Never Coming Home (36 page)

‘You’re Jamie, aren’t you? Hi. I’m Devlin.’

Ah! He’d established some credentials by knowing her name. The tension in the small shoulders slackened a fraction. ‘I’m a friend of your mom’s, your mummy,’ he corrected quickly. ‘She and your grandma, Suzanne, they asked me to help them find you.’

‘My mummy is here?’ Heartbreaking hope lit the little face. Devlin gritted his teeth. The child was stretched so thin, even an unpromising stranger looked like salvation.

‘Yes,’ he said carefully. ‘You want to go look for her? She’s just gone to talk to your granddad.’

Bad move. The child’s lower lip trembled. ‘I’m not C’ara. And I don’t want to paint any more pictures.’

Devlin rode out the fierce stab of anger, schooling his face
and body. If the kid caught even a glimmer his credibility would
be fried. She’d think it was aimed at her. When he could trust himself. ‘You don’t have to paint, if you don’t want to.’

She’d shut her eyes and screwed them up tight. Maybe it was meant to make her invisible. One of them blinked open, cautious. ‘You promise? You’ll tell Grandpa?’

‘I’ll tell him. Cross my heart.’ Devlin did it, solemnly.

Oliver Kessel was 66 years old, and a genius, and the father of the woman he loved. He might still lose a few teeth when Devlin found him.

Jamie had both eyes open now, looking speculatively up at him. He held out his hand, palm up.

‘What say we go find your mummy’s car? You can sit in the back seat. I’ll go get your mom and it’ll be a big surprise.’

Jamie thought about it. ‘If I
hide
in the car, then no one will know I’m there. Not Grandpa, or Valentina, or Guido or anyone, except Mummy, when she comes. And you,’ she added after second. ‘But that’s cool.’

Devlin felt as if someone had pinned a medal on his chest. He turned a choke into a cough when the child fixed a beady stare on him, the exact same way her mother did.

You’re losing
it,
Devlin.

Hah! He’d been losing it ever since he met Kaz Elmore.

Jamie was waiting for his opinion. ‘That sounds good.’ He hustled to provide some input. ‘There’s a rug. You could hide under the rug.’

She was getting to her feet. ‘We’ll go now,’ she decided.

Devlin looked towards the staircase. Narrow and steep. Not a good place to meet someone else coming up. The faster they got out of here, the better. ‘You think it would be okay if I carried you down to the car?’

She thought, head on one side. ‘I won’t be too heavy? Mummy says I’m heavy.’

‘You won’t be for me. I’m a big kind of guy.’

‘Yes.’ Jamie’s eyes widened again, clearly remembering her initial inspection of him. ‘But you have a bad arm.’ She pointed to the cast.

‘I do, but it only goes up a little way.’ He showed her. She touched the cast and then his arm. ‘Okay.’

Negotiation completed, she stood still and waited to be picked up. Devlin scooped her into the crook of his arm, next to his shoulder. She smelt of paint and something sweet. Now they were at eye level. She was taking an inventory of his face. He remembered the bruises, but they didn’t seem to be what was on her mind.

‘You come from America?’

‘That’s where I live,’ he agreed.

‘That’s nice. I want to go to Disneyland,’ she confided. ‘Have you ever been there?’

‘No.’ Was this going to jeopardise his street cred? Apparently not.

‘Maybe you could come with Mummy and me,’ she suggested.

‘I’d like that.’

‘Good,’ she confirmed, with the air of settling a bargain. Then in the same tone she dropped the bomb. ‘Are you in love with my mummy?’

Devlin’s heart stuttered. Jesus! To the point. Forensic. Just like her mother.

He swallowed, floundering. She was frowning, right into his eyes.
Oh, what the hell.

‘Yes.’ It felt good to say it, even to a five-year-old. ‘I am, but I haven’t told her yet.’ He paused. ‘That’s our secret. Okay with you?’

‘You’ll take care of her?’

‘When she’ll let me.’

Jamie weighed the answer. ‘That’s all right then.’ With a blinding smile, she pointed to the stairs. ‘Let’s go and find her.’

‘Hadn’t you better answer that?’

All Kaz could feel was rage. With a shaking hand she reached for the phone, to flip it off. The mood was broken. She’d had Oliver on the run. Now he was laughing at her.

The second before she pushed the switch, to stop the phone’s demanding crow, realisation hit her. Sweat coated her palms.

Devlin.

New phone. Who else could it be? Devlin must need her.

She snatched the slim cell to her ear, almost sending it skittering across the floor in her slick-palmed haste.

‘Kaz? Is that you?’

‘Oh, God, not now, Mum.’

‘Your father is there.’ Suzanne understood at once, but her voice was sharp. ‘Don’t cut me off. You need to hear this. The Italian police just rang. They have the detailed forensic results from that poor child in the field. The DNA was close, but it
wasn’t
a match. And the body had definitely been moved to the vineyard. The child didn’t die there, and it wasn’t Jamie.’

In a small part of her mind Kaz felt the phone drop out of her hand and heard it hit the floor. Emotions were fighting each other in her chest and her brain. Joy, amazement and a bone-crunching, teeth-wrenching anger, that launched her straight at Oliver’s throat.

Chair and man went flying. ‘You bastard! Who else did you kill?’

When the easel crashed, Kaz pulled up short, shuddering for breath, staring down at her father. He was lying at her feet, trying to find a handhold on the closest bench and drag himself upright. Without thought or ceremony, she grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up, propping him against the bench.

‘My daughter is
here
. You killed
another
child. Oh, God.’ Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Chiara, my sister. You killed Valentina’s daughter and put her in that field.’

Oliver had his hand to his head. Blood was oozing from a small cut beside his eye. He dabbed ineffectually at it, hand trembling. He looked dazed. Gaping at her. Poise and resistance gone. ‘It should have worked. Luce said the DNA would be close enough, everyone would assume
 
–’

‘They did, at first, but the police weren’t satisfied. My God, I don’t believe I’m having this conversation.’ Kaz spun round, paced away and paced back. Oliver hung on to the bench, pale-faced. Somewhere a door slammed. ‘You did this, just to hold on to my daughter. You took her from me, just so that you could teach her to paint. You’re insane.’

‘No,’ Oliver barked the word, voice suddenly strong. Kaz jerked her head. ‘Not insane. Desperate. Look at me, Katarina. Really look.’ He reached out and took a handful of her sleeve, forcing her to turn towards him.

Kaz looked up into his face. Seeing the profile that was more familiar from photographs than in the flesh. Oliver looked as he always did. Older, maybe more tired. The face was thinner and curiously blank, the eyes a little sunken
 
… with something hovering in their depths.

With a cold bolt of fear, Kaz finally understood.

‘What is it? Cancer?’ she breathed

‘I wish.’ Oliver gave a harsh laugh. ‘Parkinson’s Disease. A perfect, ironic gift from the fates, don’t you think? An artist who can’t hold a brush steady?’ He held his hand out. ‘Look. It’s not bad, not yet. You can barely see it. I can still control a pencil. But it won’t last.’

‘Oh, God.’ Kaz raked her hand through her hair. ‘Look – there are drugs, advances all the time – you can afford the best that money can buy. People live for years
 
–’

‘Live! Live! I don’t just want to
live
! I want to
create.
I am
Olivier Kessel
. I’m not just
people
.’ Oliver’s voice was a vehement, escalating hiss. ‘Drugs? That’s what the doctors said. With their hearty, back-slapping stupidity.
There, there old man
,’ he mimicked. ‘
Soon get you sorted out – a bit less daubing on the canvas, but we all have to retire some day.
Idiots! What do I want with their drugs? Miserable placebos, for credulous fools! The whole world laughing at me.
Me!
’

He took a step forward. Kaz held her ground and looked into the stare of madness.

‘I have to show them. The work has to go on. Before it’s too late.’ He shut his eyes, swaying where he stood for a second. When he opened them, some of the fire had dissipated. Instead there was a sly, secretive look. ‘And after me, a successor. The Kessel name will go on. That’s why I need Jamie.’

‘You killed all those people to get her.’ Kaz heard her voice sounding gritty, like a stranger’s. ‘Even your own daughter.’

‘Yes, I killed her.’ Oliver’s head came up. ‘After the crash. As soon as I knew Jamie was mine. I was desperate.’ Now the voice was toneless, energy ebbing. ‘You have no idea what it’s like, to have all these images in your head, fighting to get out, knowing that a lifetime isn’t going to be long enough. And then to find you won’t even have that. That you’re going to be trapped in a useless, rotting body, with the pictures screaming to escape.’ His tone roughened. ‘I killed her, and I put your daughter in her place. I’d do it again tomorrow. She’s perfect, Katarina.’ His eyes began to glow again, manic. ‘So much talent. She will be greater even than I am. I know it.’ He splayed his hand to his chest. ‘The other one.’ He shrugged. ‘I had hopes, when she was born. But she was useless. She wasn’t even quiet, like you were. Noisy, destructive
 
…’ He looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t think that Valentina would take it so hard. I bought her a pearl necklace.’

‘A necklace?’ Kaz felt bile rise in her throat. ‘That was supposed to replace her daughter? Buy her off?’

‘Not buy her off.’ Oliver seemed genuinely confused. ‘She didn’t know. I told her the child died in her sleep. She believed me. She always believes me. I told her what the authorities would do to her daughter’s body if we handed it over. That they’d mutilate it, in their arrogance, in the name of their stupid science. We buried her under the olive trees. Valentina thinks she’s still there. She goes out every day to sit with her. I explained it all to her. Her daughter was dead, but now she had Jamie, to take her place. Jamie would
be
Chiara. My daughter. My
new
daughter. Your child.’ He stared at Kaz. ‘My power, my talent, living on. We could still do that. You could stay here. We could do this
 
…’

Kaz wondered if she was going to be sick. Oliver was rambling now. Talking not to her but to himself. She was listening to the voice of a madman.

Sweat was trickling down her face and across her ribs. The air in the room was stuffy. Suddenly Kaz couldn’t breathe. There was a roaring in her ears.

It took a second for her to realise that the noise wasn’t in her head. She wasn’t fainting. All she was feeling was real.
Oh, no
.

She put her hand out, to jerk Oliver back to planet earth. ‘Dad, I think we have to
 
–’

‘Katarina.’ His face cleared and focused. ‘You have to leave Jamie with me,’ he said earnestly. ‘I need to teach her. She’s mine now. I have to keep her!’

‘Dad
 
–’ Kaz dragged at his arm. ‘We have to get out of here. I think something’s on fire.’

She could smell it now, and see it, wisps of smoke threading across the floor. Oh, God. An artist’s studio. Solvents and oils, paint-stained rags. A small explosion sent a rush of heat across her back. She swung away from Oliver, eyes darting frantically. The door behind them, open onto a small antechamber, the way she had come in, was already blocked. Smoke was writhing around the frame. She could see something beyond. A bucket or a paint tin, dancing with flames. And beyond that a pile of smouldering canvasses.

‘Another way out?’ She yanked at Oliver’s arm, shaking him. He had begun to cough. ‘Which way?’

‘There.’

Kaz’s heart spiked in relief as she saw the second door, untouched by any flame. ‘Come on.’

Herding Oliver, dragging him when he stumbled, she scrambled to safety.

They were a foot away when the door ricocheted open, bouncing against the wall. Behind them the fire roared, fed with a new supply of air.

Valentina was standing in the doorway, with a shotgun in her hands.

Chapter Fifty-Two

The woman’s face was a mask of pain. Kaz recoiled instinctively. Heat battered on her shoulder blades. ‘Valentina, you have to let us out. The fire
 
–’ Kaz gestured behind her.
If the fire spread to the draperies, pinned to the walls and ceiling of the studio. If the flames flashed over
 
…

‘You can go.’ Valentina glanced at her briefly. All her attention was fixed on Oliver. ‘You
must
go. Save your daughter. Your
child.
’ She let out a howl that was more animal than human. Tears were coursing down her cheeks. ‘You killed her, my bella Chiara, my light, my angel.’ She was crooning, but the gun was steady, pointing straight at Oliver’s chest.