Twisted (60 page)
On the plane, his initial excitement palled somewhat as he went back over the call that had brought about his decision. It was possible that Miss Polka might have become scared once she learnt the value of the tiara, or saw that José Hernandez was suspicious of how she had come by it. His confidence that Amy Fulford could be with Miss Polka began to lessen and he had a sinking feeling that he had allowed his obsession to override his senses, and yet it was too late to turn back. He pulled down his tray table and began to study the maps he had bought, realizing if he was to first stop in Mexico City and question the jewellers it would mean a further delay. He decided he would rent a car, drive from Mexico City to Mazatlan and begin his enquiries from there. He had in his suitcase photographs of Amy Fulford and Josephine Polka and knew that whatever names they were using would be immaterial if he could get the pictures identified. Yet again he was certain that he was right and that Amy Fulford was alive and had engineered her disappearance with clinical and clever subterfuge. He leaned back, closing his eyes as he went over his interaction with Miss Polka at the school, how she had behaved and reacted to his questions. Had she been lying to him, was she that good an actress? Yet again a wave of scepticism swept over him, and he hoped against hope that for once he had not reached a total dead end.
Chapter 43
A
nna had been sitting outside the cottage on an old wooden bench for hours. She had lit a night-light in a lantern and the mosquitoes gathered above it like a small black cloud. Jo had looked out from the window numerous times, but could not or refused to interrupt or go and sit beside her. She had begun packing the few things they had brought, and the canvas bags for their paintings and books were ready to be put into the Land Rover. Anna’s rucksack was almost full, the top left open for anything else she wanted to take.
Earlier that morning Anna had frightened Jo as she had driven off without saying a word. She had been gone for over two hours, and unbeknown to Jo, had spent the time in an internet café discovering all she could about her father and mother. She had read the newspaper coverage of her own disappearance, and had even been able to bring up the footage of a few of the programmes that had been broadcast on British network television.
Jo had not seen her cry. Her reaction had been one of utter silence when she had told her about the visit to the jewellery store in Mexico City, the phone call to London and how she had subsequently gone to the internet café. Anna had shown little reaction to the news that her father was dead. However, when she had herself read about him and that the police were no longer searching for her, and no other suspects had been arrested, she had bowed her head in shame. By the time she returned to the cottage she was aware of the consequences her disappearance had created, and was almost overwhelmed with a sense of guilt. She had not discussed with Jo the need to uproot and find somewhere else to hide. She was even uncertain that she would agree to it; for herself she had found peace and had been happy for the first time in years. She was realizing the implications and cost of what she had done, and was now contemplating returning to England, but was intelligent enough to realize that she would have to face a barrage of questions from the police and might be charged with wasting their time for not coming forward earlier. Nowhere had she read of the poisoning or the threats that had been made, so she was unaware of exactly how her father had died. The article simply stated that he had not recovered after collapsing while being questioned and the police were no longer looking for a suspect connected to his daughter’s murder.
Jo heard the scrape of the bench and knew immediately that Anna had moved from the yard. It was so dark outside, the small lantern the only means of light; even the moon seemed to have paled into insignificance. She stepped outside, and could see Anna standing by the hosepipe they used as a shower. She was bending down a few feet away from it, and Jo walked softly towards her.
‘The new crops are coming up well – they like this damp earth and being in the shade.’
She was pointing to the old wooden crates filled with woodchips and wet newspapers from where the growing mushrooms’ white heads were beginning to sprout.
‘My mother taught me how to grow the most edible ones, and how to recognize the dangerous ones, the poisonous ones. She was an authority on all the different species and helped me write an essay about the poison that possibly caused the death of the Roman Emperor—’
‘We need to talk, Anna.’
‘Not yet, Jo, give me a little more time.’
‘We might not have it. I wish to God I had never made that call to London.’
Anna turned to stare into Jo’s concerned face, and then looked away, her voice hardly audible.
‘For God’s sake, let me mourn for Daddy; he did not deserve to be accused of abusing and killing me. He was a stupid weak man, but not a bad one.’
‘I know, dear.’
Her voice grew softer still. ‘No, you don’t know, you don’t know at all.’
‘Then talk to me, because I need to know. I am so scared I am losing you, Anna, I don’t think I could bear it.’
She wanted to hold out her arms and hug Anna tightly, but was incapable of doing so because she was afraid she would be rejected. Instead she looked on hopelessly as Anna continued to press her foot down onto the trays of mushrooms. The void between them felt impossible to bridge and to stop herself from crying Jo walked into the cottage and closed the door.
The small bed of wooden planks cobbled together covered with a straw mattress was not exactly comfortable, but was just about adequate and the duvet was feather-light. Two candles lit the stone-walled room and the shutters closed out the cold night air. Jo could hear footsteps on the old wooden porch floor, the scrape of the chair, and lastly she heard the low sound of sobbing as Anna entered the cottage.
At some point in the night Jo had fallen into a restless sleep, waking before the sun rose and creeping to open the bedroom door to see into the main room of the cottage. Anna was sleeping in front of the fire she must have lit, her head resting on a quilt pillow and her long tanned legs lazily crossing each other. Her slender arms were resting in a ballet pose and her skin shone as if oiled, her white-blonde hair like a child’s framing her perfect face. Placed beside her were pages and pages of her scrawled looped writing and Jo noticed that she had printed her own name on the first page. She hesitated for only a moment before she eased them away and took them back to the bedroom.
My darling Jo, I have tried to make the right decision, and as much as I believe it is the only thing to do, it is also difficult for me to even contemplate returning to England. I know how much you love me, and love living here in our little home and find the environment perfect for your painting. However, the time has come for me to go my own way and sadly without you. I will be forever grateful for what you have done for me and you have more than likely saved my life, but I now have to face reality as I cannot continue to live in our make-believe world. I am not Anna, but Amy, and I feel a terrible guilt about what happened to my father. I suspect my mother may have brought about his death and in many ways I feel I should return home to get the answers I so desperately need. As you know, I was subjected to my mother’s madness for many years, but it was when I was thirteen that things began to get really bad and she and Daddy started to argue all the time, so much so I actually hated being around them. When they decided to separate Mummy still had her mood swings, but she found solace in her work and life became a little more bearable for a short while, but I soon began to realize that every weekend I spent with Daddy was like a knife to her heart. The point came when I knew I would have to do something drastic to get away from her or I might be killed. Whether or not she intended hurting me, she did, and perhaps sometimes without even being aware of what she was doing. I often used to feel physically sick and had fevers and attacks of vomiting without realizing she was feeding me her deadly concoctions. She rarely cooked, but she sometimes made a spaghetti bolognese, which she knew was my favourite, and always just before she would drop me off to stay with Daddy. He was such a sad creature, so dominated by her, even frightened of her because he refused to acknowledge his own sexuality. He would attempt to portray himself to me as such a virile sexy man, believing his prostitutes and girlfriends were proof he was heterosexual. He so wanted and needed to know I loved him and preferred to be with him instead of Mother. I knew about his rent boys, and his love for Simon, as the way he spoke and smiled about him made it obvious. Mother would never let him go, I knew she was often outside Green Street spying on us, calling poor Daddy on his mobile, she would never leave us alone, and life with her was becoming impossible.
Daddy was so unintelligent, so incapable of being anything but a plaything for Mother, that I began to detest his weakness, and sadly found him to be a wretched failure. Every weekend I spent with Mother was an interrogation of who he was seeing, and I was forced to tell her about the peephole in the wall, his women, his wretched drawers of underwear; he kept them as some kind of trophy, I even knew he wore them and pranced in front of the wardrobe mirror, and she would insist I described every detail. It was horrible, she was impossible and I begged her not to tell Daddy.
I am not like my father, I am not like my mother, but between them they smothered me and my life was spent constantly trying to please them. To live at home and be afraid to spark her rage if there was so much as a tissue left out of place in my bedroom was torture. She selected my clothes, she inspected my room, and my life was constantly checked for imperfections. I was made to appear as Miss Perfect. She employed Agnes, a hideous woman who would sift through my personal things, a driver who constantly tried to touch my thighs. The hope I could get away from both of them was always close to the surface, the only thing that kept me going. I behaved appallingly when I was with Daddy as I always felt so sick, and had constant bowel trouble, and I was so tired I couldn’t be bothered to clean up after myself. I knew if I was to continue staying with him I would become as inept and spiritually vacant as he was.
My time with you proved that I am not wicked, that I am not incapable of loving, and if it had not been for you, my life would have continued to be unbearable. This has been a joyous and life-enhancing time and I feel I am strong enough to face whatever I need to do. I have to do it by myself, and I don’t want any arguments and pleas for me to change my mind. Amy.
Jo lay back on the pillows and the fear she had of being abandoned made her feel physically ill. She would try and persuade Amy to stay, but if necessary she would return to the UK with her and face up to her crimes and any punishment meted out by the law. They had committed a serious theft of valuable property and Jo had instigated that, and she would take the responsibility, particularly since Amy was only sixteen years old. They had celebrated her birthday together in the cottage, but nevertheless when they had begun their relationship she was underage.
Jo began to dress, pulling on jeans, T-shirt and leather sandals with an old leather jerkin – although it was extremely hot in the daytime the nights could often become cold. She brushed her hair and stood staring at her reflection in a small cracked mirror on a table they used to put all their cosmetics and sun creams on. She was as deeply tanned as Amy, and her hair was also bleached almost white by the sun. Unlike Amy’s, her hair was very curly; she ran her fingers through it and then looked round for her old straw sunhat. She picked it up from where it lay beside the bed, looking sadly at the crumpled duvet and creased pillows. She patted them straight and stood back as the tears filled her eyes, but wiping them firmly away she refused to allow herself to become emotional. They had spent many hours curled around each other in this small roughly made bed, professing undying love, enjoying their closeness, gentle and considerate of each other’s naked bodies and sensuality.
She went quietly to the door, not wanting to wake Amy if she was still sleeping. But the room was empty and panic began to rise as she ran to the small makeshift kitchen annexe, her heart beating so rapidly she gasped for breath. Pushing open the back door to the small yard where they kept the chickens, she ran to the hutch, but it was empty; the caged door left open.
Jo ran back to the cottage and, standing outside the door, called out, ‘Anna!’ and then, ‘Amy!’ but received no reply. She checked their few bags and discovered that Amy’s rucksack she had packed in readiness to leave had gone. Left on the old worn chair was the empty plastic bag that had held the tiara, and all Jo could do was run this way and that, still calling out for Amy, but it was obvious that she had left.
Jo hurried out to the flattened area they had cleared to park the Land Rover but it was still there. She hurtled down the pathway with its lines of seashells and stood in the narrow lane, shading her eyes, desperate to catch sight of Amy, but there was no sign. Berating herself for panicking, she knew she had to calm down. Amy could not have gone far on foot, and so she returned to the house to find the car keys they always left on a hook by the door. They were not there. Sobbing, she searched everywhere, trying to remember if she had brought them into the cottage. She looked for Anna’s passport, but couldn’t find it anywhere. All she could do was repeat, ‘Oh my God, oh my God’, as, between sobbing and gasping for breath, she continued searching for the Land Rover keys, until she discovered they were still in the ignition.
Fifteen minutes later Jo was driving at a frantic pace in an attempt to catch up with Amy. The girl was not on the dusty sand track and Jo presumed she must have caught a lift from one of the locals and been driven into Mazatlan. Just as she reached the tarmac road the engine began to splutter and she closed her eyes, praying that it was not true, because the petrol gauge didn’t work, but the spluttering and shuddering of the old engine signified it was empty.