The Siren's Sting (10 page)

The house had been built in the early 1960s by her grandparents. A whitewashed beach bungalow cooled by the sea breezes, it was surrounded by friends and family, and a stone's throw from the little beach.

It was a place full of memories for Stevie, full of ghosts—her mother and father had lived great summers here before they had been taken from her. When she was five, they had spent a glorious month by the sea; then that fateful trip to North Africa that had turned Stevie's world upside down . . .

But on an evening like this one, heavy with the smell of the sea-salted bushes, the green foliage popping with oleander pinks and whites and hibiscus reds, the last of the light turning everything an impossible gold, it was almost as if nothing had changed, as if time had not passed and all the shattered pieces were whole again.

Stevie was just finishing a phone call to Josephine Wang, head of the Confidential Investigations department at Hazard, when she turned into the gravel driveway of the house and stopped dead. A white station wagon was parked in the bamboo-roofed carport.

‘I'm so sorry, Mark, I
must have forgotten all about you. I'm sure Didi would have told me . . . she's always so organised. I just can't remember her mentioning . . .' Didi had certainly not mentioned Mark's visit because, had she known, Stevie might have taken some precautions, like booking a cruise in Scandinavia for a week.

She saw little of her very distant cousin who lived in Leeds and had never shown any interest in Lu Nibaru—or Didi, for that matter.

‘Mark, there are mosquitoes everywhere! Can't you get in here and do something?' The voice drifted up the tiled stairs to the kitchen.

Simone
.

‘Coming.' Mark disappeared.

Stevie sat down at the table, her head in her hands.

Disaster
.

Suddenly a smooth furry warmth at her feet—Ettore. Stevie had never been so glad to receive her visitor. ‘What am I going to do, Ettore?' She stroked his lovely fur and then felt ashamed. Mark was family, however tenuous the bond, and she should make an effort. That was what Didi would do, she reminded herself.

I'm going to be nice, she told herself. Nice, hospitable Stevie. There's no reason why we shouldn't all share the house. Possibly, I've remembered them all wrong.

Stevie drew in her stomach and raised her chest and breathed deeply, hoping it was all a dream. Good manners start with good posture, she reminded herself, and poured out two inches of good gin. On second thoughts, she poured two more glasses, added ice and lemon, arranged a plate of olives.

Unfortunately, good posture was not enough to get Stevie through the next hour. Simone had allergies, it turned out, to lemon rind, green olives and dogs. She also hated gin. Ettore was sent home early, much to his bewilderment and Stevie's dismay. They headed up to the roof terrace to view the setting sun.

As soon as they reached the terrace, Simone flashed her hand at Stevie—a large square-cut diamond. ‘We're getting married. Did Mark tell you?'

‘Ah, no . . . um, how lovely. Congratulations.'

Mark, a proud smile on his face, put his arm around his fiancée.

Simone was a Manila girl, every inch of her groomed, plucked, plumped and polished: the most beautiful fingernails, gleaming white teeth and jewels, improbably blonde-streaked hair falling in perfectly straight lines to her chest. She wore towering cork wedges and the latest Gucci minidress—slinky black satin against her dark skin. The overall effect was not unpleasant but oddly artificial, as if perhaps there might be a slot for two double-A batteries somewhere down the back of the hot little dress.

At least they looked happy, thought Stevie.

Simone was staring at Stevie, still in her turban and sitting cross-legged on the stone wall—dark, hungry eyes that missed nothing.

‘What kind of pearls are they?' she asked bluntly.

Stevie looked down at her chest. ‘I inherited them from my mother when she died—they were her grandmother's. They have great sentimental value.'

Simone was staring at a dark blue enamelled egg the size of a large raindrop that hung from the lowest strand. A tiny diamond embedded in it drew the light.

‘Is that Fabergé?' Simone's voice rose an octave.

Stevie blushed a little. ‘It was a gift from a friend, after a Russian adventure.'

Henning. Dear, handsome, sexy, exciting Henning
.

He had given her the jewel after their first night together—she remembered he had rather quaintly called it a ‘love token'—with that wonderful crooked smile of his. They had been bonded by their wild adventures in Russia and beyond, by their strong physical attraction—it had felt like love. But that sort of bond was impossible to sustain. If they had stayed together, their whole story might have been a Great Romance and, to paraphrase Wallis Simpson when she became the Duchess of Windsor, Great Romances are very hard to live out. Stevie was afraid to give her heart to someone as mysterious and magnetic as Henning. Her life was too full of uncertainties without also entertaining emotional turmoil. And so she had allowed them—forced them—to drift apart. She missed his touch now and ran her hand lightly over the pendant at her throat, the memories still vivid.

‘I guess it's only small.' Simone tossed her mane disdainfully. ‘You know, you can't swim in your pearls.'

Stevie shrugged. ‘I never take them off.'

‘The salt water will ruin them,' Simone declared.

‘I figure, they come from the sea and are probably happy to return to it.' Stevie smiled, seeking to lighten her contradiction.

Simone ignored both the comment and the smile and stared at the antique clasps. ‘You should have them valued. They might be worth more than you think.'

Stevie blushed again—this time for a very different reason— and looked away, now following Mark's gaze.

‘I came here once as a small boy. I don't remember much. But I do remember everyone whispering about what happened to your parents, and they would always stop when they noticed I was there . . .'

‘They always did that to me when my parents divorced,' Simone broke in. She turned to Stevie. ‘How much is this place worth? I heard property values are in the tens of millions for land around here.'

Stevie glanced at Mark, looking for help, but saw the hunger in his eyes and understood.

‘Didi will never sell Lu Nibaru,' Stevie said, forcing a polite smile, ‘so it's quite irrelevant.'

‘But seriously, she can't live forever.' Simone turned to her fiancé, accusing. ‘You told me she was really old.'

Here Mark at least had the good grace to look a little embarrassed.

Possibly Simone might lean a little too far over the edge in those
cork heels and—

Stevie stopped her evil thoughts and recalibrated.

‘Are you thinking of staying long?' she inquired lightly.

Simone ignored her and slapped at her thigh. ‘Oh god, mosquitoes. Can't you spray or something? I'm allergic to mosquito bites.'

‘But,' Mark persisted, ‘wouldn't Didi be glad of the money? Instead of having it all tied up in this old house? I mean, it's falling apart. It's a bad investment.'

‘He's right,' Simone said. ‘The tiles are all cracked, the shutters are rotting and the bed sheets are so old they're worn through. And the bathroom smells funny. It's pretty shit for a villa.'

Mark leant in earnestly. ‘When she dies, they'll have to sell, Stevie.'

Stevie looked out at the bay, the sea as smooth as silk now. She would have liked to cry. Mark and Simone just wanted money, but with Didi gone, Stevie would be completely alone in the world.

She took a deep, fig- and myrtle-scented breath and saw light at the end of the tunnel. Stevie turned to her tormentors with an innocent smile. ‘I agree it is all a bit rundown here, but there are some lovely hotels in the area—very exclusive—that I could recommend . . .'

‘Why waste the money when we can stay here for free?' Simone raised her tortured eyebrows. ‘I want to do some serious shopping—I'd rather have shoes, even if it means we have to sleep here.' Her nostrils flared ever so slightly in distaste.

It became abundantly clear that, when she had first heard about the house on the Costa Smeralda, Simone had begun to entertain Visions. She was a girl who had come far and planned to go a lot further: from a father who sold air-conditioners in the Philippines, a mother who entertained lavishly and had groomed herself for an existence of fame and fortune. Although there was a comfortably large income, life had never quite lived up to Mrs Carpos' Imeldan ideals. Being the queen of Manila society was one thing, but Europe hovered perpetually, the tantalising mirage . . .

Simone took on her mother's ambitions and injected them with a new vigour. Europe was to be conquered, first with an engagement to Mark Benson of Leeds. As a travel agent to aspiring billionaires, Mark's job was to organise superyachts, private jets, helicopter transfers and Ferraris—all rented, all designed to make the rich look mega-rich. This had given Simone a taste of what was possible—but so far out of reach. Ambition now took the form of a villa in Sardinia, the jet set. Simone was moving up in the world and the view from the heights was dazzling her.

However, the Visions had been disappointed by the reality—she complained bitterly about the lack of air-conditioning and television and asked where the ‘servants' were—and she had moved on to plan B: sell the villa and grab the cash.

Simone had the lightness of touch of a carthorse and the delicacy of a baboon. It was more than Stevie could bear, no matter how many gins she bolstered herself with.

‘I'm starving, Mark,' Simone whined. ‘There's nothing to eat in the fridge.'

‘I've got some lovely
pecorino
cheese,' began Stevie, ‘and—'

‘For dinner? Cheese?' Simone made a face at her fiancé.

‘What about going into Porto Cervo to look at the big boats?' he offered his princess. ‘Only you'll have to come with us, Stevie—I don't remember the way.'

Interaction with the happy couple might be easier with some
dilution.

Stevie smiled broadly. ‘Shall we take the jeep?'

Down at the old port,
the evening
passeggiata
was in full swing. All the yachts were in for the evening, hosed down and polished, lights on, large floral displays on the stern decks. Those aboard sat in full view, mixing cocktails, showing their good fortune, while the strollers ambled from boat to boat, enjoying the show.

Simone's eyes lit up for the first time and she began to toss her hair. (She had insisted on the station wagon; the jeep would ruin her blow-dry.) Stevie, as quiet as it was polite to be, led the way to the old café bar on the corner.

The grizzly-bearded owner called out, ‘
Buona sera
, Stevie.'

Stevie waved to Franco and headed for her favourite table, under the fig tree. The soft scent of the leaves filled the early evening and she began to feel better. Then Simone opened her mouth. ‘Oh god, what is that smell?' Her little nose wrinkled in disgust. Stevie sniffed cautiously but could only detect a botanical scent.

‘It's the fig tree,' Stevie said mildly. ‘Don't you like it?'

‘It's so strong—it reminds me of rotting jungle at home. I can't sit here.'

She stood and moved to a distant table, one more visible to the street parade. Mark and Stevie had no choice but to follow.

Nothing was right, of course: Franco's toasted sandwiches ‘tasted funny', the olives were green, there was lemon rind in her water, the mosquitoes were eating her alive and . . . A wasp landed on the bowl of olives and Simone leapt up, shrieking. As she launched into a full denunciation of the insect life of the island, Stevie was almost tempted to take up Clémence's offer to dine on board. Instead, she finished her prosecco and white peach juice
,
an inspired combination and the perfect dockside
aperitivo
, and suggested a stroll.

At the very end of the wharf sat the
Hercules
.

A small crowd had gathered to gaze at the mega-yacht and opinion among them was divided as to whether it was visionary or utterly hideous. Stevie glanced discreetly about. Security was extremely tight. The underwater lights were all on; designed to deter approaches by divers and submersibles, they turned the water around the boat a translucent green and even the smallest fish were visible. The retractable gangplank was in, and the area of the dock immediately in front of the yacht was roped off and guarded by six impeccably dressed
carabinieri
cradling polished sub-machine guns and relishing the chance to participate in the evening's spectacle. Three black Range Rovers with mirrored windows were parked in readiness should plans include a trip ashore.

Krok's own men were less visible in white pants and shirts against the gleaming white background, but their brown faces stood out, alert and still. Stevie thought about the white gun. More than anything she had seen or heard aboard the
Hercules
, the white gun disturbed her.

Stevie's afternoon call to Josie Wang at Hazard had caused a stir—as much as it was possible to stir an indomitable woman like Ms Wang.

‘Are you sure the gun was ceramic?' Josie's voice was sharp. ‘Officially ceramic pistols don't exist; they're impossible.'

Stevie described the gun and holster she had seen
.

There was a silence on the end of the line, then, ‘Stevie, what were you doing anywhere near a man like that?'

‘It's just a lunch or two with the wife, nothing more. But the gun intrigued me. I've never seen anything like it.'

More silence.

‘Josie, David asked me to do this. You know he wouldn't have if it was a dangerous job.'

Josie's silence grew deafeningly unimpressed. She believed Stevie was half in love with David Rice, a fact Stevie denied vehemently, the man being almost old enough to be her father, and her protector in more ways than one. But Josie had her theories and could rarely be swayed. She remained completely convinced of her ability—which was admittedly quite extraordinary—to recall every quirk and behavioural trait and weakness of the names in her massive files. While her energies were most often directed towards the collection of criminal, warlord or terrorist specimens, her friends and co-workers also found themselves neatly labelled and placed in her ‘greenhouse of human nature', as she called it, subject to her dissections.