The Lost Swimmer (32 page)

‘Did they tell you his passport's missing?'

‘No.' Guido frowned.

‘Do you think Napolitano's been bribed?' I shifted awkwardly, the very thought making me flush with anxiety.

‘It's possible, of course.' Guido watched me carefully. ‘It wouldn't be the first time. But why do you think so?'

‘They jumped to the conclusion that Stephen's dead with no body and no evidence. And then they started blaming me. It was all very quick.'

‘You think Stephen paid them off?' Guido's voice went high with incredulity.

‘Priscilla. The blonde woman, his companion.' I sighed, exhausted, my head spinning with relief that Stephen was alive.

‘Becca?' Guido took my hands in his giant paws, his black eyes burning into mine. ‘You must find Stephen. Get proof. Without that, it's dangerous for you. The police around Naples,' Guido cast his eyes heavenwards, ‘they are not like us Venetians. Their morality is different.' He gripped me tightly. ‘When you have proof, call me and I'll speak to the police here.'

‘Guido, can I use your computer? I must tell James and Erin.' He sprang up, unusually quick for someone so large, and led me through into his small cramped office that smelled of leather and paper.

‘Becca?' he said softly. ‘If there is anything else I can do, anything at all?'

I sat in his huge chair and clicked on the computer, rapidly typing my message in code. I couldn't send it from myself. I used a secret language we'd invented when the kids were small; I prayed they would remember. What I did know was that they would recognise Guido's name. As I heard the whoosh of my dispatch I imagined my children's elation and wished I could be with them.
Soon
, I told myself.

‘Here's Ludovico's address,' said Guido, passing me a slip of paper. ‘He's in Saint Germain. I'm sure you want to hear for yourself.' He smiled. ‘And now we eat. You look wrecked.'

I followed Guido to the cavernous kitchen, absorbed with the news that Stephen was all right and happily ensconced in Paris. That he'd abandoned me seemed suddenly immaterial. Somehow I would set things right: all I needed to do was find him. Surely he'd had some sort of breakdown and needed help? I wouldn't leave him behind, like I'd left my father, that terrible day in the storm. This time, I was staying.

Guido's strong arms worked like machines as he flung slabs of bacon into bubbling oil and cracked huge eggs into a saucepan. The glassblowers of Murano were special. I had never doubted that Guido would support me in my hour of need.

I fell upon the food: Stephen being alive gave me an enormous appetite.

‘I want you to take my brother's van,' Guido said solemnly. ‘It's parked at Mestre. I'll load it with glassware. If anyone asks, you're taking a delivery for me, but obviously don't give your real name. They can phone and I'll back it up. I'll program in the safest route for the border crossing on the van's GPS. Places aren't patrolled these days, except recently the coast road – and they're only looking for dark-coloured people.' He shook his head disapprovingly.

I thanked him profusely but worried police at this very moment might be tracing the email address I'd just used.

We crammed down the last blissful mouthfuls and Guido led me into an adjacent room where a long table displayed vases of exquisite beauty: swirls of aquamarine, rich deep blues, ghostly grey and all the colours of the Venetian lagoon danced through clear, pristine glass. The vases were alive as sunshine breathed into them, through them, sparkling and enriching their lustre. At any moment it felt like they would heave and sigh with the tide. Guido picked up a vase in the hues of sunset and dawn across the sea. It glowed as if lit from within. He wrapped it and passed it across like a swaddled baby.

‘For luck. I will come and see where you put it at home,' he said. Then we went into another room filled with crates of Ludovico's glass, which we carried to Guido's boat.

The sky was crystal-blue as we sped smoothly across to Mestre. In the vast car park we rapidly loaded the anonymous white van – I didn't know whether the police had located the sports car and were watching the area – and I couldn't get away fast enough.

Without speaking Guido pulled me into a bone-crushing hug. For a moment I wished he could come with me but I reassured myself that I'd driven from Venice to France before, and no one could trace me now. Guido put my carry-on bag on the passenger seat and I hauled myself into the van and fired up the engine, blowing heartfelt kisses to him as I circled past. He was still waving as I left the endless aisles of cars and set off for Paris.

•  •  •

The GPS led me easily on a back road across the border, past an old guard hut, long abandoned. I sailed through. Even though I was in the unmarked van, I took minor roads the whole way. It was just after dawn when I reached Ludovico's place on the Left Bank of the Seine, in a narrow street in the sixth arrondissement. I found a park directly outside the gracious nineteenth-century building. Beside the sleekly painted door, Ludovico's name peered out among the tenants; I buzzed up.

‘I'll come straight down, Becca,' he purred in a rolling Venetian accent.

He hugged me so solidly I felt instantly reassured, his slender body strong from breathing life into glass the traditional way. At twenty-five, Ludovico had not yet developed the thicker build of his uncle. His glossy black hair and dark eyes above generous lips and friendly smile made Ludovico popular.

‘Quickly, I don't want you to be seen,' he whispered. ‘You're in the news.' He stole a furtive look around; it was too early for many people to be on the street.

‘It's a very local area,' he murmured. ‘The walls have eyes.' He ushered me through to a small courtyard with a bubbling fountain at its centre, and took my hand as he led me hurriedly up three flights of stairs.

The apartment was small with massive windows that stretched to the ceiling. Ludovico's glass creations glowed in rich colours of the rainbow. As he went back to unload the van I used his computer to look up the news online.

There was a short article in the French press saying I was wanted by the Italian police for questioning and had not returned to my hotel on the Amalfi coast. My photo was posted, along with a request for anyone who saw me to contact police. There was also a picture of the red sports car, and I consoled myself that it was miles away in Mestre.

When Ludovico came back with my bag I set about making myself as unrecognisable as possible. I plastered on make-up and swirled my hair into a bun. I donned clothes that looked the least like those I was wearing in the photo – a much more formal dress and shoes – and I borrowed a stylish straw hat from Ludovico. If I kept my sunglasses on at all times I might just go unnoticed.

•  •  •

‘It was here.' In the Tuileries Gardens, Ludovico led me to a wrought-iron table beneath a plane tree. We sat down, and Ludovico ordered us coffee and croissants. In the distance a circular boat pond glistened in the sparkling light and Parisians and tourists were already draping themselves on the elegant slatted seats that surrounded the water. A few children floated replica sailing craft, poking them around with long sticks.

I was momentarily overwhelmed with relief to think that Stephen had been here so recently but then I felt sick – he'd been here with Priscilla.

‘It's going to be a perfect day,' said Ludovico, trying to surreptitiously glance at his watch.

‘When do you need to get to your exhibition?'

‘Soon. I'm sorry, will that be all right? I need to display some of the new pieces that you've brought.'

‘Of course. I'm so grateful to you. But before you go, would you . . . Could you tell me every detail about Stephen?'

Ludovico ran long fingers through his matt of hair. ‘So,' he leaned close, ‘Stephen was sitting here with a blonde woman. About your age. Thin, blue-eyed. Well dressed. Sexy. They were deep in conversation when I called out. I was over there, closer to the kiosk.' Ludovico scrunched his eyes, recapturing the scene in his mind. ‘Stephen had his back to me. When he turned, I saw that his beard was shaved. He didn't respond at all; stared like he'd never known me. Then I started thinking it wasn't him. He seemed intimate with the blonde woman, and that felt wrong.' Ludovico cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Sorry, Becca, but I'm going to tell you everything in precise detail like I'm making a vase.'

I nodded and waited, trying to hide how difficult I was finding it to hear every word.

‘I realised they'd been holding hands.'

I gritted my teeth and forced myself to keep listening.

‘After I waved, the woman let go as if he'd burned her but he just mumbled calmly. He put money on the table and they walked off. That way, towards the fair.' Ludovico indicated a Ferris wheel and sideshows that squatted along one side of the gardens near the Rue de Rivoli. ‘I followed them, curious to see if it really was Stephen. Perhaps I'd been mistaken?'

‘But you know what he looks like. You've met him lots of times with me at your uncle's place.'

‘Si, si. That's why it was so strange. Anyway, they soon stopped and bought frozen drinks.'

‘Can you show me?'

‘Of course.'

We called to the waiter to tell him we would be back and then Ludovico led me to a multi-coloured granita stand, where banks of orange, lime, pineapple and strawberry concoctions were stacked one on top of each other in giant dispensers.

‘It's not like Stephen to want one of these.' I frowned as I surveyed the garish frozen drinks.

‘Perhaps it wasn't him?'

‘Or his tastes have changed. Was it hot?'

Ludovico shrugged. ‘Maybe humid.' His long eyelashes fluttered up and down. ‘It was, you know, morning. A sunny day.'

We walked back to our table past cheerful sideshows, carnival clowns with open mouths sitting ready to take the small white balls and spit out numbers so every child could win a prize the world over.

‘We've always loved this carnival. It's Erin and James's favourite.' I looked up at the giant replica ape waiting to beckon the evening crowds to his roller-coaster. We passed the dodgem cars, silent now. ‘They'll be raucous tonight,' I said, remembering our family visits on warm summer evenings that stretched until eleven o'clock when the gardens shut. It would still be light, a long, exquisite twilight, the moon hanging like a prop in a school play. I shuddered at the thought of Priscilla sharing such a moment with Stephen.

Back at our table in the cool shade of the trees we ate quickly, in silence. Ludovico gulped his coffee and kissed me lightly on the cheek. ‘Good luck today,' he said with a smile as he strode away through the dappled light.

Now I could move – but in my exhaustion I couldn't think where. I looked around through the shimmering trees. Might Stephen take a walk here today? Where else could he be – the Musée D'Orsay, or having breakfast in a cafe in the Latin Quarter? Would he lunch with Priscilla in the Marais beneath the gracious arches of the Place des Vosges? My heart shrank. Rage surged through me, clearing my head.

I reminded myself to think like an archaeologist. Narrow the possibilities. To find Stephen would take a random search through his favourite haunts, in the vast arrondissements of Paris, relying on chance. On the other hand, Priscilla was here on study leave and I expected that even in the flush of romance she would be far too driven and ambitious to waylay her research. I'd been to archives in Paris and I knew from talking with colleagues which ones held the best resources for French historians. Research the researcher. It was far more likely I could find Priscilla.

I would follow her and let her lead me to Stephen.

I
made my way to the twirling art-nouveau sign on Rue de Rivoli that signalled the entrance to the Metro. I hurried down the long flight of stairs, bought tickets from the automatic machine and was soon on my way to the Archives Nationales in the Marais, a logical place for Priscilla to do her research.

I walked past Hôtel de Soubise, the imposing building that used to hold the archives, and through a verdant garden to where a new building housed the collection. I went upstairs to the long reading room, peering like a hawk for its prey. Green lamps proliferated like a field of flowers above timber desks. Scholars had their heads down, working hard. There was no sign of Priscilla.

I thought rapidly. Another possibility was the new Bibliothèque Nationale – I wasn't sure where it was, having only been to the old one in Rue du Richelieu, but I'd heard French historians complain that a vast majority of the collection had been moved there. I hurried to a taxi stand, and thirty minutes later through heavy traffic the driver dropped me on the street beside a vast flight of steps in the thirteenth arrondissement. At the top, a forecourt stretched far and wide, with monolithic buildings on each of the four corners rising up to the sky. I walked through the stark concrete landscape to an elevator that took me down to the library, where rooms were spaced around a wild, tree-filled courtyard bigger than two football fields. For admission I had to show my academic credentials, which I always carried with me in my wallet, and then wait for a day ticket. My stomach tightened as I handed over my photo ID, which didn't look particularly like me and today less so with what I was wearing, but I was terrified that my name might be recognised from the news. To my relief the girl behind the counter didn't give me, or my card a second glance.

I sat impatiently, planning where I would go next if Priscilla wasn't here. Then I paced up and down a corridor with a wall of glass giving views to the forest that had been transplanted here. The place felt odd – too new, its subterranean rooms looking out into the strange greenery, displaced. When I finally got into the reading rooms it took an inordinate amount of time to search, and by the end I was weary and deflated. Priscilla was nowhere in sight.