Lynda La Plante: Twisted

They had been together in the tiny Mexican village for six months, but choosing to remain in seclusion from the outside world they used no computers, no mobile phones and no television. They read and talked and painted and only occasionally did Jo use the ancient Land Rover to drive into the nearest town to buy any supplies they needed. The rented a stonewalled, whitewashed cottage that had long since been left empty by the previous owners and was now their home. It had become their sanctuary, their healing place, with a plentiful stock of oil paints and canvases. No electricity, just oil lamps, candles and an open-fire cooking range with a simple grid, and an old barbecue outside which was where most of the cooking was done. Fresh food was a rare treat, so they existed mostly on simple meals of rice dishes and tortillas. They financed themselves at first from Jo’s savings, but when those ran out, it became necessary to travel to Mexico City. They never travelled together, it was always Jo catching the run-down bus and spending twenty-four hours away as she carefully chose which jeweller’s would be the most trustworthy. She never used the same people, calculating that the more the items were broken up the less likely they ran the risk of suspicion. She knew she was being offered low prices, but foremost in her mind was always the need to protect their safety. However, the tiara posed a real problem. They discussed it endlessly; intact, it was perfect, even though the individual stones could have fetched a good price on their own. Finally they agreed it was too beautiful to dismantle. On this occasion Jo thought it necessary to go to a more upmarket antique jeweller’s, one which, judging from its window displays, dealt with finer and more costly items.

Showing the tiara to the dapper Mexican, who spoke some English, Jo explained slowly that it had been a family heirloom, and the value had to be in the region of two hundred thousand dollars. She was taken aback that he never queried her asking price. He said the stones were of exceptional beauty and were rose diamonds, the centrepiece being an astonishing four carat which had been set in platinum with gold inlay. He asked that she leave the tiara with him so he could get his friend to look at it for a second opinion and valuation.

Jo was no fool and refused to leave it in his possession, but said she’d wait until his partner arrived. She was taken into the back room of the elegant shop, and given coffee while they waited for a José Hernandez to arrive. The back of the shop had a small yard and barred iron gates, which she stared at in the heat of the day until Hernandez drew up in a new BMW convertible. He was wearing a white suit and pale blue shirt with a flamboyant necktie; he also had a heavy gold and diamond ring on his little finger. He spoke perfect English and when his partner explained why Jo was there he was extremely eager to see the tiara. He immediately said it dated from the 1920s and then took his time with an eyeglass, inspecting every single stone. Jo found it intensely nerve-wracking, and she was sweating and beginning to think she had made a big mistake in not doing as they had done with all the other pieces and splitting the stones to sell one by one.

More coffee was served as the two men sat in a corner, carefully checking the tiara. Jo was left to wait on a plush-covered sofa with a large statue of the Virgin Mary on a coffee table beside her. There was also a copy of the New York Times , days old and already brownish, having been left by the window in the sun. She picked it up, trying to appear uninterested as they spoke in Spanish to each other. Hernandez left to go into the main shop, from where she could hear him talking to someone on the phone. As she turned to the back pages of the newspaper, her suspicions grew as his partner used his mobile phone to take photographs of the tiara.

The advert had a black border, and leaped out at her as she read the name of the London lawyers seeking to trace the heirs to Marcus Fulford and Simon Boatly’s estates. She had not known that Marcus Fulford was dead. Without even considering the reason for the advert, she realized she had to know if this was Amy Fulford’s father.

Putting the paper down and getting to her feet, she asked if it would be possible to make an urgent call to England. Hernandez, having finished his own call, hesitated then invited her to use the office phone. Jo was shaking when she finished speaking to the solicitors and could hardly take in what Hernandez said next, but gradually she forced herself to listen to him as he explained that he would require confirmation that the tiara was legally hers to sell, and if she could provide papers that proved its provenance, they would be very keen to purchase it.

She assured them that she would return the following day with the documents, and they offered to retain the tiara for safekeeping in their safe but she refused. Both men were extremely eager to persuade her to agree. Sensing they were becoming threatening, she insisted they give her back the tiara. By now she was beginning to panic, afraid that she had inadvertently created the very thing they had tried so hard to avoid. They had appeared to grow suspicious and Hernandez offered to drive her to wherever she had the legal ownership documents, but again she had refused, lying about having someone waiting for her, and by the time she had left, clutching the tiara wrapped in tissue paper in the old plastic bag, she was very frightened.

They had watched her hurry from their premises, Hernandez furious at the possibility they had just lost a big sale, but at the same time his partner was equally angry since if he hadn’t queried the ownership of the piece they would have had for a quarter of the value a tiara that when broken apart would have made them a fortune in the sale of individual diamonds. The two men argued with each other, Hernandez suggesting that in his opinion it was more than likely stolen, and as such he was just protecting their good name. This had created further disagreement as they had made some very shady deals in the past, but as Hernandez pointed out, it was the Englishwoman who had approached them. He opened the pictures of the tiara on his partner’s mobile and they looked with disappointment at what they believed was a golden opportunity they had just lost, and they doubted the Englishwoman would return.

Jo caught the dilapidated local bus and sat clutching the tiara; she kept on turning round, scared she might have been followed. To take extra precautions she changed bus twice, which meant a long wait in Guadalajara. To pass the agonizingly slow time she went into an internet café where she paid for half an hour and spent it checking out news items and anything on the net that was connected to Marcus Fulford’s death. Eventually she got on the bus to Mazatlan after shopping in the markets for fresh provisions, the tiara hidden beneath potatoes and carrots. She had pressed her head against the dirty glass in the old dented bus, seated beside a woman with hens in a wooden crate, sweating and uncomfortable on the wooden seat. It was a long trip and she slept through the night, boarding yet another bus before she reached the nearest stop to where she had left the Land Rover on the outskirts of Mazatlan.

Jo drove for another hour before turning onto the dirt track that led to their rented cottage. She could see Anna sitting outside, breaking an old stale loaf into crumbs which she held in the palm of her hand for the hens to peck at. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans cut and frayed at the knee, and a washed-out gingham shirt tied in a knot at her waist. She had short-cropped boyish hair bleached white from the sun, and she was deeply tanned, tall and slender. Brushing the remaining crumbs from her hands, she shaded her eyes from the sun as she could see Jo approaching.