The Untouchable (9 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Lydia had been absolutely right to urge Rosy to go to the fresh produce
market on the Cours Saleya in Nice, and to get there early. Following instructions, Rosy parked in the garage beneath the market and was shopping before the stall holders had finished laying out their trays and baskets of fruits, vegetables, herbs, flowers, mushrooms, spices, olives and pickles, jams, honey and preserves, soaps and handcrafts. She had never seen anything like it. When she had everything she needed, and quite a lot she didn’t, she hauled her baskets back to the car and heaved them into the boot. Then she went back and bought potted red poinsettias—a bit silly when she was going home for Christmas, but they were lush and lovely, and shouted
festive mood
at her in a way she couldn’t ignore. Anyway, there was nearly a week to go before she left, and she might as well enjoy a pretty house.

Going back a third time, she found a café in one of the narrow streets of the old town, between tall, balconied, apricot and ochre buildings, where she could people-watch at leisure. After two slow coffees and an hour of free entertainment she returned to the car and headed home. On the way, she stopped to stock up on basics at the hypermarket on the outskirts of town
—
another revelation, she realized, as she stood at the fish counter piled high with baskets of fresh oysters, buckets of silver-grey prawns, and line fish in glittering, spangled rows, all displayed on crushed ice and bathed in the salty aromas of the sea.

By the time she got back in the car, it was four o’clock and getting dark. She made her way home in heavy Friday traffic and constant drizzle, relieved at last to be off the motorway and winding through the villages toward ‘her’ valley. Not far to go now, and, of course, it
would
start raining really hard as she pulled into the driveway of the house. She stopped the car and waited a few minutes in the futile
hope that the rain would stop, but it changed to sleet. She pulled on the handbrake and got out, resigning herself to a soaking while she unloaded.

Unpacking the car took forever. She lugged everything inside and stored it away, to her complete satisfaction. And, beyond this satisfaction brought on by organization and efficiency, there was something else. Contentment, and the oddest feeling of...

Of what? She stood in the hallway, next to a window obscured by driving snow. Of what? A strong presence. A sensation of warmth and security, of not being alone. She glanced over her shoulder, and then at the doorway to the study, and up the stairs.

Was somebody in the house?

***

Easy. Marco left the ward and walked down the passage into a busy reception area. He approached the glass doors to the foyer and they opened, admitting a large group of Arab women in robes, weeping and gesticulating. Unnoticed in the commotion, he went down in the lift, with a courier intent on his iPhone, and walked out of the main entrance with him, like they were together. To his surprise, it was raining heavily but he had no choice but to head on out into the storm and get wet.

“Sir!”

Marco, tempted to keep walking, thought better of it and looked around, but the guard wasn’t interested in him. His attention had been diverted by the driver of a stretch limo, probably belonging to the Arabs, who had parked in the ambulance bay, strictly against regulations. Marco carried on through the gates, toward the taxi rank, half a block away.

“As long as you’re not crazy, I’m happy to drive you anywhere,” said the driver of the dark grey Lexus first in line, looking Marco up and down with a sceptical tilt of his head.

“I’m not crazy. I just need to get home, fast.”

The driver got out of the taxi and opened the back door. Marco fell into the seat, dripping on the leather.

“Do I know you?” The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror when Marco had given him directions and they were heading for the motorway onramp to the west of Nice.

“No.” Marco moved his head to the side so his face was out of view, leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. The man took the hint and drove on in silence.

By the time they reached Saint Michel, the cold drizzle had turned to sleet.

“I need a quick turnaround,” the driver said, “or the weather’s going to catch me out.”

Marco directed him the last few miles, asking him to open the gate using the remote control attached to his keys, and unlock the front door.

“Is someone expecting you?” he asked, turning the key in the rusted lock.

Marco never got to reply. Oddly, the door was swollen and the driver had to ram it with his shoulder to force it open. The stench hit them so hard they both gagged, recoiling onto the terrace.

“Jesus!” Marco’s eyes watered. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s not my house.” The driver coughed, turned away and spat over the terrace into the shrubs.

Marco, shivering hard in the thickening sleet, held his breath and stepped into the vast hall. Normally gloomy, it was flooded with pale light. He looked up into the vaulted double space and saw a hole filled with leaves and branches, and big enough to drive a car through. One of the giant stone pines at the side of the house had toppled in the storm and torn away some of the outside wall, bringing down part of the roof. Sleet poured in to melt in what was now a shallow indoor lake on the flagstones. The few items of furniture stood in three inches of water. As for the smell, something had wandered in and died at the bottom of the steps – an animal by the looks of it, but Marco didn’t have the breath to linger. Lungs bursting, he staggered outside to see the taxi driver getting into
his car.

“Could you do something for me?” Marco asked. “Check upstairs and see what the damage is?”

He considered Marco for a moment, dubious. “You
are
crazy. Isn’t there some place else I can drop you?”

“No.”

The driver shook his head, but got back out of the car, went up the steps, covered his mouth and nose with his scarf
and disappeared through the front door. Ten minutes later, he was back. “That is some house, but the upstairs is flooded. The floorboards are ruined. Water and power are off. It’s a big mess, and the whole place stinks.”

Marco, weary, shoulders and arms on fire, unable to feel his feet they were so cold, thought for a moment, staring out over the sodden, wrecked gardens. “I need you to help me with something.”

The man glanced at the sky, looked at his watch. “This stuff’s turning to snow. I need to move.”

“It won’t take long.”

He shrugged. “Is it legal?”

“No, but I’ll take the rap.”

Marco moved toward him and turned sideways. “My wallet’s in here, on top of my arm. Take it out and tell me how much money’s in it.”

The driver fished out the wallet, opened it and counted the money inside. “Two thousand euros, in new, one-hundred euro notes.”

“Take it.”

“But—”

“Take it. Just do what I’m going to ask you to do.”

The driver pocketed the notes, putting his business card in the wallet and replacing it where he’d found it. He narrowed his eyes. “I’m sure I recognize you. Either that, or you look a lot like the motorcycling champ, Marco Dallariva.”

“That poor bastard.” Marco smiled slightly as their eyes met. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“No, sir!”

***

Rosy, in the kitchen, put the poinsettias in the laundry sink to drink water and went back to the hall to ponder the Christmas tree. Had it really been necessary? It wasn’t a real one, it was a brilliant fake, that wouldn’t suffer and die a useless death once she’d returned to London. She’d bought silver and red and glass decorations, too, and metres and metres of tiny white lights that had been on special offer. Perhaps those could go around the front door, outside. About to open the door to check the frame and lintel and the doubtful existence of an outside power point, she hesitated as the gate intercom buzzed.

She pressed a button on the gate console mounted on the hallway wall. “Hello.”

“Special delivery for Miss Hamilton.”

Rosy opened the gates and stood on the doorstep out of the snow, watching a man trudge across the gravel. He didn’t look like a deliveryman, wasn’t carrying anything, and there was no vehicle in sight. She stepped back into the open doorway. Had she misheard what he’d said?

“
Bonsoir.
Miss Hamilton?”

“Yes.”

He held out a card. “I’m from Horizon News. Could I ask you a few questions about your neighbour, Marco Dallariva?”

She took the card and studied it for a moment. “I don’t know him, or anything about him.”

The man lifted his phone, lining her face up to the camera lens. “But you’ve met?”

“Once or twice. Will you stop that! What on earth are you doing?”

He lowered the phone, scowling.

“Switch it off,” she said.

He put the phone in his pocket. “Were you aware Mr. Dallariva was in hospital?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know that he discharged himself this morning, and that he’s disappeared?”

“Disappeared?”

The man glanced over his shoulder. “Word is that the Dallariva Racing Team sponsors are freaking out. The team’s having trouble keeping the information from the police.
A second manhunt for Dallariva smacks of carelessness, so we’re only trying to help. We merely want to present our readers with the facts. The true facts.”

“I-I’m not really sure—”

“We pay well. If you were to
remember
something, we could make it worth your while.”

Rosy tapped the card against her thumbnail, and smiled. “In that case, I do seem to remember something about a clinic. In Montreal.”

“And?”

“That’s where he’s gone. Um, to see a specialist in, er...elbow reconstruction.”

“Are you sure?”

“I take cash.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

Rosy shook her head and moved back to close the door.

“Could you perhaps—”

“No.” Rosy shut the door, not meaning to slam it. She stood back from the window, where he couldn’t see her, making sure he left. The automatic security gates were there for a purpose, and she shouldn’t have opened up to a stranger. She would close them behind him, and keep them that way. Permanently.

“Bloody cheek.” She pressed the key-lock button on the console, watching through the window to be certain the gates swung shut.

“Well done,” said someone with a deep voice, behind her.

She swung around, unable to swallow the scream.

Chapter Sixteen

As bad frights went, this was up there with the worst.

Rosy staggered back against the door, horrified by the apparition on the hallway rug. Barefoot, wearing a ludicrous combo of hospital gown and boxer shorts, with his arms in slings, Marco stared back at her from a gaunt, bruised face that hadn’t been shaved for days.

She found her voice. “Please, say something, because you look like you’ve died and come back to haunt me!” She pressed the palms of her hands onto the door behind her, to ensure she was grounded in the real world.

“I have a problem,” he said, eventually, his voice cracking. He coughed, carefully.

“I can see that!
What
are you doing here?”

              He’d lost weight, his legs thinner than she remembered, his cheekbones sharp cut beneath the fevered blue of his eyes. How could a man change so much in such a short time?

“My house is damaged.”

“How? When?”

“Not sure. I was absent. Playing the part of a hurtling boulder in a landslide, remember?” Marco told Rosy briefly how he’d arrived home to find his house unliveable. “Not only that, but there’s a stinking, rotting corpse in the hallway.”

“
What?
”

“An animal,” he said, hastily. “Something wandered in and died.”

“A cat?”

He paled, if it were possible. “God, I hope not.” He frowned. “I think it was too big for a cat.”

“Why choose to come here? Of all the places you could go, considering your fame and fortune, and not forgetting your attitude to me, why here?”

“It’s snowing, and the taxi driver had to get back to Nice.”

“Ah. And how did you get into my house?”

“You left the gates open, so that was easy, and then I got the driver to, uh, break open the shutter on the kitchen window. We found a small hardware shop in Saint Michel that stocked an axe, fortunately.”

“Fortunately.”

“Then he broke the window, climbed in and let me through the back door. He boarded the window before he left. It cost me a lot of money.”

“I don’t believe it. What gives you the right to break into,
damage
, my house? How
dare
you intrude—”

“You did it first.”

“I did not.”

“You stole keys, you trespassed—”

“I did
not
break anything.”

“Same thing.”

“This is the most ridiculous conversation I’ve ever had!”

“Look, I have this headache,” he said. “I want to lie down.”

“There’s a sofa in the study. Go there while I call a taxi. Then you can bugger off to wherever you want to go.”

“No, you don’t understand.” He shook his head. “I need to go to bed.”

“Are you
completely
out of your mind?”

He considered the question, heavy-eyed. “No.”

“I am putting you in the car
now
and taking you back to hospital.”

“Can’t. I must lie down immediately. I’m still peeing blood.”

“Oh
great
.” Rosy rammed both hands into her hair. Marco turned to look at the stairs. He took a deep breath and staggered to the bottom step, staring at it like a diver, poised to launch.

“Wait!” She rushed forward to stop him. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

“Upstairs. That’s where the bedrooms are, right?”

“But…”

He swayed, lurched forward, nearly falling. Rosy darted up the stairs behind him. “For God’s
sake
. Be careful.” She put a steadying hand on his back. His muscles, frozen beneath the thin cotton hospital gown, shuddered
with each laboured breath.

“Jesus,” he gasped, finally at the top, leaning on the wall.

“Marco—”

He pushed himself upright and stumbled down the passage.

“Um, Marco, the spare room’s this way.” She pointed in the opposite direction but he kept going. At the door to her bedroom, he stopped, smelling the air.

“Here.” He disappeared inside.

“Marco.” She went after him, shaking her head. “That’s my room.” She followed him in. “Look, I don’t know what you’re up to. Please have the courtesy to tell me what’s going on.”

He sat on the bed, chest and shoulders heaving. “Do me a favour. Take off these slings.”

“Does anyone know you’re here?”

He gazed up at her, lips parted, white-faced and breathless. “Take them off.”

“Marco, I’m talking to you. And no, I’m not touching you. I’m not taking anything off.”

“You must. I’m in agony. And I need painkillers, quick.”

Rosy hesitated. “I’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care. It can’t get worse.”

She hung back.

“Please. Do it.” He closed his eyes.

Rosy went closer. “Okay,” she bent over him, “but if bits drop off, I’m not liable.”

A smile flickered, nothing more than the twitch of a small muscle in his cheek. She reached around his body, running her hands over his back, working out how to remove the slings. She undid various clips and Velcro fastenings as gently as she could, freed his left arm and then his right, bumping his wrist as a cascade of objects flew out—pills, wallet, keys, phone—and thudded on the floor.

“Ow.”

“Sorry. I’m not a nurse.” Being careful, she nevertheless knew he was dizzy with pain and it made her nervous. She fumbled, her hands shaking.

He smiled properly, opened his eyes and looked at her. “Perhaps that clinic in, where was it—Montreal? Perhaps they could train you up a bit.”

“It’s not my calling. I’m too clumsy, and squeamish. There, all done.” She tossed the slings onto a chair and picked his stuff off the floor. “Oh good, a phone. We can ring someone and they can come and fetch you, because this can only be a temporary arrangement. I’m going back to London in a day or two.”

“I need something for pain.”

Rosy fetched a glass of water and examined at the two boxes of tablets. “These are over-the-counter medications.”

“Yes. The taxi driver got them for me when we stopped in Saint Michel.”

“Weapon and drug shopping. What a day for Saint Michel commerce.” She held up the tablets. “Which is which?”

“Uh, the yellow and white capsules are what I need.”

She read the label. It was in French and as good as hieroglyphics to her. “Are you sure?”

“Sure. Give me four.”

“
Four?
”

“That’s what I said.”

She shrugged, tipped out four capsules and put them in his mouth, then gave him water,
which he gulped like a man who’d crawled across the Sahara. She tilted the glass too far and he didn’t swallow in time. Water ran everywhere. Grabbing a handful of the hospital gown, she dried him off.

“Sorry, now this is wet. It’ll have to come off,” she said, while he coughed.

“Good. Stupid bloody thing.”

She untied the tapes at the back and removed it.

“That’s better,” he said. “Thanks.”

A please, a thanks, and a smile. Dallariva had turned on the charm to get what he wanted. She wouldn’t be drawn. He could stay here for a few hours until he had a plan. That was it and that was all. His problem was no business of hers.

He frowned, shifting up the bed toward the pillows. “I’m going to lie down.”

Resigned, she pulled back the bedding, guiding his cold
legs under the covers.

“That’s a terrible bruise.” She drew back, dismayed at the ink-black mark the size of a dinner plate on the outside of his left thigh. She’d never seen anything like it.

“That’s yours,” he said.

She sat on the bed, sick and trembly. “Oh dear, that’s horrible.”

“It’s nothing. That leg’s been broken many times.”

“Th-that’s awful.”

“But a drop in the ocean of my troubles.”

She avoided his eyes, chastised. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Yes. Accept an apology for my rudeness.”

What, all of it? He lay back and she winced, seeing how much he hurt. He didn’t look the slightest bit comfortable and he probably needed to be warmer.

“I’ll think about it. Can I get you extra pillows? For your arms?”

He shook his head. She pulled the bedding up to his chin, tucked it around his shoulders, and got a rug out of the cupboard to cover his feet. “Are you warm enough?”

He shut his eyes. She took that as a yes.

“Does anyone know you’re here?” Rosy picked up his phone.

No answer. She repeated the question.

“Uh-uh,” he replied.

“Well, people might be worried. Did you discharge yourself properly from the clinic? Do they know where you are?”

His eyes opened. He looked at her but didn’t focus. “No.”

“Marco, listen. I need to contact someone, to let them know you’re safe. Your wife for example—”

“I’m not married!”

Rosy sat on the side of the bed. “You are. I saw your wife at the hospital. She’s the beautiful Lily Richards, isn’t she?”

“She’s dead.”

Rosy gaped, horrified. “What?” She sat back. Had there been a sudden, ghastly tragedy? She hadn’t read a newspaper in days, or listened to, or watched the news. Had something awful happened while she’s been busy packing books, shopping and agonizing over her guilt?

“Dead to me.”

“That’s a stupid thing to say.”

“Believe me, it’s the only way I can go forward.”

“But, she’s pregnant.”

“And she is not beautiful, trust me.”

“Marco,” she took care with her words, “look, I know you’re not feeling yourself. You’ve been concussed and you’re in a lot of pain—”

“Leave me alone,” he murmured. “Please…”

“No, I won’t. Be reasonable. You’re in my house, in my
bed
. I think I have a right—”

“Christ, woman, drop it. Go away.”

“Excuse me? I won’t.
The least you can do, is to—” Rosy stopped talking. His eyelids drooped and shut, his head sagged to the
side, and his mouth softened.

She leaned closer. “Marco?” It was as good as speaking to a rock. She watched the even rise and fall of the quilt over his chest. He hadn’t fallen asleep as much as crashed instantly,
exhausted by pain, anxiety and stress. Come to think of it, his eyes had been glazed and his speech slurred. She considered him for a moment, and then picked up the container of capsules he’d said were pain medication. This time she studied the label in detail and found one word she did understand—
dormir
, to sleep, and there was something else she understood ‘X 1’.

Oh God
. She’d knocked him out with a quadruple dose of sleeping pills.

“Marco!”

Nothing. She needed help, fast. What if she’d made him really ill? Or what, God forbid, if she had drugged him into a coma, or
killed him? Sedating a person who’d been concussed could be fatal, surely?

“Marco,” she yelled. “Wake up!”

She reached out to shake him by the shoulder, but thought better of it, quelling the panic. Four capsules couldn’t hurt him, or could they? Yes, she decided. She glanced at his phone, still in her hand. Locked with a password. A fat lot of good that was. She threw it down on the bedside table and rushed from the room. She’d phone a local pharmacist, or Frederick’s doctor.

Surely, please God, there was an emergency number somewhere?