Twisted (61 page)

There was nothing for it but to return to the cottage to get her wallet as she had simply run empty-handed from the place in the hope of catching Amy. She then had to go on foot, carrying a petrol can, on the long trek to the nearest gas station on the outskirts of town. The sun was blistering hot as Jo eventually got to the petrol station and filled the can after hitching a ride in a farmer’s run-down truck. He took her back to the Land Rover and she finally drove into town. She was sweating heavily, alternating between crying and angrily cursing that she had not woken Amy sooner. She drove to the bus station and made enquiries there, and then headed for the beach in the hope of catching sight of her, but by noon, struggling beneath the over-powering heat of the midday sun, she eventually turned back towards the cottage. The hens were clucking around waiting for their feed, but she couldn’t even think about tending to them as she hoped that she was wrong and Amy would come back.

Jo walked around the empty cottage, too exhausted to even cry, then lay down on the bed and tried to think what she should do next. She picked up the letter and read it again and again, and the more she read it the worse she felt. She debated returning to England by herself in the hope of seeing Amy there, but then she had to also accept the fact that she didn’t have enough money for a plane ticket.

Over and over she tried to think of what Amy would be doing, and if she was heading for an airport, if she would go to Mexico City and fly from there, but she had made enquiries at the bus station and no one had seen the blonde English girl. It was depressing and frustrating, and hard to believe that after all they had been through Amy would have chosen to walk away and leave her. At some point she did acknowledge that Amy had left her parents and without any thought of the repercussions; now she had done the same to her. She started to grow angry. She remembered her saying that Jo did not know her, and she began to think that it was true, groaning at the terrible sense of betrayal. For the second time in her life she had loved deeply and profoundly and the rejection this time felt even worse.

After a long flight on which he’d scarcely managed to sleep, DI Reid arrived in Mexico City and hired a vehicle. This had not been without its problems as the Hertz at the airport had no cars available, and so he had eventually agreed to rent a camper van, which cost more, but he was eager not to waste any more time. It had been a hair-raising few hours as he had attempted to circumnavigate the thronging mass of traffic in Mexico City. He had, with great difficulty, eventually traced the jewellers and they had confirmed when shown the photographs of Josephine Polka that it was without doubt the woman that had attempted to sell the tiara. They didn’t recognize Amy Fulford as the woman had been alone. The jewellers impressed him, seeming well-established and very successful, although whether they would have paid the right price for the tiara was questionable. He had told them only that he was working for an insurance company for a ‘finder’s fee’, and that the tiara although not stolen was part of an inheritance.

With little to go on, Reid made the journey to Mazatlan. The only clue he had was so tenuous that he hoped it wasn’t going to be a fruitless costly journey. The drive was over eight hours, but he had stopped only to fill the petrol tank twice and grab a bite to eat. The heat was oppressive and he had stripped off his shirt to wear only a vest and a pair of shorts he had thrown into his case at the last minute. He had even taken his socks off, as the air conditioning in the camper van was faulty. It was getting dark by the time he eventually saw the road signs to Mazatlan, and it was with great relief that he neared the beautiful beach-side town. The air was not as stifling here and with the windows open, he was feeling less uncomfortable. He had driven through the main town, passing glorious white stucco-fronted hotels and was on the main road when he realized he needed to fill up once more, so he pulled over to a gas station. As he picked up a six-pack of bottled water and was paying for it at the counter he casually asked if they would look at a photograph as he was there searching for some friends.

Reid returned to the camper van and opened a bottle of water; he could hardly believe that he had hit the jackpot so soon. It had taken a while for the station attendant to understand his enquiries but a twenty-dollar bill had helped. The man had drawn the directions on a scrap of paper and had managed to convey that the lady he was hoping to meet lived in a farmer’s cottage on the outskirts of the main town a further twenty or more miles north. Reid was warned that the roads were not lit, and in some areas still unfinished, and when he reached the end of the main tarmac road he would need to drive carefully as the track became uneven, with gravel-filled potholes.

Reid took the wrong turn over and over again; the camper van was spluttering and the springs made each dip in the uneven road painful on his backside. Coming to a barred broken gate, he was going to carry on, but his headlights picked out small white pebbles that appeared to indicate a path. He turned in and his lights caught the parked Land Rover, and now he could see the white pebbles were seashells marking out the narrow path to a run-down cottage. The shutters were drawn, but chinks of light indicated someone was inside. He parked up and walked towards the wooden door, swearing as he twisted his ankle in the dark.

Almost at the door, he ran his hands through his hair and buttoned up his shirt, and was about to knock when it flew open. He recognized her immediately but before he could say anything she shouted at him to go away and slammed the door.

‘Miss Polka, please, please LET ME TALK TO YOU.’

She inched the door open and there was no recognition on her face but rather fear as she asked what he wanted.

‘Do you remember me? I came to meet you at the school in Ascot, I’m DI Reid.’

She stared dumbfounded as if unable to comprehend what he had just said. What happened next caught him completely by surprise, as she literally collapsed in front of him and he had to push the door further open to pick her up. He carried her in his arms as he looked round for a suitable place to put her down, and noticed there was a pile of cushions by the unlit fire.

‘Miss Polka, Miss Polka.’ He propped her head up in the crook of his arm.

She slowly opened her eyes and he took a cushion and placed it beneath her head. She seemed to be totally incapable of speaking or acknowledging him, but just lay there, her eyes open. He glanced around to see if there was a kitchen or running water to fetch her a drink. The two candles gave only a faint light to the room and he knocked his shin on a stool before he found, in the small annexe, a plastic gallon water bottle. He poured some into a tin mug and carried it back to her.

‘See if you can sit up and sip this.’

He lifted her by placing his hand under her shoulders and held the mug out for her to drink. She took a couple of sips and then rested her head against his chest.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured as he encouraged her to drink some more. It seemed to revive her, as she moved away from him, and then cradled her head in her hands.

‘Do remember me?’ he asked gently.

‘Yes of course I do,’ she said weakly.

‘I’ve come a long way to talk to you. I got lucky at the gas station in Mazatlan and they directed me here.’

He slowly got to his feet; after such a long drive he felt stiff all over. He walked to a low wooden carved chair with a cushion and sat down, rubbing his thighs and knees. He couldn’t help but notice that she still wore the ballet shoes and her hair, which had reminded him of Marilyn Monroe’s, was even more blonde and she was deeply tanned. He was slightly embarrassed that he was wearing tatty baggy shorts and lace-up shoes without socks, while he knew he must stink of body odour as he had been sweating most of the day and night.

Slowly she stared at him, then sat up further and reached for the tin mug to finish the water.

‘She’s not here,’ she whispered.

‘Are you referring to Amy?’ he asked and she looked at him as if he were an idiot.

‘Who do you think I am talking about? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

She turned away from him and rested both hands on the stone floor before she eased herself up.

‘You have a lot of explaining to do,’ he said. ‘However, I’ve had a very long drive and I wouldn’t mind taking a shower first before we talk.’

She didn’t answer, but lit a candle and put it inside the small glass lantern. She went into the bedroom and returned with a cheap worn beach towel, informing him they had no shower, but a hosepipe was rigged up outside and he could wash with that. She tossed the towel to him and said there was soap and shampoo by the hosepipe. As she led him there, she moved in the way he remembered, like a ballet dancer gliding lightly across the ground. He asked if she minded getting him a clean shirt and underwear from the camper van.

He stood like a teenager, wearing his jockey shorts and nothing else as he held the hopepipe over his head. She held up a shirt and underwear then tossed them beside the beach towel and asked if he was hungry.

‘I am, in fact I’ve only had a sandwich since—’

She didn’t listen to what he was saying and returned to the cottage. Self-consciously he realized he was standing half naked, and the gathering mosquitoes were beginning to bite the hell out of him. He dried himself off as fast as he could, got out of his wet jockey shorts and into his dry crumpled ones and then pulled on the cotton shirt that he had bought on arrival at the airport. It was typically Mexican, wide-sleeved and full, with embroidery around the collar.

Heading back into the cottage, he found she was frying up some bacon, and coffee was bubbling in a tin jug. She had set out plates and mugs on a wooden table with a lit candle in an old wine bottle.

‘You said she’s not here, so where is she?’

She turned with a wooden spoon in her hand. ‘I don’t know, Detective Reid.’

She finished frying the bacon and used the same pan for some eggs. She placed a hunk of rough home-made bread on the table and poured two mugs of coffee. Yet again he was very aware of how beautifully she moved, very light on her feet, swaying as she deftly returned to spoon out the eggs from the frying pan onto two decorative plates.

She carried both plates to the table; he had three rashers of bacon and two fried eggs. She had one egg, saying she wasn’t very hungry, but she jabbed her fork into the yoke.

‘I thought my hens might have run off this morning, but they are back in their hutch and these are freshly laid,’ she said, as if making polite conversation.

They ate in silence; she hardly touched her food, but he was so hungry he could have eaten twice the amount. He was trying to think of how he should approach asking her the multitude of questions he needed answers to, but she took the dirty plates into the kitchen and came out with the coffee pot to top up their mugs. She crossed to the fireside and began heaping bundles of tied twigs into the grate and placing logs around them before she skilfully brought a lit taper from the candles to light the fire.

She was very adept at blowing the kindling until it caught fully alight and began to burn while he remained sitting at the table, his hands cupped around the mug of black coffee. He loved the way she moved, and she turned, catching him watching her.

‘I didn’t lie to you when you questioned me at the school,’ she said. ‘I truthfully had no idea where Amy was, and I was shocked by what you told me and was frightened that something terrible had happened to her.’

‘When did you know?’

She shrugged and said that it was after she had been told to leave, and just before she had arranged to travel on a group tour with other artists to Peru for two weeks.

‘She called me, and made me promise to keep silent, or she wouldn’t tell me where she was, and so I agreed.’

‘Where was she?’

‘She’d been staying at a house in Henley as she knew the owner was abroad and where a spare key had been hidden.’

‘Simon Boatly’s?’

She nodded.

‘But he came back to the house not long after Amy went missing?’

‘I know, she told me when I saw her. It really frightened her as she had to hide in a wardrobe until late at night and then sneak out of the house.’

‘Hang on a second . . . if you went and saw her, where and when was this?’

‘The weekend after you first spoke to me at the school. She’d gone to a youth hostel in Oxford. She knew the place a bit because her mother had taken her there before to show her round the old colleges she studied at.’

‘Did she see the TV and newspaper appeals about her?’

‘Yes, but she’d changed her appearance with fake glasses, tied her hair up and dressed scruffy. She figured with so many students in Oxford she’d just blend in and no one would recognize her.’

‘But if she saw the TV appeal and the state her parents were in, why didn’t she make contact to at least say she was alive and well?’

‘I tried to persuade her to get in touch with them or you, but Amy was adamant that she would not do that and refused to explain why. She only said that she wanted to go away, stay away from them forever.’

‘What about money? She’d made no withdrawals from her bank.’

‘Because she didn’t want anyone to be able to trace her. I tried to make her change her mind, but she was very strung out and insisted that she would be able to finance herself to go abroad. I asked how, but she wouldn’t tell me.’

‘But she left her passport at her home?’

‘I know that,’ Jo snapped.

He lifted his hands in submission as she turned away and remained silent for a few moments before she continued.

‘My full name is Josephine Poliakoff, I started using Polka years ago as a surname as it sort of sounded to me more like a dancer. I had a younger sister who died just before I became an art teacher at the school.’

‘The girl on the beach in the picture in the hallway of your school cottage?’ he recalled and she gave him an odd smile.

‘Yes, you have a good memory. Her name was Anna and I still had her old passport. She was barely older than Amy.’