The Siren's Sting Page 8

  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 Ste
vie 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.

  Stevie imagined Josie consulting her mental file for Stevie Margaret Duveen, noting the extreme stubbornness, weighing up the options with a specimen such as she.

  Josie gave a pained sigh. ‘There are rumours of the existence of a small automatic pistol made entirely of ceramic material. The bullets are also ceramic and the magazine is loaded into the handle. The spring driving the bolt/slide mechanism is supposedly made of plastic.’

  ‘I know they’ve had some success with plastic guns. Wasn’t there a furore over—’

  ‘That was the Glock 17.’ Josie clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘Component parts made of plastic, including the grip and the trigger guard, but still at around eighty per cent metal if you’re going by weight—more than enough to set off a magnetometer. No, Stevie, this is something completely different—if indeed it is what you think. These guns would be completely invisible to a metal detector.’

  Josie continued, warming to her subject. ‘The problem with glass guns has always been that the pressure in the chamber is so strong it causes them to explode when fired, to literally blow up in your face. Apparently this has been resolved by igniting the propellant in two stages, which keeps the chamber pressure low. The bullet operates almost like a cannonball with a charge of powder behind it.

  ‘According to the rumours, it has been developed in a secret CIA lab, but all queries have elicited a ‘no comment’ from the Agency. If the crew aboard the Hercules are carrying ceramic automatics, it means your man either has weapons labs that are on a par—if not more sophisticated—than the CIA’s, or he has some pretty extraordinary connections.’ Josie let the pause hang a moment too long then said, ‘Do I need to repeat myself, Stevie?’

  ‘I know, Josie. I won’t do anything reckless. I am staying firmly on the reservation this time. I don’t think I could go through another adventure like . . .’

  ‘You don’t have the strength, Stevie.’ Josie’s voice was stern. ‘You were lucky to make it out of the Swiss Alps alive, and you know as well as I do that your Russian friends could still be looking for you. We’re counting on their short attention spans—not a very sure gamble.’

  Stevie felt a chill of fear touch the back of her neck.

  That’s all over. It’s time to forget.

  ‘Ahoy there!’ Stevie looked up and saw Clémence on one of the upper decks of the Hercules, waving a thin arm now covered in silver bangles. ‘Stevie, darling! Come up for a cocktail.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Simone hissed, her hand on Stevie’s arm.

  Stevie called back, ‘We were just on our way home.’ She took an ignoble pleasure in denying Simone the satisfaction. Call it payback for hoping Didi would die. ‘Some other time, though, I’ll accept with pleasure,’ she added.

  Stevie felt Simone’s nails dig in.

  ‘Are you sure you can’t stay for dinner, darling?’ Clémence replied. ‘Plenty of room for all of you aboard.’

  As the nails dug harder, Stevie wondered if Simone’s desire would leave scars. She shook her head. ‘Thank you, though, and please thank your husband for today.’

  Clémence gave another regal wave and disappeared.

  Simone’s disappointment manifested itself first in manic questioning: who why what where when . . . how much? She scurried along, her claw still on Stevie’s arm. When Stevie claimed to have forgotten the woman’s name, or her husband’s, or anything else about the boat or the owners—‘so absent-minded, it’s awful’—the mania gave way to a petulant silence. Stevie wasn’t at all unhappy about the silence.

  Back at the house, Stevie prepared a simple risotto with saffron; the night was so still they could have their dinner on the roof. She had begun to feel a little sorry for Simone, stewing in her thwarted desires, and decided to put a bottle of champagne on ice. That was sure to cheer her up, and by tomorrow, the girl might have mellowed.

  By now, they had missed the flute player and night had fallen. Steve lit candles on the roof and their reflections danced on the worn white walls.

  ‘I almost forgot,’ Stevie said as they sat down at the rickety wooden table, the risotto steaming in the middle, ‘I have a surprise. Wait here.’ She flew downstairs and grabbed the bottle, three flutes, and emerged triumphant back on the roof.

  ‘Voilà!’

  Simone looked up from her plate. Her mouth flattened sourly, her eyebrows arched in disdain. ‘Is that the surprise?’

  Without a word, Stevie set the bottle on the table. She peeled back the foil, twisted the wire helmet open, softly popped the cork into her hand and poured three full glasses. She handed one to Simone and one to Mark; she took the third glass in her left hand, the champagne bottle in her right, then turned and walked away.

  The garden was dark and trilling with cicadas. Stevie headed for the fig trees by the back wall. There, she topped up her glass, tied the bottom of her kaftan into a knot above her knees, and climbed up into the oldest of the trees. The scent of the fig leaves was strong around her and Stevie knew she would be safe.

  While at first she had tried to consider the possibility that she might even be glad of the company of Simone and Mark . . .

  ‘. . . I now find myself considering the possibility that I might push Simone off the roof.’ This idea pleased her and she said it aloud, liking the sound of the words in the night air.

  ‘It would of course look like an accident,’ she continued. ‘Heels too high, masonry too old, a little too much to drink . . .’ She sipped her champagne and plucked a fig from the tree. They were tiny and green and wonderfully sweet.

  ‘I may have to stay up here tonight,’ she said to the tree. ‘I’m not sure I could face Simone or my dear cousin without resorting to physical violence.’ She sighed deeply.

  ‘All I can say is, Oh dear.’

  A chuckle came out of the darkness and Stevie almost fell out of her tree in fright.

  ‘Your grandmother Didi could be very fierce when crossed. I fear for your cousins.’

  Stevie sat as still as a fig.

  ‘Are they really that bad?’ asked the voice in the night.

  Stevie debated whether to acknowledge the voice.

  ‘Is that why you are hiding up a tree,’ it asked, ‘in the dark, plotting murder?’

  With as much dignity as she could muster in the situation, Stevie answered, ‘I’m having a glass of champagne, in private. It was the only safe place.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Another chuckle.

  Stevie peered into the blackness but could see no one. There was no moon and the starlight was blocked by the fig leaves. The voice seemed to be coming from the roof of the garage next door— but that was impossible. The roof, Stevie knew from daylight, was made of thin slats of bamboo. They couldn’t bear the weight of a man, and it was a man’s voice speaking.

  ‘You may mock,’ she added, her indignance growing, ‘but you haven’t met Simone.’

  ‘What’s so terrible about her?’

  Stevie took a steadying breath. ‘The girl lacks any trace of elegance— of manner, of mind, of character. And she’s praying Didi dies soon so her husband-to-be, my cousin, will come into some money.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Stevie took a sip of champagne. ‘The trouble is, they’re staying put. I don’t know how to get rid of them, short of something desperately messy.’

  From the house, the noise of a woman swearing.
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br />   There was a pause in the conversation as the man stopped to listen. Then came the low remark, ‘Yes, I think I see . . . Perhaps you could concentrate on the things that you find charming, on the things this woman can’t ruin for you. She is a speck of dust in the blissful whole. Now, you can choose to focus on the speck, or you can see it for what it really is, insignificant in the universal scheme.’

  Stevie raised her glass. She was feeling a little tipsy, but it could have just been the odd situation up the tree. ‘In principle, I would agree. If Simone were a work assignment, it would be nothing— I’ve handled worse, believe me. But in my heart all I want to do is slap her.’

  This time, a belly laugh from the darkness.

  ‘She’s on your turf . . . Have you suggested a charming little pensione up the hill?’

  ‘Of course!’ Stevie replied. ‘And I know Issa would make room for them at the Pietra Niedda, no matter how full he was, if I begged him to. But she wants to save the money for shoes.’

  That maddening laugh again.

  ‘I can see you’re finding this hilarious—whoever you are.’ Stevie was beginning to feel quite cross. ‘Perhaps you should take them in.’

  ‘It does all seem funny—you should see it that way too. If you can see this woman’s antics as amusing rather than infuriating, the whole thing will become playful. You won’t even have to make an effort.’

  There was more swearing, then the sound of a door slamming. Hopefully it was the bedroom door, thought Stevie, and she could return to the house in safety.

  The voice in the darkness was right. It was the only way to deal with Simone. She would begin tomorrow. ‘Would you care for a glass of champagne?’ she asked tentatively, but the night made no reply.

  7

  Stevie awoke early the next morning, absolutely famished, having only managed three figs and the greater part of a bottle of champagne for dinner. She slipped on her swimming costume and padded in bare feet down the stone path to the little beach below. The bay was washed in a soft pink light that turned the coarse sand gold and the water a silvery mauve. No one was about: the Biedermeier doors were still closed, the Liptons next door were quiet, and the two Olivetti houses—built by the famous Italian industralist brothers in the 1960s—were dark.