Folly's Child (25 page)

‘Too early for you, huh? What about coffee? That's what you Americans drink all the time isn't it – coffee?' She rang a bell and the maid reappeared.

‘Coffee for Miss Varna'. She crossed to the window, looked out and gesticulated impatiently towards the road. ‘Those damned reporters! I almost thought you might be one, you know, trying to trick your way in. They never give up. You'd think they had something better to do. They have even pushed notes through the door offering me money for my story. Money! To me! I could buy and sell their stupid newspapers several times over.'

‘I don't trick my way in anywhere. I'm not a tricky person.'

Maria's lip curled. ‘Hah! Not much like your mother, then?'

‘I wouldn't know,' Harriet said. ‘I was only four years old, remember, when whatever happened to her … happened.'

Maria's eyes fell away, a shaft of something almost like guilt piercing the alcohol-induced haze. Of course the girl had been just a bambino then. Maria remembered the photographs of her in the newspapers, chubby-cheeked, golden-curled, dressed in a frilly frock, very short, with long white knee socks. Harriet Varna, poor little rich girl, four years old and motherless. Ah well, Paula should have thought of that before she started playing about, dabbling in her dangerous games.

‘So you never saw her again,' she said flatly.

‘No, of course I didn't. I would hardly be here now, asking questions, if I had.' Harriet's tone was sharp; hearing her own voice she glanced quickly at Maria, afraid she might have offended her. But Maria seemed not to have noticed. ‘The thing is, I thought that if Greg Martin did not die in the explosion then perhaps neither did my mother. I don't know what happened that day. I don't understand any of it – yet. But you must see I have to try to find out. And I thought you might be able to help me.'

Maria turned the glass in her hands. How much
did
the girl know? She must suspect at least that her mother had been Greg's lover – that much was obvious, surely. Why else should she have followed him to Italy? Why the hell
did
she? Maria wondered savagely. If she had not perhaps things would have been different. It wouldn't nave changed the way Greg had treated her, of course. Nothing short of a miracle could have kept him faithful to her, louse that he was. But at least she might have had some peace of mind instead of the terrible doubts that had assailed her all these years.

‘I know nothing,' she said shortly. ‘ Greg never told me what happened to your mother and I never asked. Perhaps I didn't want to know.'

The maid brought the coffee, poured it and left. As the door closed after her Harriet tried again.

‘If Greg is alive, as you say he is, then he must have escaped when the boat blew up. Surely you haven't lived with him all these years without knowing how he managed it?'

Maria turned sharply. ‘Oh, I know how he managed it, all right.' There was a note of bitter amusement in her voice. ‘He managed it because I helped him.'

‘You …!' The jerk of surprise shook Harriet's whole body; coffee slopped from the cup into the saucer.

‘Yes, me, fool that I was. Haven't you ever been in love, Miss Varna? Don't you know what it's like to lose you head over a man? No, I don't believe you do. You are like your mother, cold. It is different for me. I have Latin blood and when I love – I love. Well, I hope you never find out what it can be like. I tell you it is the worst pain in the world to sell your soul for a man and then find out he is an utter bastard.'

Harriet set her cup down on a low table. She could not trust herself to hold it any longer.

‘What did you do?' she asked.

For a long moment Maria was silent. All these years she had told no one. Not when Greg had deceived her with other women, or when he had humiliated her, not when he had finally embroiled himself with his newest love, a former beauty queen, and Maria had known he was using her money to buy expensive presents for the hussy. Beneath it all she had suffered – God alone knew how she had suffered – but she had kept his secret. Even when she had suspected he intended to have her killed so as to have unlimited access to the money which would all become his under her will, and to be free to go off with his paramour into the bargain, and she had been sufficiently frightened to denounce him, she had still kept silent about her own part in what had happened. If she had told the whole story perhaps the police would have believed her but she had not been able to bring herself to do it. Now, suddenly, she was overcome with an unstoppable urge to talk about what she had done. It was time, she thought, that someone knew just what lengths she had been prepared to go to for him – and who better than the daughter of the woman who had caused her so much anguish?

She took another deep slurp of vodka; her eyes flashed in her sallow face.

‘All right, I'll tell you, Harriet Varna,' she said. ‘I'll tell you all I know, for what it's worth. I hope you'll keep it to yourself, but if you don't, well, I don't care much any more. I've opened my mouth so far and I might as well tell the full story. You were too young to remember Greg, I suppose?'

Harriet nodded. She could barely trust herself to speak. She didn't remember Greg, except as a vague shadowy figure. Until a few days ago she hadn't even known what he looked like. Every photograph in which he figured had been removed from the family albums – and understandably so. Hugo had wanted no reminder of the man who had cost him his beloved wife.

‘Well, he was a charmer, not a doubt of it. He took me in, and plenty of others besides. His whole rocky empire was built on charm. He talked big – and people believed him. He had a finger in plenty of pies but he wanted a stake in the fashion industry – that was why he put up the money to get your father started. But he wanted to do it Italian style. Did you know he was of Italian descent? His name was Martino until he changed it to Martin. Anyway, in Italy the fashion business is run almost on the same lines as the Mafia. It's a cartel, with the fabric supplier, the factory owner and the designer all getting together to market a label as a successful business enterprise. They have the magazines in their pockets too, so they get just the coverage they want. In those days, of course, it was only just beginning. But Greg wanted to be in on it. My father is the president of our family fabric firm – we have factories at Lake Como. Greg started wooing him. That was when I met him.'

She paused, cradling her glass between her hands. Harriet remained silent, afraid that any word from her might interrupt the flow. Yet at the same time she sensed that Maria was talking now from the bottom of her fiery Latin heart, her tongue loosened by drink, spilling out things that has festered too long within her.

After a moment Maria continued. She was not looking at Harriet; she might almost have been talking to herself.

‘Holy Mother, how I loved him! I was a young fool, I know that now, but I have been an old fool for him too. Why do we women always love the bastards? My father warned me about him. He was a clever businessman and he could see right through Greg. ‘‘Have nothing to do with him, Maria,'' he told me. ‘‘He is trouble, that one.'' But did I listen? I thought my father was old and staid. He had been head of the family and of the business empire for so long and I thought he just wanted to be able to tell me what to do, as he had done when I was a child. Most of all I thought he had forgotten what it was like to be young and in love. I defied him. I met Greg whenever I could and the more I saw of him the more head over heels in love with him I was. Oh, how he wound me round his little finger! Even when he told me everything was about to blow up around his ears back in the States I still did not see that he was no good. I thought he had been unfortunate – and all I wanted was to be with him. When he told me what he was planning to do and asked me to help him I rushed in like the little idiot I was.'

She broke off again, and as the shadows chased fleetingly across her bloated face Harriet knew she was reliving the way it had been. Then she sighed heavily and shook her head.

‘He planned it all so carefully,' she said. ‘He got himself a false birth certificate and passport – he took the identity of some poor man who had died, I believe. Yes, there really was a Michael Trafford once – funny isn't it? Anyway, Greg decided the best way for him to disappear was to make people believe he had died in an explosion on his yacht. It was a beautiful boat – he kept it in a marina within easy reach of his holiday villa at Positano, in the Gulf of Salerno. I don't know how he could bear to destroy it – he must have been desperate to even think of such a thing. The plan was that he would take it out for a few days' sailing with plenty of witnesses to his departure, head south and land quietly on one of the deserted beaches near Pizzo. Then he would send it back out to sea on automatic with an explosive device rigged to go off a couple of hours later. I was to pick him up in Pizzo and drive him back to Roma. From there he would get a flight out of the country using his false passport. It worked like a charm. By the time the news broke that the yacht had blown up Greg was on his way to Australia. I waited nearly a year, until all the fuss had died down, and then I joined him there. And when I stayed on I told my parents it was because I had met a man called Michael Trafford.'

Her eyes glazed; she took another quick slurp of her vodka, found the glass empty, and refilled it. Harriet was staring at her, speechless, and Maria misinterpreted her look.

‘You think I drink too much, huh?' she asked with a flash of something close to aggression. ‘Perhaps you too would drink if you had lived with this all these years.'

‘What about my mother?' Harriet asked. Her mouth was dry.

Maria turned away but not before Harriet had seen the shaft of pain behind the dark blood-shot eyes.

‘I know nothing about what happened to your mother.'

‘But she sailed with Greg. Everyone said so.'

‘I know nothing I tell you,' Maria insisted. ‘She was not part of the plan. He had told me everything was over between them. He wanted only me.'

‘But when you saw in the newspapers that she was on the boat you must have asked him about it,' Harriet persisted. ‘I can't believe you didn't.'

Maria's face crumpled fiercely. For a moment Harriet thought she was going to cry. Then it hardened again.

‘I did ask him what the hell she was doing there, of course. He said she had turned up unexpectedly at his villa just before he left. He said he tried to reach me by telephone to warn me there was a hitch but he couldn't get hold of me. So he went ahead as planned. He couldn't let her ruin everything, he said. ‘‘I couldn't let her ruin everything'' – those were his very words.'

‘So he sailed with her aboard. But what happened to her?'

‘I swear to God I don't know.' Maria's voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I didn't press him. But if you want to know what I've suspected all these years – I'm very much afraid he killed her.'

Harriet could not speak. She was trembling. It was what she too had suspected but hearing it put into words was still a shock and so melodramatic as to be unreal.

‘Why else has she never turned up?' Maria asked. ‘ She had no reason to disappear. I tried not to believe it. I told myself I was wicked to even think of such a thing. The man I loved … But I know now just how ruthless he is. He has tried to have me killed, you know, because he has no further use for me. And if Paula had lived she could have ruined everything for him. She wouldn't have kept his secret, not when he had walked out on her. No, I truly believe that under those circumstances Greg would have been capable of murder.'

Harriet pressed her hands to her mouth. Yes, if Maria was telling the truth – and Harriet believed she was – it all hung together too neatly. As Maria had said, Paula had no reason to disappear. Besides, a face as well known as hers …

‘You say it was a year before you joined him in Australia,' she said, grasping at straws. ‘ Is it possible she was with him here during that time?'

‘Possible, but I don't think so. I picked him up at Pizzo, remember, and he was alone.'

Harriet's hands balled into fists. ‘Where is he now?'

Maria laughed bitterly. ‘ If I knew that, Miss Varna, the police would have him by now I hope. He's gone to ground with his new lady friend – the bitch. Well, at least they won't get a penny more out of me. I'm changing my will. He might get away with what he's done but at least he won't do it on my money.'

‘He won't get away with it,' Harriet said. ‘ Not if I can help it.'

‘I can see you don't know Greg Martin,' Maria said. Her voice was becoming slurred as if telling her story had held the effects of the chink at bay but now she had finished it was hitting her all at once. ‘I can't tell you any more, Miss Varna, and I want to be alone. So if you don't mind …'

‘Yes. Thank you.' Harriet held out her hand, again Maria refused it. She couldn't bear to touch Paula's daughter, not even now after all these years.

When Harriet had gone she walked unsteadily to the drinks cabinet and refilled her glass. The room might be rocking around her like a ship in a storm but no matter. She simply wanted to drink and drink herself into oblivion. After the passion and torments of her wasted life it was all that was left to her.

In London the snow had quickly melted on the pavements and no more had fallen, but the damp, bone-chilling cold was far more penetrating than the crispness had been.

In her small workroom at the top of the crumbling old house in Whitechapel Theresa Arnold was talking on the telephone to one of her fabric suppliers.

‘Yes – yes, it's arrived. But it's the wrong design. No, I'm certain I quoted you the right sample number – I have it in front of me now. Z2034. Yes, it is black, but with a stripe woven in. The one I wanted has a random pattern. I think you've sent me Z2024. Look, I'm desperate for it. If I return this bolt to you today can you dispatch me the one I want by special delivery? You can? Thank you, I'd be most grateful.'