Diana was bewildered.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked the riding-school’s owner. ‘Stella’s stepfather couldn’t possibly have collected her at lunchtime. He was in Marseilles; I spoke
to him on the telephone. He was in his office.’
The man shrugged. ‘It is as I tell you,
madame
,’ he said. ‘Your daughter’s father said there had been some unexpected event and he was to take her back
home.’ He looked at his watch. ‘This would be about three hours ago, I think.’
Diana stared at him. ‘It’s not possible,’ she said at last. ‘Anyway, Stella doesn’t have a father. He’s . . . dead. And her stepfather never describes himself
as her father. What’s more, she calls him Douglas.’
‘Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding,
madame
.’
Diana thought hard. ‘What sort of car was he in?’ she asked eventually.
‘Ah, that is most easy to remember. It was a very expensive black sports saloon – a Jaguar, I think. I was most impressed. And jealous.’
A terrible apprehension began to take hold of her. ‘But my husband drives a Rolls-Royce.
Monsieur
, what did this man look like?’
When he described James Blackwell, Diana’s world crumbled.
Stella walked towards the car. It was facing away from her. The top was down in the sunshine, and she could see a man with blond hair sitting in the driver’s seat, his
back to her. He was smoking a cigarette and looking towards the Alps proper that towered in the distance, the last remnants of the winter snows gleaming on their jagged peaks.
‘
Monsieur?
’
The man turned around.
For a moment, Stella was confused. The face that now smiled at her own was extraordinarily familiar, but she couldn’t put a name to it. She wondered for a moment if it was one of her
teachers from England, before dismissing the thought. Her mind raced. Who
was
this?
‘Hello, Stella.’
A crisp, pleasant voice she did not recognise. Stella moved a little closer to the car.
‘Hello. I know you, don’t I? But I can’t remember your name.’
The smile widened, blue eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.
‘That’s quite all right, Stella. We’ve never met before. There’s no particular reason you should recognise me – although I’m told on good authority that you
keep my photograph by your bed.’
Stella gaped.
That face. The last one she saw every night. The first one she set eyes on when she woke. For as long as she could remember.
That very morning, she had chatted to the man in the picture as she dressed in her riding clothes, telling him her plans for the day.
Here he was now, in front of her, his blond hair blowing in the warm breeze that rustled the leaves in the trees around them.
He smiled at her again, and took a puff of his cigarette. ‘Yes. I think you know who I am now, don’t you, Stella?’
Her dead father.
Alive.
Stella’s hands were clenched in tight fists. Her breath came in rapid gasps as she fought against the swirling dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her.
He climbed out of the car and stepped carefully toward her. ‘It’s all right, Stella. I’m not a ghost. I’m your father, my dear. I’m alive. I’ve come back to
you.’
She began to tremble, and spoke in a hoarse voice she did not recognise as her own. ‘You can’t be. You can’t be my father. He’s . . .
dead.’
Her hands flew
to her mouth.
He spoke very gently. ‘Yes, my dear. I know that you and everyone else has believed that for a very long time. Why shouldn’t you? After all, my aeroplane was shot down and I never
came home.’
Slowly, he extended an arm and touched her shoulder. She flinched, but did not step back from him.
‘The thing is, I didn’t die, Stella. I lived. It was a kind of miracle, I think. And for all sorts of reasons, I couldn’t come back to your mother. And as for you . . .’
He gave a short laugh. ‘As for you,
ma petite
, I didn’t even know you existed. Not until your mother told me about you a few days ago.’
Stella looked utterly bewildered. ‘My
mother
? You’ve seen my mother? She knows you’re alive as well?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, she does. We met quite by accident the other day in the flower-market in Nice. She was as shocked as you are at first. And since then we’ve been trying to work out a
way to tell you about me, and . . . well, this was her idea, actually.’
‘What was her idea?’
‘For me to meet you like this. We talked it all through this morning. Diana – I’m sorry, your mother – has gone to Marseilles to break the news to your stepfather, and
I’m to take you home with me to my apartment. We can get to know each other a bit on the way, and . . . and your mother and Douglas will be along later.’
Stella was still trembling. ‘I want my mother. Where is she?’
‘I just told you – she’s gone to Marseilles to speak to your stepfather. In fact, they’re probably on their way back to Nice right now, so we should head off there
ourselves. Come along, Stella.’ He opened the Jaguar’s passenger door for her. ‘Hop in.’
She hesitated. ‘But – I don’t think . . .’
‘I know, I know.’ He gave her a kind smile. ‘You’ve had a shock. You look exactly as your mother did when we bumped into each other. But she’s very glad about it
all now. I expect you’ve noticed how happy she’s been of late.’
Stella thought about it. Her mother
had
seemed especially happy in recent days. She’d sung most of the way on the drive up here this morning; silly songs with ridiculous
rhymes.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘She came on the rollercoaster with me.’
‘Well, there you are then! Don’t worry, Stella. You’ll soon get used to this. Jump in. I want to know everything about you. Your mother says you’re the best girl in the
whole wide world.’
‘And she and Douglas are coming to your apartment?’ she asked him as she climbed uncertainly into the passenger seat.
‘Absolutely.’ He got behind the wheel. ‘They might even be there when we arrive, waiting for us outside. Have you been in a sports car before, Stella?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Then this should be fun. Hold tight – this beats any old roller-coaster, I can promise you.’ He gunned the engine and the sleek Jaguar roared out of the car park, gravel
spraying from the rear wheels. A moment later, the car was speeding down the twisting road that led back to the coast.
Impromptu plans were often the best, James reflected as the car nudged 80mph. They left no time for doubting and questioning one’s instincts.
And this one? This one was turning out to be the cleverest he could remember.
Diana took the villa’s stairs two at a time. She’d driven back home like a madwoman and ignored a
gendarme
’s frantic hand signals to slow down as she
raced through Vence. He’d probably got her number but she couldn’t care less.
Now she ran into the master bedroom and frantically pulled out the bottom tray of her jewellery box.
It
had
to be in here.
Sure enough, hidden beneath a heavy double row of pearls was the scrap of paper James had given her with his address and phone number written on it. She hesitated. Should she simply drive
straight there, or try calling him first?
Without making a conscious decision, she grabbed the bedside telephone and dialled zero.
‘Come on, come
on
,’ she muttered beneath her breath. ‘Answer, damn you.’
At last the operator came on the line.
‘Nice four-six-seven-three, please.’ Diana could hear the tremble in her voice. After a moment she heard the ring tone, a repetitive and somehow rather dismal single beep. It went on
for nearly a minute before the operator’s voice returned.
‘There’s no answer,
madame
,’ she said in English.
Diana slammed down the phone. She was heading back to the stairs when a man’s voice floated up from the hall.
‘Diana? Where are you? What’s going on? You’ve left your car engine running.’
‘DOUGLAS! Thank God you’re here!’ She practically threw herself downstairs and into his arms, clinging to him tightly.
‘Hey, what’s this? What’s going on, Diana?’
‘Oh, Douglas, he’s taken her! He’s got her somewhere!’
‘What? Who’s taken who? I don’t understand.’
‘
James!
He’s taken Stella! We’ve got to find her, Douglas!’ She pulled away from him. ‘We’ve got to go there right now and—’
He held up his hands. ‘Whoa there, Diana. Slow down. Calm yourself, my dear. I need to know exactly what has happened otherwise I’ll be no use to you.’
He led her into the salon and made her sit down on one of the chaise longues, settling himself beside her.
‘Now, begin from the beginning. Whatever’s happened, you can take a few minutes to explain things calmly. Why do you think James has taken Stella? And when did you first run into
him?’
She gulped. ‘A few days ago. He got out of a taxi in the flower-market, right in front of me. I nearly passed out, although to be honest, Douglas, I’ve suspected he was in Nice for
some time. You see, I thought I glimpsed him in a cab back in April, but I’d begun to think I was deluded – that I’d imagined it. It turns out he survived being shot down –
a complete fluke – and decided he couldn’t face life in a POW camp or any more fighting. So he deserted. He’s spent the last eleven years hiding in Nice. Since meeting him again
I’ve been . . . we’ve been . . .’
Douglas put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Diana, we can talk about that part later. Tell me about Stella.’
‘Well, this morning I drove Stella to the riding school and then – I’m so sorry, Douglas – then I went into Nice to meet James.’
If Douglas was wounded by the information, he concealed it. ‘And then?’
‘I was early to the restaurant. I remembered that letter you told me about – the one on the mantelpiece. I had it with me in my bag and I decided to read it while I was waiting. It
was from some friends of mine who work in the flower-market: Armand – I’ve told you about him – and a flower-seller called Hélène.’ She paused, miserably.
‘Well? What did it say?’
Diana bowed her head. ‘It said I’d been a complete fool. Not in so many words, but that’s what it meant. James has been telling me he’s a legitimate businessman here in
Nice, and I believed him.’ She looked up.
‘It turns out he’s become a gangster, Douglas. He murders people, or has them murdered for him. Everyone’s terrified of him. He runs a protection racket here and he’s
about to join the Nice Mafia. He tricked me into giving him money for a so-called business deal but he’s given it straight to them; some kind of joining fee, I think.’
‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘How much did you give him?’
She told him and he winced. ‘He must be a very persuasive man. You’re nobody’s fool, Diana.’
She looked at him gratefully. ‘Anyway . . . as soon as I’d read the letter, he arrived. Obviously I confronted him and he didn’t bother denying any of it. In fact, Douglas, I
don’t think he gave a damn one way or the other what I thought of him. I was finally seeing the real person I married all those years ago. I feel so
stupid.’
She clutched her head in her hands. ‘How could I have been so taken in? I never once glimpsed the real James – or if I did, I chose to ignore it. Apparently the locals call him
Le Loup Anglais
, but I don’t think he’s a bit like a wolf. This morning I felt I was in the presence of a snake – cold and calculating and unfeeling. He’s vile,
Douglas.’
He touched her cheek. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. You were just a girl when you married him. From what you’ve told me before, you barely knew him. But putting all that to
one side, you still haven’t told me why you think our girl is with this man.’
When she had finished describing that afternoon’s events, Douglas sat deep in thought for several minutes.
‘Do you think she went willingly?’ he asked at length.
‘I have no idea. Probably. He could charm the birds from the trees.’
‘What does he look like now? Would she have recognised him, d’you think?’
Diana nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, definitely. He’s hardly changed at all. God knows what she must have thought when she set eyes on him.’
‘Poor kid.’ He stood up. ‘Right, let’s go find her. I’m sure she’s in no danger. He is her father, after all. He’ll be playing some stupid game or
other. Do you know where he lives?’
She got to her feet and handed him the note she had been clutching throughout the conversation. ‘This is his address – and before you ask, Douglas, no, I haven’t been there. In
fact,’ she closed her eyes before continuing, ‘in fact, it only happened once. I know that even once is unforgivable, but it’s the truth.’
To her horror she saw his face crumple and tears suddenly drop from his eyes. He made no sound.
‘Oh God, Douglas, I am
so
,
so sorry
. Whatever have I done to you?’ She threw her arms around him and held him until she felt him stiffen his shoulders and try to
pull away. She released him and he cleared his throat.
‘I’m all right, Diana. Really I am. Will be, anyway.’ He took a large white handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew hard. ‘These things can happen in any marriage, I
know that,’ he continued. ‘And anyway, it’s not as if you went off with any Tom, Dick or Harry, is it? He was once your husband.’
She stared at him. ‘You’re incredible, Douglas. I don’t deserve you.’
He ushered her to the door. ‘I don’t know about that. But I’ll tell you one thing.
You
certainly don’t deserve
him
. Come on. Let’s go get our
girl.’
James had bought the second apartment some years earlier. He thought of it as his office; he preferred to do business there rather than in the much larger, more luxurious set
of rooms behind the Promenade des Anglais. This was chiefly because of an incident that had taken place there just after the war. A ‘client’ behind with his payments had been summoned
to a meeting, and by the end of the interview there was so much blood on an expensive Persian rug, James had had to have it destroyed. But the unmistakable acid aroma of fear had lingered for days
and he decided he must separate home and business.