The Untouchable (6 page)

Chapter Nine

Marco regained consciousness in the dark, lying halfway down the ravine on his back, soaking wet and shivering uncontrollably in the icy, torrential rain. His phone rang inside his jacket, again and again, but when he lifted his head toward the sound, a stab of pain so intense rammed the back of his skull that he blacked out.

Now, awake, he knew two things. One, he had to stay conscious or he had no chance of survival and, two, he was stuck
—
trapped, with his helmet jammed against something hard at a painful angle. The visor had torn off and, when lightning flashed above the swaying trees he saw rocks and the twisted chassis of his bike on top of him, streaming wet.

He could move his right leg but feeble kicking only dislodged something above, and mud and stones rattled down on his helmet like the thunder roaring in the valley below. He smelt fuel and tasted blood on his lips—and God, his face hurt. Where were his hands and arms? Had they been ripped off? Why couldn’t he move them, feel them,
find
them?

Panic surged. He calmed himself with difficulty. No. Nothing could have ripped off or he would have bled to death by now. It was night time, surely? He must have been lying here for several hours. He wondered vaguely about his left leg somewhere under the rocks, to take his mind off the fact he was finding it just a little difficult to breathe but could not pull himself free of the weight on his chest.

His phone rang again. It had to be Zavi, but why? The effort to concentrate made him pant, but he had it, yes, they should have been having dinner together in Monte Carlo tonight. They usually met up at around nine thirty, so Zavi
would have waited, what, forty minutes or an hour before he called to find out what was causing the delay? So, it must be around midnight, and Zavi would’ve raised the alarm. Only he wouldn’t, because Zavi didn’t know where he was. Nobody knew where he was, except...except...what was her name again...? He saw a pale face against the dark trees—so beautiful it took the last of his breath away. Dark, silver-blue eyes, brimming with regret
gazed
at him. Curving lips trembled around apologetic words.

Are you hurt? I’m so sorry.

Yes, I’m hurt. I’m hurt.

I didn’t see you in the shadows.

I’m here under the trees, under the rocks. Help me.

I’m sorry.

On the road, just below Apricale. The third or fourth bend. I’m hurt, I’m really hurt.

How many times do I have to say how sorry I am?

I can’t breathe.

Bugger off, Dallariva, I couldn’t care less
.

Help me.

Piss off
.
Go and break your neck somewhere.

A sob stuck in his chest, choking him. He couldn’t see her anymore. In fact, he was having trouble seeing anything through eyes that felt like they were on fire, stinging with grit and God knew what else.

Shit
, he would die unless something changed.

Terror and rising panic flushed his system with adrenalin. He kicked the bike, trying to wrench himself free at the same time but it was futile, the pain overwhelming. After a few attempts, his strength depleted, he gave up. His body slackened and he passed out, while the unstable rocky debris above him trembled and shifted under the weight of the deluge.

***

“What if he broke down?” Rosy said. “Perhaps I damaged the bike when I knocked him off?”

“He would have called.” The man glanced at his watch.

“Is the bike back? Can you check the garage, if there is one?”

“I don’t have a way of getting into it.”

“I could call Lydia, Marco’s housekeeper.”

“Maybe...” He thought for a moment, pushing back his wet hair with impatient hands. “It’s a long shot, but Frederick had a control for Marco’s garage. He had a beautiful old Jaguar that Marco let him store there. He got too old to drive it, so, in later years, he just went into Marco’s place to look at it, and daydream. Do you know anything about that?”

“I know about the car, yes. I didn’t know Marco stored it.” She walked through the hall into the study, opening the key cabinet. “All the keys are here, I imagine.”

The man followed. “By the way, I’m Xavier. My friends call me Zavi.”

“I’m Rosy.”

“I know. Marco told me about you.”

“He did?” She hated to think what he’d said.

“I’m sorry about your father. It was sudden, and it must have been a shock.”

Rosy ran her fingers over the keys. “Is this the one?” She unhooked a slim red control with silver buttons similar to the one she had stolen off Lydia.

“That’s the one. Unlike mine, it has an extra garage button.” Zavi held out a hand, but she hesitated.

“This isn’t really mine to give. I’m not sure I should—”

“You think I’m a car thief?”

“Maybe. I don’t know you.”

“I’m flattered. You’ll have to come with me, to keep an eye.”

“I’m not sure I should hand over property that breaches someone’s security, or that I should be going out into a storm at this time of night with a complete stranger.”

He smiled, and held out his hands. “Look at me. What could I possibly do to you?”

Her eyes wandered over his big shoulders, at least as wide as Marco’s. Muscular biceps and forearms were evident, even under the sleeves of his jacket, his hands broad and strong. His diminished legs notwithstanding, he was definitely capable of overpowering her.

“Look,” he said. “I’m a nice guy, I promise. I’m benign. Please, come, and hurry. I must make sure Marco’s okay.” He grinned, his mouth pushing attractive lines into his cheeks, and creasing the corners of his eyes. Eyes more green than hazel, she noticed, brown-flecked, dark-lashed under thick eyebrows. Physically, he was a lot like Marco, but that’s where the likeness ended. Zavi was a gentleman, and, even now, through his anxiety, Rosy could see he would be heaps more fun.

They went back into the hall. By the time Rosy found her raincoat, pulled it on over her pyjamas and located a pair of Wellington boots by torchlight in the hall cupboard, Zavi had loaded himself, and started the engine of the Range Rover parked on the drive. Making sure she had the control for Marco’s garage and her own house keys, she locked the door and ran to the car through the streaming rain.

Zavi drove into Marco’s property, ploughing through water that streamed down the drive like a river between the old trees, some broken by the gale. The wipers cut rapid arcs across the windscreen, barely able to keep up.

“I hope he’s all right.” Rosy faltered on words swallowed by the thundering rain. The strength of the storm frightened her. What if Marco had had an accident? What if he were lying injured or dead in a roadside ditch? “I know words can’t really tempt fate, but...” She looked out of the passenger window into the wild, wet night, starting as a broken branch hit the side of the car.

“But what?”

“I argued with Marco earlier today. I told him to go break his neck.”

“What? Why?”

“He called me a bitch.”

“Oh.”

“A dumb bitch, to be exact.”

“Shit.”

“It was my fault. It was.”

“He’s struggling with something at the moment. Something personal. He shouldn’t have said that, but try to forgive him. He’s a good guy. He’ll apologize, and mean it, I’m sure.”

Rosy wasn’t. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine Dallariva lowering himself to say sorry! But, on the other hand, she couldn’t deny she was anxious.

Zavi stopped outside the big metal security door of
the garage at the side of the house, and Rosy aimed
the remote control. The door rolled up and the lights came on, revealing a spotless interior, more like a bathroom than a place to store vehicles. Four new luxury cars—a Jaguar, a Ferrari and two Aston Martins
—
perfectly parked, gleamed on one side of the garage. A Range Rover 4x4 identical to the one in which she sat, stood a few metres away from those, next to a splendid classic Jaguar convertible, presumably Frederick’s. Beyond that, Rosy counted
seven huge, shining motorbikes in a row.

Zavi leaned forward. “The Yamaha’s missing. Was that the bike he was riding today?”

“I don’t know. It was black, mainly black, I think, and silver.” Dread settled, pressing her into the seat.

“
Shit.
What time did he go out?”

“No later than one o’clock. He said he needed to be back before dark.”

“He’s been out for more than
twelve hours, God knows where. I must call the police.” Zavi scrolled the numbers in his phone and spoke in rapid, fluent French. Rosy closed the garage door while he turned the car and headed back down the drive.

“He said he was going just across the border into Italy,” she said, when Zavi had finished talking.

“But where?” He glanced at her, his eyes sharp with concern.

“He said, um...I can’t remember.”

“You must.” He made another call, again in French, then rang off and dialled someone else. “It’s important. It’s vital. There’s a map.” He indicated the pocket next to her seat and snapped on the interior light. “Have a look at it and see if something jogs your memory.” Then he was back on the phone, talking again, this time in Italian.

Rosy pored over the map tracing her finger up the border between France and Italy reading out the names of the towns under her breath as the car wallowed through the rain, back to her house.

“Apricale,” she said, as her finger found the tiny road, winding into the contour lines of the mountains. “That’s where he was going.”

Their eyes met and she nodded. Zavi carried on with the phone call, speaking to the police, using the word Apricale several times. Back at the house she stayed with him in the car while he made more calls, repeating the word, though she couldn’t understand anything else he said. Finally, he rang off and turned to face her. “You okay?”

She nodded. “What are you going to do?”

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m not sure. Go home and wait, I suppose. What else can I do? The roads in the Apricale area are closed because of landslides.”

“Landslides!”

“Apparently, but no accidents have been reported on the French side of the border since yesterday morning. The Italian police will send a helicopter at first light to search the little roads in the hills around the town. Hopefully, by morning, Marco will have been in touch, or something, unless he’s been kidnapped.”

“Surely not.”

“He’s a wealthy guy. The police won’t rule out the possibility, but let’s hope it doesn’t get to that.”

She looked at him, fingertips resting on her lips.

He frowned. “Your hands are shaking.”

“I’m really worried Marco’s had an accident that was my fault.”

“Well, don’t be.”

“But I delayed him. That means he could have been in the wrong place at the wrong time—”

“That’s fate. Don’t think like that. Let’s see what happens, what the police come up with. There’s nothing else we can do.”

The rain hammered the roof of the car, hissing against the windscreen, turning it white.

“Do you want to come in?” Rosy asked. “Frederick’s ample supply of whisky and cognac is still intact.”

Zavi hesitated. “No. Thank you. I must get home.” He frowned, anxiety in his shadowed eyes, and lines of tension around his mouth.

She reached to open the door. “Please let me know as soon as you hear about Marco. As soon as you hear anything.”

“Sure. Thanks for your help. I’ll call you sometime tomorrow.”

“No. As soon as you hear. Immediately. Please.”

“I will.” He took her number and she jumped out of the car, slammed the door and ran inside. Zavi started the engine and drove away through the streaming rain.

Chapter Ten

Cold mud dripped into his eyes, waking him.
Break your neck,
she had said,
break your neck.
Well, she’d be happy because he was sure he had done that and more. Her face floated over him, slim fingers of one hand covering her mouth while the other reached to touch him.

Fuck! Don’t touch me.

She pulled away, fading with the thunder that crashed through the trees, shaking the ground. The trickling mud became a stream, then a torrent. The load of metal, rocks and broken branches
on top of him jerked, eased, gave way and slipped, pushing him onto his side, rolling him onto his stomach, sliding him downhill faster and faster in a river of debris and the mangled wreckage of the bike.

He stopped worrying. Free, he flew, facedown at speed, out of control, semi-conscious in free fall above a deep gully. He didn’t stand a chance. Bouncing off rocks and shattered undergrowth, he hurtled down the incline, eventually coming to rest on a flat, lichen-covered rock some way below the tree line. His helmet, knocked off by the projectile of a splintered tree trunk, plummeted on, a red dot in the torn landscape, crashing into the depths of the ravine to smash on the rocks below.

***

Rosy hadn’t meant to fall asleep and couldn’t remember where she was when she opened her eyes in the dark room with the smell of cold fire in her nostrils and the insistent chirp of her phone. She rummaged, found it among the quilts and cushions, rolled off the sofa and walked over to the window to open the curtains

“Hello?”

“Rosy, it’s Zavi. They found him. He went off the road in a rock fall just below the town.”

She stumbled and fell into an armchair, the awful memories of the previous day slamming her into full wake-up mode. “Is he all right?”

“Not yet.”

“But he will be?” She shivered in the chilly room.

“He’s still in theatre, that’s all I know.”

Rosy burst into tears. “This is all my fault!”

“Of course it’s not. For God’s sake, you were the only one who knew where he was. Without you, he would have died.”

“I...but...” She slapped the tears with an impatient hand.

“You saved his life. Believe me.”

“Where did they take him?”

“Saint Theodore’s, a private clinic in Nice.
I must go. Marco’s father’s arrived from Bermuda and I’m collecting him at the airport.”

He hung up, leaving Rosy to stare at the cold rain trickling down the windows. God, Marco must be bad shape if his father had flown back from Bermuda. What if he died? What if he died and she hadn’t said sorry?

What if he died and it was her fault?

In the shower, and getting dressed, she asked herself why it mattered so much. Was Marco a loose end that needed tying, a link with Frederick, a sore spot in her conscience? Did he warrant her concern, her respect? Yes, he did, because every human being deserved respect. And you couldn’t fight violence with violence. Who knew what might happen? She could end up living here, right next door to Dallariva and she didn’t want life to be one long feud.

Good neighbourliness was fundamental to world peace, not so?

She convinced herself that it was, because nothing would stop her doing what she was about to do. She would drive to Nice and see him. Quite how, she didn’t know, but she would, to subdue the deadweight of sick anxiety hanging in her stomach.