone had picked Paula up she would have confirmed that there had been a problem and I'd warned of a possible explosion before putting her in the dinghy. If they didn't – well, everyone would assume that we had both perished when the yacht blew up.'

‘You bastard!' Maria said softly.

He shrugged. ‘She brought it on herself. She tried to blackmail me – threatened to have me stopped from leaving the country unless I took her along. And she knew things, too, about my financial arrangements. She must have been snooping at my flat. Oh, she might have been bluffing of course, but I couldn't risk that. So I decided the simplest way was to take her with me and then get rid of her. And that is what I did.'

‘Supposing she had been picked up and she had said you sailed off and left her?'

‘No one would have believed her,' he said with supreme self-confidence in his own unassailability. ‘They would have thought she'd gone off her head as a result of what had happened. They would have assumed I'd put her in the dinghy to save her life and stayed aboard myself trying to sort out the problem, whatever it was, until it was too late. I made sure the yacht would be in more or less the right waters when it exploded, you see. The timing of the device was very carefully worked out and I took drift into account when I set the direction. In any case it didn't matter, did it? Paula wasn't picked up. I can only assume she was lost at sea, but since I wasn't there I really wouldn't know.'

‘You callous pig,' Maria said. ‘What you did was worse than killing her. At least that would have been quick.'

He shrugged again.

‘You didn't have the guts, did you? You didn't have the guts to do it quickly and cleanly. No, you abandoned her in a tiny boat in a rough sea.' She brought the pistol out of her pocket with a rapid movement, her hand suddenly quite steady. ‘Well I'm not so squeamish, Greg. You deserve to die – and I am going to be your executioner.'

Something in her expression told him she meant it. He paled, his face turning to putty beneath the tan.

‘Don't be foolish, Maria.'

She regarded him steadily.

‘I should have done it long ago.'

‘Do you want to spend the rest of your life in gaol? Give me that gun!' He made a move towards her and she took a step away, keeping the pistol levelled at him.

‘I don't care about that. I don't care any more, Greg. My life is over. You ruined it. You killed Paula whatever you may say – and you tried to have me killed too. Well, I am going to make sure you never kill anyone again.'

‘Maria!' He lunged towards her and in the same instant her finger tightened on the trigger and squeezed. He arrested, a look of surprise and terror contorting his features, and she fired again and again. He stumbled and fell and she backed away, still clutching the now-empty pistol. There was blood everywhere, staining his shin front scarlet, bubbling out of his mouth. He writhed on the floor, gasping, and making small coughing sounds.

She stood over him, watching him die, and felt nothing but triumph and something like a sense of peace.

God alone knew he had deserved this and she, Maria, had carried out the sentence. For the first time in her worthless wasted life she felt in control. For the first time she had done a service to the world at large.

When at last he was still she went back downstairs and reached for the telephone. Her fingers on the dial were splattered with his blood.

‘This is Maria Vincenti of Darling Point,' she said when the emergency services operator answered. ‘I think someone had better come quickly. I have just shot Greg Martin.'

‘What the hell are we going to do, Skeet?' Mark asked.

‘I don't know,' she replied truthfully. ‘I honestly don't know.'

It was late, very late, but neither of them felt like going to bed though Sally had retired, pale and visibly shaken, as soon as dinner was over. They had always been close, Harriet and Mark; now they had drawn closer than ever so that they formed a team, more united than many blood relations.