The Siren's Sting (41 page)

One day, standing in a mist of cloud and drizzle, Stevie found herself in front of the decommissioned submarine that Lord Sacheverel used as his office. It was besieged with reporters, cameramen, vans with radar dishes from a dozen different news services. They were lying in wait, thought Stevie. She stood there, the drizzle now gentle rain seeping through her cotton jacket, trickling downher neck, waiting with them. She remembered the party at his
palazzo
, the terrible frescoes of Nessus and Deianeira and the burning Heracles. She thought she understood now how Deianeira must have felt when she realised what she had done to her husband . . .

The door to the submarine opened and Sacheverel's white head appeared. He surveyed the crowd without interest and opened a large black umbrella. The pack pounced on him, baying like beagles, but Stevie did not stay to watch. She turned and kept walking downriver.

The next morning the headlines screamed their outrage at Lord Sacheverel and the Somali pirate connection: investigations would be pursued, pulpits were pounded, politicians made statement after statement of condemnation, all signifying, to Stevie, nothing. None of it seemed to matter anymore. It was as if the events of the last month had happened to someone else. She read about the arrest of Vaughan Krok. Federal agents had swooped on him at his Spanish palace and taken him away to an undisclosed location of indeterminate jurisdiction. A picture of him from the Reuters stringer showed him with a pillowcase over his head, a hooded bird of prey stumbling in chains, freckled red forearms and pale polo shirt identifying him as clearly as wing markings. Stevie felt a tiny flare of satisfaction, but the feeling died as quickly as it had come.

Marlena's wedding invitation caught her eye. It was sitting on the mantelpiece, embossed gold on thick card. It had come by courier and Marlena had written in thick black letters across it
PLEASE
COME, STEVIE
, and signed it with an
M
. Stevie stared at it for a long time, then put it aside. Marlena had wanted to postpone the wedding in deference to Henning's accident, but Stevie had begged her not to. Who knew what Skorpios could dream up to stop the union going ahead in that time? Marlena and Aristo had to marry as quickly as possible. The wedding was in two days' time, in Monaco, but Stevie knew she wouldn't go. She did not like to think about love right now, when her own heart was in such turmoil. Happy Marlena who was so sure of her affections, and happy Aristo who had found the love of his life.

On the day before their wedding, Stevie found herself walking through Hyde Park, trying to ignore the signs of an early autumn this year. If Henning was alive, she thought, he would be badly hurt. She had seen his injuries with her own eyes in the bullring. However, it seemed that he could communicate if he was able to arrange for the owl brooch to be sent to her. This was a good sign—unless the brooch was not from him at all, and it was all a horrible practical joke. Stevie shook her head. She had to stop torturing herself with these thoughts. She should focus on Marlena's wedding instead.

Her intention that morning had been to head over to Bond Street and see if she could find a wedding present—although she wasn't quite sure what one bought a pirate queen on such an occasion, the effort would distract her. In the end, she settled on a single earring, a large pearl hanging from a thin, golden chain. Stevie felt it was elegant, and yet piratical. She had it wrapped, and organised for it to be sent to Monte Carlo. It felt like the first step towards a recovery of some sort—life did indeed go on.

Her fragile equilibrium lasted until she arrived back at David's flat, poured herself a whisky and turned on the television. Some holidaymaker's footage, a little shaky, but perfectly clear: Marlena on the Riva, Aristo on the dock, the fireball, the waving scarf above the water. The bride-to-be incinerated on the eve of her wedding.

The horror.

For a second, Krok's face flashed in her mind.

Could he have arranged an assassination from an interrogation
cell?

No. She knew in her bones it was not him. She remembered only too well Socrates Skorpios' threat to kill Marlena if Aristo did not leave her, and there was no doubt in Stevie's mind: Skorpios would not be defied, not even by his own son, and so he had murdered Aristo's fiancée. Icy rage and deep sorrow flushed through her body in equal measures. The man was a monster, a beautifully dressed, urbane, sophisticated monster. She turned from the television in disgust and began to cry.

Days later, Stevie's phone rang. A private number. ‘Stevie Duveen,' she answered cautiously.

‘Stevie.' It was Iris. ‘I need to talk to you. Will you have lunch with me tomorrow?'

‘Where?' Stevie's heart thudded with anticipation. Perhaps Iris would have news about Henning.

‘Paris. In the Bar Vendôme at the Ritz. Let's make it noon.'

At exactly twelve o'clock, Stevie
walked across Place Vendôme and into the Ritz. Over her shoulders she wore a black tweed Chanel jacket that had belonged to her grandmother. The skirt had gone up in flames long ago in an incident that had never been explained to Stevie's satisfaction by its former owner. So, instead of a matching skirt, she wore her leather trousers, the ones purchased in Zurich and made infamous when she chased down a would-be assassin at the ice polo in St Moritz. She wore the owl brooch pinned to her jacket. Her broken arm was in a white silk sling.

Iris was waiting for her at a round table by the window, half hidden by some indoor greenery and a gold window drape. She rose to kiss Stevie, sleek as a sword in a grey cashmere dress and enormous pearls.

‘Thank you for coming, Stevie. I didn't think it was wise to say too much over the telephone.'

The waiter brought two plates of
oeuf en gelée
and a bottle of Sancerre. When he had gone, Stevie took a sip of the wine and looked up at Iris. ‘He's not dead, is he?' she said softly.

Iris shook her head, her lips pursed.

‘So . . .?' asked Stevie, the rest of her question dying on her lips under the weight of so many others.

‘Henning is very badly hurt,' began Iris, her eyes shining with tears now. ‘He's in a clinic where they are doing the best they can. He has a punctured lung, ruptured intestines and blood poisoning.'

Stevie listened, her eyes widening in horror.

‘Even if he pulls through,' went on Henning's mother, ‘he may never walk again.' The elegant woman's tears spilt down her cheeks, the pearls of sorrow, and Stevie felt her own eyes sting. ‘Why didn't you tell me at the funeral?'

Iris reached into her purse and pulled out a silver cigarette case. ‘People were watching. I couldn't take the risk.'

‘What do you mean, Iris?' Stevie pressed her. ‘What's going on? Why is Henning pretending to be dead?' Stevie refused a cigarette with a small shake of her head. She sat back into the wine-red chair, her mind teeming with wild thoughts. Outside the dark clouds had gathered and were rumbling, threatening rain. It felt like dusk already.

‘There are reasons why it was a good opportunity for certain people to think Henning is dead.' Iris exhaled a stream of smoke and turned her dark eyes on Stevie. ‘It's safer that way.'

‘Who are these people, Iris? What do they want with Henning?'

‘That is as much as I can say, Stevie. The rest is Henning's story and it is his to tell, not mine.' She added softly, ‘I'm sorry, Stevie.'

Stevie turned away and stared out of the window. Outside the rain had begun to fall in fat, heavy drops and the sky was black. The waiter brought a copper burner and frypan.

‘I ordered ahead . . . I thought a crepe suzette might help,' murmured Iris. They sat in silence as the waiter lit the burner and poured brandy into the pan.

Clever Iris
, thought Stevie darkly,
stopping our conversation with
a judicious choice of dessert
.

The flaming dish was finally served and the waiter retreated.

‘Can I visit him at least?' Stevie asked, leaning forward.

Iris shook her head. ‘No one is allowed to see him. He can barely speak.'

Stevie swallowed her frustration and asked her next question. ‘Did he send me this brooch?'

Iris nodded. ‘He asked me to arrange it . . . he didn't want you to suffer.'

‘He didn't want me to suffer . . .' Stevie's anger was rising now. ‘And Henning didn't think that believing he had died for me in a bullring, then finding out he had come back to life with terrible injuries, and then being told that I was not allowed to visit him or speak to him or even know where he is because people are after him wouldn't upset me?' She took a breath and a swallow of the brandy that the waiter had poured into a balloon glass. ‘Iris, I don't know what to think. It's as if everything I ever knew about Henning was actually nothing.'

The truth of what she had just said hit Stevie. Henning had always been mysterious, and she had made up her mind that she could deal with that, and that he would reveal his secrets little by little. But she had never imagined that his secrets would be so dark or so frightening; the reality of it was far from the fantasy and it was all too much. Stevie put her glass down, tears welling in her eyes. She fought them back and said slowly, ‘The Henning I knew died for me in that bullring in Spain. This other Henning, with his deep secrets and his lies, is a stranger to me. You can tell him that next time you see him.'

Iris reached out and took Stevie's hand. ‘You can't mean that, Stevie. You know the real Henning like no one else. He is still the same man. He loves you.'

Stevie looked away, not wanting to cry. The rain outside would do it for her.

‘What happened in that bullring?' Iris asked gently.

And it all flashed back to her in a blinding instant.

How could she have forgotten?

The thrust that made her lose her balance, the tiny movement that had shoved her world off its orbit. Skorpios had pushed her. She was sure of it. He had reached out as if to help her but he knew what he was doing. He had shoved the bolt to the gate open and pushed her into the bullring; Henning had leapt in to save her. Henning had been gored because of that push, that bad hand with the scorpion ring, that man.

Suddenly she did not know whom to trust. Until she discovered what and whom Henning was running from, she would keep all truths to herself. As Iris had said, it was safer that way. ‘I fell,' she said simply. ‘Thank you for lunch, Iris, but now I must go.'

She rose and left the rich panelled room, holding her shoulders back and her head high, bracing her body against the shock of what she had just learnt. As she stepped outside the front door, she realised she didn't know where she was going so she stood under the cover of one of the rounded awnings and breathed in the rainy air, trying to decide on her next move. Two men were walking across the slick square towards her, the man furthest from her holding a large black umbrella. They wore dark suits and the wrong shoes for this sort of weather. Stevie could not see their faces but as they passed her, the man closest to Stevie turned his face towards her. She started: Aristo. He stopped, also surprised to see her.

‘
Bonjour
,' he said softly. He was holding a Gitane between his thumb and forefinger.

‘
Bonjour
,' she replied. ‘
Même le ciel pleure
,' she added with a small shrug, not knowing how much she should say in front of his companion.

‘Even the sky is weeping,' he agreed, still staring at her.

Aristo's companion glanced at his watch. ‘
Nous allors être en
retard, Aristo
,' he grumbled.

‘
Je vais te rejoinder plus tard, Armand
. I have unfinished business here.'

The man shrugged and left, taking his umbrella with him. Aristo made no move to step out of the rain and into the entrance where Stevie was sheltering. Searching his face, Stevie saw that pain had changed him. The sense of indestructibility that came with youth, and that had clothed the Aristo she had known aboard the
Hercules
, was gone.

‘Why don't you come out of the rain?' she said gently.

Aristo stepped under cover and pulled out his phone. ‘
Je suis
au Ritz, s'il vous plaît, Helena
.' Then he hung up and turned to Stevie. ‘Will you come with me?'

Stevie nodded. Of course she would. It seemed like it was the only thing in the world she could do. They stared out at the rain and the darkening streets in silence. Two minutes later, a navy blue Mercedes pulled up. A rather beautiful female chauffeur in a cap got out with an umbrella and opened the back door.

They crossed the streets of the city in the heavy car, Stevie cracking the window to catch the smell of soot and bread and newsprint and electricity—now mixed with rain—that was the scent of Paris. Aristo was silent and Stevie felt no need to talk. As they drove up the Champs-Élysées, she wondered what he wanted . . . They took a left turn just before the Arc de Triomphe, and stopped in front of a classic honey-stone Parisian building with a glossy black door. They got out and walked up three deserted flights of marble stairs to double doors. Aristo opened the doors and let Stevie pass into the flat without a word.

Inside was an
enfilade
of rooms, parquet floors, moulded ceilings, white-panelled walls, gathering dust. Stevie caught a glimpse of her reflection in a vast gilded mirror as they entered the sitting room, her face terribly pale, her eyes, lined with kohl, somehow too large. On the floor sat about twenty cardboard boxes, most still sealed, piled one upon the other. Aristo gestured to Stevie to sit on a pile and did the same himself.

‘I'm so sorry, Aristo,' she murmured.

He did not reply but made a gesture with his hand. ‘We were to live here,' he said finally. ‘She was to have had anything she wanted, and we would have been happy.' He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a champagne bottle, Roederer. From an open box full of tissue paper, Aristo fished out a beautiful silver fish knife and slit open another box beside him. All the boxes were full of china and silver, Stevie realised, exquisite objects that had now become the detritus of lives unlived. The pile of cardboard was a monument.