Jessie Keane: Black Widow

Everything was quiet, only the rising wind in the palms and the faint rush of the sea making any noise at all. At any moment she expected someone to come at them, to finish the job, but she walked on, cat-footed, creeping along the edge of the drive, watching, walking…it seemed endless. But finally they were there, stepping on to the back terrace where in summer a huge bougainvillea trailed papery magenta blooms over a rickety pergola. Stepping into deep shade, Annie stopped at the closed blue-painted back door.

Annie was aware that she was wet through with nervous sweat. Runnels of perspiration trickled down between her breasts, and her T-shirt was sticking unpleasantly to her back. She had to keep blinking sweat out of her eyes.

This was stark, consuming terror of a type she had only experienced once before, when Pat Delaney had come after her with mayhem and murder in his twisted mind. It was horrible, making her bowels feel loose, making her want to puke. But if Jeanette saw her losing it, then she would lose it too-and then where would they be? She reached out with a shaking hand and tried the handle. It gave and the door moved inward. She braced herself. Looked back at Jeanette. Jeanette nodded. No one about. Annie brushed the sweat from her stinging eyes with the back of one hand. Found she didn’t want to open the door at all. Felt afraid. Horribly, mortally afraid.

She pushed the door open anyway.

Inside the little villa it was cool and quiet. They had stepped straight into the kitchen, which was very simple-there was a stone sink, a stout table, an old but clean cooker. Everything was scrubbed, spotless. Inez was a good housekeeper and prided herself on her cleanliness. But to Annie the kitchen looked too clean. There was no evidence of lunch preparations on the table, no bread, no cheese, no beer or limoncello, nothing. No sign of activity.

There was always activity around Inez: she liked to keep busy. Layla loved to come up here and make a pest of herself in this little kitchen, and Annie had questioned Inez, was Layla a nuisance to her? But Inez always laughed and said, No, Señora. The bambina was no trouble at all.

Now there was no Inez bustling about, scolding Rufio with a smile, laying out food, chatting full-tilt in indecipherable Mallorquin, chopping onions and fat red tomatoes grown fresh on the vine by Rufio’s own hand. Now there was no activity at all. The finca was silent. Annie and Jeanette stepped inside the kitchen, and Jeanette pushed the door closed.

A gust of wind caught it and it banged shut.

Annie gave Jeanette a sharp look. She didn’t know what they were going to find in here. They-whoever they were-could be lying in wait, ready to spring a nasty surprise on the two women. She didn’t want any of their movements signalled ahead.

She crossed the kitchen cautiously to the wide-open parlour door. Here too the furnishings were simple. Polished marble flooring-marble was cheap and plentiful in the Balearics-and a little old couch, a couple of spindle-back chairs, and a scrubbed-clean dining table. But no Inez, no Rufio.

This was starting to give Annie the creeps.

This wasn’t normal.

This was anything but normal.

‘Where the hell are they?’ hissed Jeanette.

Annie held up a finger to her lips and mouthed: Shut the fuck up, will you?

Jeanette pulled a face but did as she was told.

Annie carefully opened the door into the hall. It was empty. Holding the gun at the ready, she crossed the hall to the bedroom and pushed the door gently open.

Blowflies swarmed out, and with the flies came the smell. Annie flinched back and Jeanette let out a cry of startled disgust.

Oh God , thought Annie. No.

Fighting the urge to gag, she pushed the door wide open and saw what was there. Rufio was tied to the chair, his head flung back, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. Bluebottles swarmed over his face and over the gaping wound that slit him open from neck to crotch. His own bloodstained machete lay discarded on the tiled floor.

The stench of blood hit Annie afresh and she nearly choked. And there was Inez, on the bed…

No, she couldn’t look any more.

Tied up , she thought. Your staff are a little tied up.

What sort of sick bastard could have done a thing like this? They’d been dead for hours, she could see that. For hours. While she and the others had been lazing on the terrace, perfectly relaxed, up here this horror had been unfolding, and they had heard nothing, known nothing. Annie’s skin crawled to think that the bastards who had done all this had been prowling around, and she had been completely unaware. And now… this.

She closed the door softly on the grisly scene, but she could still see it in her mind’s eye. Her guts still churned and her mind still floundered to take it in.

‘Oh Jesus,’ Jeanette moaned, holding a hand to her throat. ‘Who could do that? How could anyone do that? What-what’s going to happen to us?’

‘Fuck it, is that all you can think about?’ Annie rounded on her furiously. ‘We’re still alive. They’re not.’

But they might just be playing with you , said an insidious voice in her head. Making you really suffer before they strike the killing blow.

No, Annie told herself. They had Layla. They had Layla and that meant they were willing to negotiate. Didn’t it? But…it might also mean that they knew what would hurt Annie most, and that would be for Layla to suffer. Inez and Rufio had been tortured. Would these people draw the line at torturing a little girl?

She had to push those thoughts away. She was still alive; she had to dig deep and hold on while there was still hope for Layla. She couldn’t afford to give in to despair. She glanced at her watch and her heart seemed to stop dead.

Had they really been that long getting up here, looking around, finding that awful scene? The hour was up. Bang on time, she heard it. The phone was ringing in the main house. And she wasn’t there to answer it.

She ran as if her life depended on it. Forgot who could have been watching, hiding, awaiting their opportunity to pounce. She ran and was only dimly aware that the light was going now, that it was growing cooler, that Jeanette had forgotten all that Annie had said about keeping quiet and was bleating along behind her, clacking along in her high heels, silly cow, saying something, babbling and crying, moaning that she wouldn’t be left alone up there, that they were never going to get back in time anyway so why try?

But they had to try.

Annie thought of nothing except the need to be quick. Quicker than she had ever been in her life. Her heart felt as though it was bursting out of her chest, her legs were on fire. She sprinted on to the terrace, crashed through the finca’s door straight into the hallway and her hand was on the phone when it stopped ringing.

‘No!’ she yelled, and picked it up and flung it against the wall, feeling helpless, stupid, furious. Instantly she regained control. Picked the thing up, listened to the dial tone. Still working. But she had missed the call.

Be there , he had said.

And she hadn’t.

Jeanette was still prattling on.

‘What will happen? What will they do? Will they hurt Layla? We missed the call, they won’t like that.’

‘Shut up,’ said Annie.

‘They won’t hurt her, will they? Not a little girl like Layla? They wouldn’t do that, would they?’

‘Shut up,’ repeated Annie, watching the phone, willing it to ring again.

‘They won’t hurt her,’ said Jeanette shakily.

Annie’s head shot round and she glared at her. ‘I told you, shut up. I can’t think with all this yakking going on.’