The Charmers (15 page)

Now, Verity was safely ensconced in his concrete bunker, its design based on the ones Hitler had built at the old Nazi fortifications along the Normandy coast in France. This one was equally impenetrable. Nobody could get in there without a special key, but before that they needed to know where the door was, and where that special key was kept.

To the naked eye, just walking past, there seemed to be no entrance. It was cleverly hidden beneath the swathe of miniature-leaved ivy that softened the bleak appearance of the concrete cube. No windows looked out from it. The only person with access was himself. All the Boss's perversions, all his black thoughts, all his murderous past was enshrined in there, in videos, recordings, writings, on computer. A narcissist supreme, he kept a record of his doings. It did not make attractive reading, or viewing.

He stood at the window in the main house, which was open to the terrace and the gardens, taking note of his guests, seeing Chad still wandering around looking for Verity.

Others were busily chatting, drinking champagne, eating. Mirabella stood next to the Colonel, her eyes fixed on him, one hand worriedly to her face. The large sapphire ring she wore over her silvery glove glinted in the light. Of course the Boss knew why Mirabella wore those gloves. There was little he did not know about every one of the guests in his house right this minute. And that included the Colonel, who was far too attractive to be a cop. Women doted on him, despite his meager salary and lack of possessions and the two kids he had to bring up, alone. Still, he was not smart enough in these circumstances to pose a threat to the Boss, whereas the doctor was. The doctor was a man used to jungle tactics, who knew to look for the unexpected. And in this case the unexpected was Aunt Jolly.

The Boss had noticed Mirabella was wearing Aunt Jolly's pearls. They were probably the only jewelry of value she owned, apart from the sapphire ring, of course, both of which had once upon a long time ago belonged to the gorgeous Jerusha. He doubted Mirabella was aware of that; she only knew that the ring and the pearls came from her aunt. Along with the villa, and the painting, both of which the Boss desired. He needed the property for the immense amount of money to be made developing it; and he wanted the painting because of its history. In fact, he lusted after that painting.

He was a man without a past, not one he could speak of anyway, and he had almost succeeded in putting it out of his mind. The future was all he'd ever thought about since he was a boy in Minsk lopping down trees, his hands cracked from the bitter cold, bleeding as he worked. He'd sworn then to get out, to leave it behind, never to tell anyone where he came from; never to remember a single emotion, except the urge for revenge against the world. And the need to kill. The knife yielded ultimate power, and he liked to use it on women. Verity was to be his next “guest,” as he liked to call his victims.

He had thought about the act of killing many times before he'd enacted the role of murderer. To kill was easy enough; to dispose of the victim's body and also any evidence that might lead back to him was less easy. Still, he had perfected it. He was simply the stranger, passing through town, dressed like any workingman, a cap over his head, a knife in his pocket. He had studied the art, as he called it, of the famous Yorkshire Ripper, as well as the predecessor, Jack the Ripper, who to this day had never been traced, though speculation abounded.

Their tactics had been the same. A woman unknown to them. An area they did not inhabit. A method of getting in and out without exciting notice, like an autoroute stopover, where often the little runaway girls might be found, begging a lift, with promises. That was his beginning. He had quickly moved on to much more sophisticated venues and classier women. And he'd never been traced as being in the area, even the city where these murders took place. There was nothing to match the thrill of it.

Clever, of course. Having money made it easier. But this was the first time he had flirted with danger in exactly this way, on his home ground. What, he wondered, had made him do it?

Well, first, he'd wanted Mirabella out of the way so he'd have access to her land. Then he had an overpowering urge for Verity that he could not deny, which was why he had to hide in back of the bar so his excitement would not be noticed. Also, Verity was available. But she was in his way. And biggest and most important was ego; he knew that by instigating a search, offering a great reward, talking publicly on TV and radio about his sorrow that one of his young guests had disappeared, by vowing to find her, to find who was responsible, he would become a national hero.

Right now, though, Verity was sprawled on the narrow bed in the concrete bunker, in the space behind the sitting area, divided by a wall with a large-screen TV from his office. She had been bound and gagged. The two Lithuanians who had carried out his instructions were paid and gone, exactly the same way the failed killer on the Ducati had left immediately after sending Mirabella and this stupid girl over the edge into the canyon. Money talked.

She would not escape this time.

 

27

Mirabella

I'm standing alone near the wooden steps leading down the small cliff to the beach, exactly where I'd stood ten minutes ago, and probably ten minutes before that. The waves have picked up as the tide turned and are now splashing noisily on the pebbles, then flowing back again. Endlessly. Forever.

I refuse to believe Verity is lost in the sea. I cannot. I will not allow it. I saved her from herself on the train and there's an old saying that when you save a person you are responsible for them forever. You become the keeper of their soul.

I can see Chad silhouetted against the waves, striding back toward me. I know he fears she has drowned. And in my darkest place, I begin to fear it too.

My once-lovely aqua chiffon dress is plastered against my body with the wind that's gotten up and the spray carried on it. I feel Aunt Jolly's pearls, cool against my breasts. I put up a hand to touch them, wishing the aunt who gave them to me could be here to help me now. And also Jerusha, the enigma whose life I was so determined to explore, to find the truth about whether she had committed a terrible crime of passion or if someone had framed her. The story that she had found her lover with another woman and in a jealous rage had shot him did not ring true. Her lover adored her, and the woman was a stranger who'd followed her home, spied on her, envied Jerusha's success, her beauty, her home. And her love.

It was not in her character, and “character,” as murder psychologists tell us, is where the truth lies. You are who you are.

All I know is if she were here now, she would help. I have a gut feeling about Jerusha, as strong as my gut feeling that Verity is here, somewhere. I will not give up hope.

Chad came to the top of the steps and stood next to me. He put a hand on my shoulder and I pushed the pearls to one side so I might feel his warmth, the strength I needed. I turned to him and tripped awkwardly. I put out my hands to save myself but fell onto the grass, which was cold and damp. The sea sounded suddenly louder. Chad hauled me back up. He stroked away the strands of hair sticking to my face where tears were now running. I hitched my dress back over my bosom, smoothed my damp skirt. Oddly, I was still holding onto my sandals. I held them up to show him, managing a half smile. “Thanks. I'm sorry, I always seem to be crying.”

“That's okay, cry if you need to. Lord knows it's a relief sometimes, just to get all that emotion out of you. And listen, the Boss has men out searching for Verity. Nobody is sure she went into the sea, nobody remembers anything other than seeing her go into the house. She could turn up anywhere.”

He was doing his best to sound convincing but I wasn't buying it. It was a good try though and I wanted him to think I felt better because of it.

I slipped my hand into his and we walked back to the house, still festively lit for the party. The black hills loomed beyond, a dark forested backdrop. A killer might be hiding out there, peeking through the windows, watching the privileged enjoying the rich man's bounty.

How the Boss had managed to keep Verity's disappearance a secret from everyone I did not know, but his party was going right on; wine was still being poured, chefs were still sizzling things on their barbecues, lanterns glowed and moths and night creatures still batted their wings against them, the small ruffles of noise competing with the laughter and the tinkling of ice. All the normal things when nothing was normal anymore.

I took my hand from Chad's and looked at my ruined silver mesh gloves, stuck with black earth and flower petals and grit. Yet my sapphire still glowed.

“Thank God,” I said. “I should have hated to lose Aunt Jolly's ring. She treasured it because it came from Jerusha.”

Chad took my gloved hands in both of his. “One day I want to ask you about your hands, and what happened,” he said. “But now is not the time. We have to find Verity. She can't have gotten far. I think maybe she was a little tipsy, I saw her stumble as she walked to the house. Mirabella, let me ask you, what do you really know about Verity? Is there anyone she told you about who might wish to harm her?”

I shook my head, tears spilling. Some women I know look glamorous when they cry, but not me. Red eyes are not becoming.

“Only the rotten husband,” I said. “The cheater. I told you all he wanted was money. He took what little she had. She left him, never to be heard from again. Until Verity files divorce papers, that is. I expect he'll have plenty to say about what a bad wife she was. Little Verity who's so innocent she makes me feel like a woman of the world. How could anyone wish to harm her?
Why?
I ask you.”

He made no answer and we walked in silence up the rise to the party. A passing waiter stopped to offer a tray of martinis. Chad snagged a couple and put one in my hand.

“Drink,” he said. “You have to get yourself together.”

The Colonel came striding toward us, head poked forward in his usual urgent manner, though his face was grim.

“My men have searched this stretch of the beach,” he said, taking a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopping his brow. “Nothing. No discarded clothing as if she had gone skinny dipping…” He glanced apologetically my way as if I might be offended by the very suggestion. “It has been known, at parties like this, at beach houses.”

“Of course,” Chad said.

I knew the Colonel had noticed my skirt clinging to my legs, and my tear-dampened face and windblown hair. “I need to go home,” I said. Aunt Jolly's villa,
my
villa, suddenly seemed a haven of safety. I suddenly realized that of course it would be the place to which Verity would return. If she were free to do so.

Chad went to look for the Boss, to tell him we were leaving, but was unable to find him. He left a message with the head waiter, offering apologies and saying he would return and help in the search.

Guilt washed over me. “I
should
stay,” I said, shivering, as I thought of Verity in that dark sea, the waves closing over her head. But Chad insisted on taking me home.

He drove fast, swinging the convertible sharply into my driveway. The villa was in complete darkness. Obviously, I had forgotten to leave the outside lights on, though I thought I remembered leaving a lamp on indoors.

He got out and hurried to open my door, taking my hands to help me. There was something so reassuring about him, he made me feel safe, even when the worst had happened.

“It hasn't, you know,” he said, knowing from my face what I was thinking. “I've learned,” he added, “that things are not always what they seem. Whatever has happened to Verity, we'll find her and I promise I'll find out why.” He bent his head and kissed my hand, the one with the sapphire. “We can't let Aunt Jolly down.”

Chad turned on the outside lights, and insisted on coming into the house with me. The dog came running, and the cat sat on the stairs watching us.

Chad turned on the lamps and said, “There must have been a power outage. It happens quite often around here. Probably the Boss's illuminations overloaded the system.”

Still, just to be sure, he walked through the rooms, checking there were no villains hiding under beds, no robbers prying open the safe, no killers in black masks. Like last time.

I had treated that incident almost as a joke, a prank, a mistaken identity by a unskilled thief who'd thought I had something more worth stealing than Aunt Jolly's ring and her pearls, though nowadays I believe thieves go more for laptops and electronic devices. My laptop however, still sat on my desk, untouched by any human hand other than my own.

Eyes still checking, Chad said, “I'm calling the Colonel, telling him to get some men up here instead of uselessly combing that beach, where they'll never find Verity anyway.”

“Why do you think that?”

“She was last seen entering the Boss's house. No one saw her come out. The beach was well-lit so the guests could wander at will. There was even a bar down there, sandwiches for the taking. The Boss thought of everything.”

He was right, and the Boss was certainly not a man to miss a beat. In fact if anyone had seen Verity it would have been him.

“I saw him watching her,” I remembered. “I thought he had his eye on her, fancied her … you know.”

“Pity yours wasn't a keener eye,” Chad said. “Then we might know more about where she went.”

He was already on his mobile calling the Colonel. “I'll be right there,” I heard him say as he turned back to me.

“I'm not the domesticated type or I'd offer to make you a cup of tea,” he said. “But I suggest you at least get out of that wet dress, take a hot shower, and get into your pj's. I'll be back in half an hour to check on you. I'll bring tea from the Boss's party. After all, he's thought of everything else—he must have thought of that too.”