The Lost Swimmer (24 page)

The line of white buoys bobbed in the gentle swell.

‘Stephen? Stephen?' It was all I could do, a hopeless bleat. Night was closing in and a heavy mist was forming, thickening the indigo twilight.

‘Are you sure he came down here?' Marco was calm and rational.

‘He must have. There's nowhere else. He wouldn't have driven anywhere – and certainly not gone on a bus. He wouldn't go without me anyway.'

‘No,' agreed Marco hesitantly.

I sank onto the ledge, not taking my eyes from the sea. Shuddering violently I gripped my knees, rocking back and forth, praying fervently.

A school of fish shimmered and glistened in the clear water below. They flashed away as quickly as they'd come. In the tranquility the ring of Marco's phone made us both jump.

‘Pronto.' Marco listened. ‘Si, si.' He hung up. ‘The elevator's stuck. Adriana can't get it going and the emergency phone isn't working. We think Stephen's inside,' he finished with relief.

Hope hit me like a brick. Stephen was not lost at sea, but simply locked safely away in an iron cage halfway up the mountain. That's why the lift hadn't come when I waited earlier.

Marco was pulling at my hands. I hesitated, gazing at the flat, silky surface, checking once more that Stephen wasn't swimming in through the buoys.

‘Come,' said Marco. ‘He's not here. There's no towel. No clothes. I don't feel he's been here.'

•  •  •

A small crowd of guests and technicians had gathered outside the lift near reception. Adriana was loudly leading proceedings.

‘It's your husband who's trapped inside?' asked an elderly Italian lady dripping with diamonds.

‘I hope so,' I replied abruptly.

‘I'm sure Stephen is in there,' announced Adriana. Beside her Marco was in rapid conversation with the main technician, who stood at an open control box fiddling with circuitry.

‘When did it stop working?' I asked the crowd at large. The elderly woman shrugged dramatically. ‘Adriana, how long has it been?' she called.

‘There's plenty of oxygen.' Adriana marched over and flung her arms about me. ‘He won't suffocate, my dear. We've had others trapped. We always get them out alive!' The crowd laughed, but I couldn't.

‘Caro, we need to get you cleaned up. Look at you.' Adriana fussed over the blood and plum stains on my shirt.

‘It's the last thing I'm worried about!' I snapped but Adriana was not deterred. She dragged me to the public bathroom and washed the stains with warm water. It just made them mingle and spread. She bathed my face like a mother and tears started to seep out. ‘I need to know what time the lift stopped working.'

‘We don't know,' replied Adriana matter-of-factly. ‘Come, come, my love. It's all right, it's okay,' she soothed, rocking me in her strong, slender arms. A shout from the crowd filtered in. We ran back, just as the lift rumbled to life.

An eternity passed as the iron beast rose. Finally the doors creaked open and I rushed forward.

Empty.

The lift was empty. My knees buckled, but Adriana held me up. ‘We'll check your room again.' She led me quickly away.

The room was dark. And when we turned on the lights there was still no sign of Stephen.

Adriana flew into the bathroom. ‘Check if his bathers are here,' she said and I scurried to Stephen's suitcase, trying to think where they might be if he hadn't gone swimming. I rifled through his neatly packed clothes, then hurried to the wardrobe and searched.

‘I can't find them,' I called. ‘They're not here!'

I tipped the suitcase upside down. Clothes scattered. Adriana dropped to her knees beside me and we sorted through. There were no bathers.

‘There's a towel missing from the bathroom,' she said finally and moved to hug me. I went completely still. This was it, the moment I'd waited for. Losing the man I loved for a second time.

‘We must go back,' I said.

•  •  •

Strong searchlights blazed through the inky blackness. Two police boats plied the waters, large cruisers with rumbling engines; above them a helicopter emblazoned GUARDIA COSTIERA roared like a warzone, shooting a dazzling white arc across the waves. On the rocky ledge, lights brighter than daylight had been set up; police cast long shadows as they hunted along the cliff-base. I sat with Adriana and Giotto from the Positano police station. Someone had placed a rug around my shoulders. Above me, the tatty thatched roof let in the night air that was growing colder.

‘Perhaps you had a fight?' asked Giotto.

‘No. We were having the perfect holiday. But his illness this morning – I'm so worried it came back. If he's too weak to swim he'll be out there treading water. We must find him.' I stood abruptly.

‘They were always happy.' Adriana backed me up like she'd known us all her life.

Voices of men and women shouting in Italian echoed around the high stone walls that stretched up forever. I was finding it hard to focus; I wanted to be searching with the others.

‘And you don't think he could have just gone into town? To Amalfi or Positano?'

‘He hated that road, he wouldn't go without me.' I thought suddenly of the time he left me in the museum in Athens. I wouldn't have expected he'd do that either.

‘What is it?' Giotto was staring hard.

‘I really think it's unlikely. There'd be no reason. He wouldn't have left me alone for dinner. He'd be back by now.' My voice cracked. It was after midnight. Then a thought struck. ‘Stephen's due to speak at a conference on Capri next week. Maybe he was called across?'

I scrolled through my phone and found the hotel where the conference was being held and where we were due to stay. I dialled, hands shaking, and reception picked up immediately. Rapidly I outlined my problem – was Stephen there? After a long minute the helpful man came back: no, he certainly hadn't checked in, our booking wasn't until next Wednesday. I asked if he could check if Stephen was in the building, perhaps meeting with someone in the bar. I waited for what seemed an eternity before the reply came: no, Professor Wilding was not there. I left my number, and he assured me he would contact me if Stephen turned up.

‘Perhaps he went to shop in Amalfi or Positano for a surprise for you and got lost?' Adriana was trying to be helpful, but it didn't make any of us feel better.

‘Could someone check there?' I asked, in spite of thinking it was stupid. Where would they even start to look?

Giotto shrugged. ‘All of us are here. I'll see if the Commissario wants to send someone.'

A commotion rang out along the rocky ledge.

‘Over here! Over here!'

Marco stood at the front of the crowd. In a tiny crevice, a white hotel towel was rolled up. Marco pulled it out and the Commissario, a tall, lean man in his forties with the look of a sleek wolf, took it and unfurled it.

Stephen's shirt and shorts fell to the ground.

The world went black.

I
woke in the small lounge off reception. A shell-pink dawn was creeping across the sea.

My limbs were as heavy as anchors as the night's events slowly came back.

‘Have you found him?' I slurred and Marco rushed to my side.

‘Not yet.' He handed me a glass of water. I touched my lips but couldn't feel anything.

‘The doctor's given you a tranquilliser,' said Marco, gently rubbing my shoulders.

Adriana came in with the Commissario, who in the daylight looked even less friendly. ‘You remember Commissario Napolitano from last night?' I nodded like a rabbit frozen in headlights.

‘Do you have his passport please, Signora Wilding?' Napolitano's voice was cold with suspicion.

‘It'll be in our room, in the safe.'

‘We've looked,' said Adriana apologetically. ‘Yours is there, but not Stephen's.'

I blinked mutely.

‘Did you always keep them together?' asked Marco.

‘I can't even remember getting them back after we left them at reception.'

‘Of course I gave them back,' said Adriana, offended.

I thought hard but had no recollection. ‘When?' I asked.

‘That day or the next.'

‘Who did you give them to?'

‘You or Stephen, I'm not sure.'

‘I'm sorry, I don't remember getting them,' I repeated. All I could think was how passports were left lying around unattended at reception.

‘Well, clearly I did because yours is in your room safe,' said Adriana. Marco frowned and went to reception, where he shuffled about behind the counter.

The Commissario called Giotto over to take notes. ‘I'd like to go through the last twenty-four hours you spent with your husband, please? Every detail.' He sat down in a deep sofa that sighed with his weight. ‘Firstly, please, you need to tell me if you had a fight?'

‘No, we had a lovely day. Stephen was unwell in the morning but then he was much better by lunchtime.' I flashed to how generous he'd been about my keynote address; my leg jittered uncontrollably. ‘I'm so worried his illness came back. Please, can we go down to the water?'

‘We have our boats. There's nothing you can do,' said Napolitano.

The drugs were numbing my brain; it was difficult keeping a train of thought. If Stephen's passport had disappeared, was that good or bad? I struggled to make sense of anything. The sea had taken another man from me. I'd asked Stephen never to swim there. Adriana, the Commissario and Giotto were staring at me. I'd just spoken my thoughts aloud.

‘He's a strong swimmer and the sea was calm,' I continued. ‘Are there rips?' No one understood. I made a movement with my hands and twisted my body, trying to imitate getting caught in turbulence. I felt like I was swimming through molasses. ‘Dangerous water? Strong currents?'

Finally they nodded.

‘Perhaps,' said Napolitano.

‘There can be,' muttered Adriana sadly.

‘We grew up here. We know how to read the sea,' said Giotto, looking up from his note-taking. ‘Last night was calm. It would be unusual. But then, you can never take the sea for granted.'

‘I know that,' I said grimly. ‘Are there coves? Could he have swum somewhere and not be able to get back?'

‘We're checking everywhere,' replied Giotto, ‘and we have divers.'

Tears rose uncontrollably, forming into a tight sob that I tried to suppress. When my father drowned, divers had gone in, but his body had washed up further down the coast the next day. My mind grasped slowly the concept that Stephen's passport had gone.

‘Anything?' I called to Marco.

‘It's not here,' he called back. ‘Stephen's passport is not here with us.' He looked at me sympathetically.

The image of Stephen's clothes hidden in the crevice flashed back. ‘Do you think he's met with foul play?' My voice cracked.

‘How?' said Marco, ‘It's a private beach.'

‘One of the guests?'

‘That's highly unlikely,' said Adriana loudly.

Napolitano watched us.

‘Sir, is it possible?' I asked.

‘It is completely improbable,' he snapped, ‘that a guest or a stranger would be down there. Your husband was the only one who asked for the key to the gate that day.' He stared at me. ‘I am wondering, did he leave his wallet and phone?'

Napolitano led the way to our room. Marco picked up my phone from the bedside table, and I listened to the messages. Burton had left five, growing increasingly urgent. There was nothing from Stephen. Napolitano's eyes remained fixed on me.

I couldn't see Stephen's wallet anywhere; it wasn't in his bedside drawer or the safe, so I rushed to the wardrobe and found the trousers he'd worn to the Grotta Verdi yesterday, feeling in the back pocket. Pain as sharp as a knife cut through me as I pulled the wallet out. With trembling hands I opened it: there were gaps where some plastic banking cards had been but I had no idea whether he might have just left them in Australia. I'd left a lot of mine at home. Stephen's main credit card was there but I knew he had others that weren't. My head spun as I stared at the black leather wallet that Stephen would normally always have on him in the outside world.

In his jacket pocket was his phone. I turned it on and it immediately died. I went to the charger still plugged into the wall and slotted it in. I tried to turn it on again but knew it would take a few seconds to kick to life.

Napolitano observed like a hawk as I propped on the edge of the bed and waited impatiently for Stephen's phone to fire up.

There was a message from his stockbroker Phillip Bradley in Melbourne, asking to call him urgently. I flicked through Stephen's emails – a few from work needing his advice even though they knew he was on holiday and hundreds of other emails he'd deal with upon his return. They looked typical and uninteresting as I scrolled frantically.

There was nothing from Priscilla in any medium.

The Commissario coughed. ‘May I?'

I handed him the wallet and phone, which he quickly inspected, flicking through the small amount of cash Stephen had.

‘I can't tell if anything's missing,' I said. ‘He has more banking cards but he might not have brought them on holiday.' I was desperately frustrated I didn't know.

Napolitano eyed me as if I were an insect, then turned his attention to the phone and rang through to the messages, listening to Phillip Bradley.

‘Who is he?' Napolitano asked as he hung up.

‘Stephen's stockbroker.'

‘Ah.' The Commissario's eyes lit up. ‘May I keep these, please?'

I didn't want to relinquish the wallet or the phone in case they held clues I could decipher and they were Stephen's – they were part of him.

‘We will return them. When we can.' Napolitano strode out, giving me no say in the matter.