Untold Story (28 page)

She took off her underwear and when she dived in she swam along the bottom in the dark until she hit her head against the steps at the shallow end. She came up for air and then flipped onto her back. Between the black of the sky and the black of the water she floated, thoughts leaking out of her, jellyfish and phosphorous, she could see them spreading across the pool. She flipped over and hung facedown, eyes open, in the water. Now she could see nothing. Her legs started sinking and she kicked them up, keeping her face under the surface. She was freezing and her lungs were burning. She stayed as still as possible. When she thought she couldn’t last any longer, she blew out hard through her mouth and kicked to force herself down. She reached the bottom and placed both palms flat on the tiles and let herself go. She inhaled too soon as she came up. Rufus barked and she coughed and retched, and flailed to reach the side.

She clambered out and doubled up and coughed until she vomited a long thin stream of milky water. Her legs were shaking with cold. A huge bug flew right at her, buzzing like a stun gun. It crashed against her shoulder and she screamed. Rufus kept up his din. As she ran for the house she hit her toe against something sharp but she didn’t stop until she got to the back door which was locked, she’d have to go back to find her jeans and the key. She beat on the wood until her fists were sore, then she slid down and sat on the ground and sobbed.

She sat with her foot up. The cut bled down the valley between the tendons of her big and second toes and laced around her ankle. In a minute she would get up and clean it off. How horrible she’d been to Amber. That was unnecessary and she would apologize. She’d forgotten what a bitch she could be.

She had to stop being so angry. The fact that she’d recognized him didn’t mean there was any chance of him recognizing her. He hadn’t turned up at the kennels today. He wasn’t camped outside her house. All she had to do was stay calm. She watched the blood drip onto the cushion.

If he did recognize her . . .

He didn’t.

But if he did . . .

She flexed her foot and raised her leg and the blood flowed down her shin.

Did she want him to? That rush she felt the instant she saw him, was it pure dread, or was it mixed with something else?

Her cell rang. “Just wondering how you’re doing,” said Carson.

“I’m wounded.”

“In body or soul?”

“Big toe.”

“That sounds bad. Want me to come over?”

How careless she had started to become recently. How willing to let down her guard. As if nothing could ever go wrong for her now. “Thanks, but I think I can handle it.”

“I could come anyway. If you like.”

“I’m ready to curl up and go to sleep. Another night.”

“Okay,” said Carson. “You handle your toe, I’ll handle the rejection. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

Maybe John Grabowski had done her a favor showing up here. It served as a reminder. Not to get too comfortable. Perhaps he was an angel in disguise. “I’m not sure,” said Lydia. “I’ll call you. I’ve got a busy week.”

Chapter Twenty-two

On Saturday morning Grabowski rose early, took his laptop and camera bag, and got in the car. He wanted to be out of Kensington today. Thursday, the day after Lydia had come around, he’d lain low. Mrs. Jackson had draped herself in various positions around the bed-and-breakfast and the yard and he’d obliged her by snapping away. He still didn’t have a shot of Lydia with her boyfriend but he couldn’t risk anything. She would be edgy now, she’d be checking over her shoulder and in her rearview mirror. He had to proceed cautiously.

Yesterday he had ventured out to take more photographs that might be used as background, the wooden sign that read, “Welcome to Kensington,” the view over the river, the town hall, the quaint stores on Albert and Victoria streets, the street signs themselves. He’d driven all over town, looking for the best vantage point, for the frame that would be accompanied by the caption that read, “Could this sleepy little town hold the secret to a royal mystery?” They’d make out there’d been a mystery all along, ignore the fact that only the UFO spotters had ever seriously considered it as that.

He’d written the captions to each picture over and over. Not that he’d get any say. When he laid his head down on his pillow and closed his eyes he’d see the headlines in gigantic block capitals.
SHOCK WAVES FELT AROUND THE WORLD . . . PRINCESS “DISCOVERED” IN U.S. BACKWATER . . . RISEN FROM THE DEAD
 . . .

Yesterday, while he was still trying to stay out of her way, he could have sworn she was following him. Three times he’d seen the Sport Trac a couple of cars behind. She should have been at work, not cruising around town.

He pulled into the forecourt of the diner where he’d first spotted Kensington on the map. He needed a shot of this place, where the story began. They’d want him to go through it, exactly how it had all unfolded. There was a fluttering in his stomach. He was hungry. He was also nervous as hell. This was going to be so huge, it was almost unimaginable. The media would descend like a plague of biblical proportions. They’d all want to interview him. His life would change. This was the lull before the tsunami. He was going to need some serious backup.

Patience, he told himself. Put it together. There were a few more things he needed to get in place. He wasn’t going to open his mouth too soon. He wasn’t going to turn paranoid and rush in before he was ready.

Out of nowhere he felt a pang that hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. Was he going to do this to her? The world at her feet, and she moved heaven and earth to get away from it.

Since Wednesday he’d been in such a high state of tension that he’d hardly eaten. After breakfast he’d feel better. A waitress, the same one who’d served him before, came out of the diner and lit a cigarette. She squatted on her heels with her back against the wall.

He should get out of the car and eat. In a minute that’s what he would do. He took his rosary from his pocket and examined the crucifix that hung off it, the silver-capped borealis blue beads. When his mother had given him the rosary, on the day that he left home at eighteen, he’d hugged her. To her he was still what he’d always been, a little altar boy.

He worked the beads through his fingers and thought about Lydia. If he could let her be then he would. But it wasn’t possible. She was here. She was alive. She had lied to the entire world. To her own children who’d followed her coffin. And it wouldn’t be right, it would be wrong of him, to look the other way.

“How are the waffles?” he asked the waitress. She had a safety pin in place of a top button on her blouse, but it didn’t look too safe, the fabric pulled apart and showed her bra.

“To die for,” she said.

“Really?”

“For five bucks and coffee thrown in?” she said. “What do you think?”

He ordered them anyway, with a side of bacon, and when he finished eating he opened his laptop and reviewed the shots he had of Lydia. There was a good one of her coming out of the clothing store, her hair was tied up and she was smiling and waving at someone across the street. She was wearing a camisole-style top, showing her swimmer’s shoulders. There was a series of shots of her getting into her car at the kennel. A brilliant clear shot of her face, straight on. He’d crop in on her eyes for the cover picture. The same blue as his rosary beads. Pictures of her house, from all angles. He didn’t have one of her coming out of the front door because there wasn’t a position from which he could take it unobserved. He had one of her at her bedroom window though, which he’d taken from the bushes. She still had the same habit, on waking, of looking out at the new day. When she’d taken her boys to Disneyland he’d got a shot of her in her dressing gown at six o’clock, drinking coffee standing at the window of her hotel suite. That single picture had paid for his entire trip.

The waitress refilled his coffee cup. “That your girlfriend?”

She’d flirted for England in the early days. That image she had, of being shy, was never real. She’d look down at the ground so it was difficult to get a straight-on head shot but that didn’t stop the banter.

“Just a woman I know,” he said.

The waitress bent down to get a closer look. Her shirt strained dangerously. She straightened up and noticed the camera bag on the seat next to him. “You a photographer?”

“Tell me something,” he said, zooming in on Lydia’s face. “Does she remind you of anyone?” The waitress was probably in her mid-thirties, old enough to remember.

“No. I used to do some modeling,” she said. “When I was younger.”

They’d all been a bit in love with her. Then she’d turned on them.
Why don’t you leave me alone?
It was disconcerting when she’d scream like that. And the answer was so obvious it left you with nothing to say. To be honest, after all those years, it felt like a betrayal. How could she expect them just to go away? She’d given up her police protection too. What did she expect?

“Nothing raunchy,” said the waitress. Her face was sweaty. She had open pores on her nose. The flesh that ran down from her armpit to her elbow swung slightly when she lifted the coffeepot. The way she lacked self-consciousness made her quite sexy. “I did some nudes. But nothing raunchy,” she repeated. “She’s pretty, your girlfriend.”

“She’s not . . . not what you think.”

The waitress picked up his plate. “Yeah?” she said. “In my experience, people rarely are.”

What else did he need? He’d take it to the
News of the World
. No,
The Sunday Times
. Tell Gareth to negotiate an “exclusive” that would last a day. It was going to explode. The photos were the core. Then birth and death certificates. They didn’t exactly prove anything, other than that there was something suspicious about her identity. What he needed now were a few bits of titillating circumstantial evidence. A quote or two from her friends. Any snippet that could be tied to her past, any background information she’d slipped up on. He had to be cautious, but he also had to be quick.

Was she actually following him yesterday? If so, she wouldn’t have seen anything suspicious. He was out taking shots of Kensington yesterday, which tied in neatly with his cover story.

If she thought he was on to her, wouldn’t she simply skip town, vanish? If she did that, he’d still have the pictures, could still press ahead, and it would only add to the intrigue.

Yes, she’d just go.

Unless she wanted to get caught.

Perhaps she’d had enough of living this dreary life.

Grabowski sipped his coffee. He looked over at the waitress, filing her nails at the counter while a man in a baseball cap tried to chat her up. Something in her studiedly casual stance told Grabowski that the man’s luck might be in.

If she wanted to go back to her old life, how could she go about it? Turn up at KP and pound on the gates? This way she’d create the fireworks, the circus, the mayhem she’d always kicked off. She was a perpetual manipulator. She was a puller of strings, and an expert in denial.

It was more likely she had been running errands than following him. It was only his nerves playing up.

How much surgery had she had done? Definitely the nose. Maybe the lips as well. What else had she gone through? Her voice sounded different, had she trained it? In ten years she hadn’t picked up an American accent but she’d lost her own, the accent of the upper classes.

He had to stop this daydreaming and sharpen up his plan. This afternoon he’d go into the clothing store, pretend to be buying something for his wife, and see if he could strike up a conversation. She seemed to be close friends with the woman who ran it. There might be a way to turn the talk around to Lydia. Saturday today. On Monday, when she was safely out of the way at work, he’d break into her house. There’d be something in there to spice up the proceedings. Something she’d taken with her, a recognizable piece of jewelry perhaps, a family photograph. Something that nailed the story to the front pages. The second he got out of there he’d have everything uploaded and ready to e-mail from the bed-and-breakfast. A call in to Gareth first. Shit or get off the pot. It was Gareth who’d be soiling his trousers.

He watched the boutique for a while from across the road, pretending to browse at the florist. Best to go in when there were no other customers. He scanned the street again to make sure Lydia’s car wasn’t there.

Cathy wouldn’t have him back. She’d never got along with his mother. Never made the effort. This was going to change his life anyway. And who knew what he’d want himself when it was over?

First time he’d met Cathy he’d been in a pub brawl the night before. How it had got started he couldn’t even remember by the next day. His fighting days, thank God, were over a long time ago.

The clothing store was empty now, except for the owner who was rehanging clothes from the changing room. He wasn’t sure how to run the conversation. He’d have to play it by ear. Of course he’d tried Mrs. Jackson, but she hadn’t given him anything useful. The same vague details that Lydia had supplied herself, about having moved to America with her husband, living in several different states, getting divorced, settling down in Kensington. Mrs. Jackson wasn’t intimate with Lydia and even if she had been, she was too firmly enthroned at center stage to be capable of reflecting the bit players.