The Siren's Sting (31 page)

‘How can I help you, Signora Duveen?' He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. ‘
Caffè?
' Stevie nodded.

‘It is a delicate matter,' she began, sitting on the edge of the chair, staying close to the chief. She found persuasion was more effective with physical proximity, for all sorts of reasons. ‘A young boy, a family friend, has gone missing. His name is Farouk Farm–ishan. You know this already, I believe.'

The chief looked at her hard for a moment, assessing how much to tell this stranger. He took in the slight frame, the long neck decorated with pearls, the blonde hair, the large green eyes lined in imploring black, and relaxed. ‘We are aware of the situation.' He nodded. ‘We contacted his father but he was not . . .' the chief spread manicured fingers, ‘willing to cooperate. We cannot do much in such an eventuality.'

‘Perhaps he is afraid,' Stevie suggested gently. ‘And,' she added, looking the chief in the eye, ‘the sight of the
carabinieri
can also be very . . . intimidating for some people.'

The chief visibly swelled with self-importance. He leant in. ‘Perhaps you are right, Signora. Perhaps I did not take this possibility into account. One tends to forget . . .'

Stevie smiled. ‘Quite,' she replied.

There was a knock on the door and the young officer appeared with a tray and two cups of espresso and some sugar. He put the tray down on the desk and left. The chief stirred three sugars into his coffee; Stevie accepted hers plain.

‘Do you have some information you wish to share?' he said, after taking a sip of his coffee.

Stevie sighed. ‘I was rather hoping you might be able to help me. I want the boy's father to cooperate with the authorities. I believe you and your men are the best chance we have.' The chief was nodding in agreement. Stevie continued, ‘But his father is afraid. He asks me how the
carabinieri
can know things so quickly; he is worried about informants. He doesn't have quite the same faith in your force as I do, I'm afraid.' Stevie smiled again and was pleased to see the chief do the same. She leant in a little. ‘If I could only tell him how you found out about his son—and any other details you can share that might reassure him—I might have some success.'

The chief thought it over and made up his mind. ‘It was a guest of a neighbour of his, actually, who rang the station.'

‘He reported the disappearance?'

‘Not quite. He called because he was afraid for the safety of his own son. He said the boy next door had been kidnapped but he was certain it was a case of mistaken identity.'

The blood rushed to Stevie's face and she hoped the chief had not noticed. ‘Really?' she whispered, widening her eyes. ‘Does his son look like Farouk?'

The chief swivelled in his chair and reached for a slim file. He opened it and handed Stevie a photograph. She knew, even before she saw the young face, that it was a picture of Emile Krok.

Clémence's son did indeed look a lot like Farouk—she wondered that she had never noticed the similarity before—only Emile wasn't smiling in the picture. ‘How remarkable,' she said vaguely and handed the photo back. ‘Do
you
believe it was a case of mistaken identity?' she asked, treading as lightly as she could.

The chief downed his coffee and nodded, lighting a cigarette. ‘This is the line we are following at present. It makes more sense. The neighbour, Vaughan Krok, is a very wealthy man, a holidaymaker, a man who would attract the notice of others. Issa Farmishan is a local, a man of little interest to anyone around here. And, as you noted, the boys look very similar. It would be an easy mistake to make.'

Stevie's mind raced. Was the chief right? Had Farouk been taken by mistake? It was possible . . . Stevie accepted a cigarette, giving herself a moment longer to think.

Maybe Vaughan had been right about the threat to his son. Maybe he had known things that he had not shared with his wife. And there had been the strange phone calls on board the Hercules . . .

Stevie exhaled slowly and turned to the chief. ‘An easy mistake, as you say,' she said as mildly as she could. ‘But then why did the kidnappers ring Issa Farmishan and not Vaughan Krok?'

The chief stared at her suspiciously and took a deep drag of his cigarette. ‘The ways of the criminal, like the snake, are often circuitous, Signora,' he said, speaking as a man who has had long experience in the ways of the underworld.

Stevie nodded thoughtfully.

‘After all,' added the chief, ‘as Mr Krok pointed out, Farouk's father doesn't have fifteen million euros . . .'

The sum hung in the air and it was the last piece of evidence Stevie needed. She thanked the chief quietly and accepted his card. ‘Call me anytime, Signora. We are here to serve. This is my mobile number—day or night.' She thanked him again and let herself out.

There was no doubt in her mind who was behind the kidnapping and why. She was burning with fury. It all made twisted yet perfect sense: Issa had almost no money of his own, but fifteen million euros was the sum that Krok had offered him for his land on the promontory. Kidnap the boy, force Issa to sell his land to him, then get the money back in ransom; use the ruse of kidnap threats to Emile to throw any potential investigations off the scent. Just like with Clémence and the suicide threats, he had been laying the groundwork. The threats to Krok's son had the added benefit of terrifying Clémence. It was the sort of cruel, devious plan that Krok would find pleasure in. He didn't even have to worry that anyone would put the pieces together, as Stevie had done. The man was untouchable—there was no proof. What could a man like Issa do against the power of Vaughan Krok? Issa would have to give up his land to the monster. That was the price that evil would extract from Issa, and Issa was prepared to pay.

But then the accident had intervened. Krok was possibly unconscious; he might even die. What would happen to Farouk then? What were the orders? Were there any contingency plans? So many things could go wrong. Stevie needed to make sure that Farouk came back safely, at any price. Justice they could seek later. The boy was all that mattered to her, and all that mattered to Issa: his whole world was in hostile hands.

16

As Stevie's taxi pulled in
to the drive of Lu Nibaru, it almost ran into Mark and Simone's white station wagon reversing out. Stevie had completely forgotten about her cousin.

Mark rolled down the window. ‘We can't stay, Stevie. Sorry. There's been a kidnapping right near here—Simone is terrified for her life and, frankly, I agree with her! We're going home.'

Stevie raised a hand in farewell, her mind far away, ‘Godspeed,' she managed to say, and waved without smiling as the car took off up the dirt driveway.

Despite having repossessed her solitude,
Stevie hardly slept that night. Her mind churned and when the sun began to show itself, she got out of bed, glad that the night had ended and that there would be time now for action. She took a pot of black coffee to the roof and, wrapped in an old blanket against the cool morning air, sat on the low stone wall and watched the sea turn from pink to mauve to blue. The beauty of this arid coastline was stunning, but she wondered at how much pain and evil was hiding in its cracks today—like scorpions, she thought. Her tossing in the night had given rise to the beginnings of a plan, or at least a first step. She had not told Issa of her suspicion about who was behind the kidnapping; she was afraid he might do something rash and make the situation worse, if that was possible.

Issa said he had tried to contact the potential buyer for his property many times—the source of the ransom he would pay for Farouk—but he could not reach Krok. Stevie knew this was because Krok was in hospital in London and out of action. However, Clémence was the next best thing, and she could reach her. Stevie took out her phone and called.

Clémence answered after two rings. ‘Stevie!' She sounded surprised.

‘I just wanted to see how you were doing, Clémence, all that horrible business about Vaughan's accident.' Stevie wanted Clémence off her guard.

‘Oh, you're too sweet. I've been with him 24/7 until now. They say he will make a good recovery.' Stevie could tell by Clémence's bright, brassy tone that someone was probably listening.

‘Are you back on the
Costa
? I heard a rumour . . .'

‘I am, Stevie, but not at the big villa. I rented a place in Piccolo Pevero. Marlena's with me but Emile is in London with the nannies. You should visit us sometime . . .'

When Stevie rang off, she wondered if Clémence knew what her husband had done, if she cared. It was all drama when it was her son, but would she feel the same if someone else's boy was in danger? She would soon find out.

Clémence's villa in Piccolo Pevero was a much more modest affair than the Villa Goliath. Stevie fired up the old jeep and, dressed in a loose yellow linen sundress and flat sandals, Rolex watch and Ray-Bans, knife strapped to her upper thigh, set out to do battle.

An armed major-domo let her into the house and motioned towards the patio. There a woman in a purple and green bikini and matching turban was reading a newspaper; an identical woman in a red voile kaftan sat bare-headed in gold sunglasses looking out to sea. Marlena and Clémence, only Stevie had to move closer to see which was which. She had been hoping to find Clémence alone. Both sisters turned towards her as she approached. Marlena put down the
Wall Street Journal
and looked up.

‘Still trying to figure out which one of us is the evil twin, Stevie?' Her smile was like glass. ‘Is it Marlena, the smuggler, the pirate runner, the drinker? Who loves a fight and won't back down?' She turned to glance at her sister. ‘Or is it dear, sweet Clémence with her doe eyes and her painted talons, clutching at anything with money until she tears its very hide away?' She laughed as her sister got up and walked inside.

‘We both knew we were destined for better things than the basement flat on the Avenue Foch,' Marlena went on. ‘Our mother always told us so. We just went about it in different ways. Who is to say which is the most noble—' she flashed another of her brittle smiles ‘—or the least ignoble?' Her smile vanished. ‘Are you judging us, Stevie?' she taunted.

Stevie shook her head. ‘No, I'm not. Not on your past. What is that to me? I didn't live it with you. Decisions were made based on the circumstances you found yourselves in.' Stevie took off her aviators and folded them carefully away into their old leather case. She looked up at Marlena with her emerald eyes. ‘But I will judge you on the choice you are about to make—with your sister.'

Marlena's eyes narrowed. ‘Let me tell you something. We grew up in the worst flat in the best district in Paris. We were friends with everyone who had money, but we had none of our own.' She leant forward and took a cigarette from an onyx case. She smoked menthols. ‘Our mother was determined to change that. She was a seamstress at a great couture house.' Marlena lit her cigarette and slowly exhaled. She was obviously playing for time to figure out what Stevie was up to; Stevie did not interrupt her, curious to see what this dangerous woman would say. ‘Our father was Polish and a bad gambler. He rarely won, and if he did, he would buy things like lobster and champagne, but we never had more than one pair of shoes. Our mother would bring back scraps of material from her work—silks and fur and sequins—and she would sew them onto our plain cotton dresses. We used to call them “pieces from heaven”. But then we grew up and the scraps were no longer enough. Clémence married her first husband at nineteen because he offered to buy her a bicycle.'

Marlena turned her feline head and gave Stevie a burning stare; Stevie returned it, betraying nothing, saying nothing. Often silence would make a person say more than they intended.

Just then, Clémence came clacking out with a jug of sangria, her gold bangles jangling. She smiled at everyone and no one and sat down on the Versace sun lounge.

‘Marlena, don't be a bitch.'

Marlena looked away and said, her tone bored, ‘What do you want, Stevie?'

‘The boy,' she said simply.

‘What are you talking about?' Clémence stopped mid-pour.

Stevie turned her eyes on Emile's mother. ‘Farouk Farmishan,' she said, ice in her voice. ‘Your husband had him snatched so he could get his hands on his father's land. I want him back.'

‘I don't know what you are talking about.' Clémence's mouth was an O of surprise. ‘Krok hates children.'

‘Krok is indisposed at the moment.' Marlena's lip curled in a tiny smile of cruel amusement. Stevie did not know if it was for Krok or Farouk or her sister—or all three.

‘He had a terrible accident,' Clémence added, in the tone of dazed astonishment usually used by Southern belles. ‘Awful guns. I won't touch them myself.'

‘That's why I am here,' countered Stevie flatly. She turned the force of her gaze onto Clémence. ‘Where is the boy?'

‘I don't know,' Clémence insisted, her eyes large with an expression of amazement that did not quite convince Stevie.

Marlena smiled. ‘Go home, Stevie,' she said. ‘My sister has had enough to deal with without your accusations.' She reached out and took Clémence's hand in hers; their nails, Stevie noticed, were painted matching iridescent green.

Stevie waved away the proffered glass of sangria. She could not help but notice it was the colour of blood. ‘It is nothing to you,' she spoke directly to Clémence, ‘and everything to the boy and his father. You, as a mother, know that only too well. Call your husband or his henchmen or whoever you have to and find out. Either you rise to the challenge of acting like a human being—with all its implications—or you do not. There are no grey areas.' She said this softly, murderously, her eyes still on the woman in front of her.