Lynda La Plante - Twisted

It was a lengthy and frustrating call as he was transferred from one person to another as they attempted to check their files. He emailed them the picture of the tiara, but still he was kept waiting and eventually he hung up as they said it would take time to look into his queries and they would get back to him.

It was after ten thirty when they did. There was some hesitancy as the insurance certificates and photographs of the jewellery they had on record were out of date and no insurance had been renewed. They were concerned that they were unable to clarify all the items that they had not been able to locate. Reid was starting to get irritated, even wondering if Grant Delany had stolen all the jewellery after all. He was relieved when told that they did have a photograph that matched the picture of the tiara in the email, and it belonged to Mr Boatly’s great-grandmother. The record they had was very precise and described the tiara as made up of matching rose diamonds, with a large centre square-cut diamond of four carats set in platinum and gold inlay. It was from the 1920s and valued at three hundred and fifty thousand pounds, but as the estimate was ten years old it was more than likely now worth a considerable amount more.

Reid could hardly believe it, but they seemed inclined to do nothing, not even to contact the police. When he told them that he had good information that the tiara had surfaced in Mexico, and as they had identified it as being the one belonging to Mr Boatly, it was therefore highly probable that it had been stolen, they didn’t seem interested as it was not within their legal jurisdiction. Reid interrupted and asked whether, if the tiara could be recovered, he would be in line for a finder’s percentage.

‘Absolutely’ was the response, and by the time the call ended Reid rashly calculated that his plane ticket and costs for the trip would be covered. He booked a plane ticket within an hour, and he was packed and ready to leave the UK by early afternoon.

On the plane, his initial excitement palled somewhat as he went back over the call that had brought about his decision. It was possible that Miss Polka might have become scared once she learnt the value of the tiara, or saw that José Hernandez was suspicious of how she had come by it. His confidence that Amy Fulford could be with Miss Polka began to lessen and he had a sinking feeling that he had allowed his obsession to override his senses, and yet it was too late to turn back. He pulled down his tray table and began to study the maps he had bought, realizing if he was to first stop in Mexico City and question the jewellers it would mean a further delay. He decided he would rent a car, drive from Mexico City to Mazatlan and begin his enquiries from there. He had in his suitcase photographs of Amy Fulford and Josephine Polka and knew that whatever names they were using would be immaterial if he could get the pictures identified. Yet again he was certain that he was right and that Amy Fulford was alive and had engineered her disappearance with clinical and clever subterfuge. He leaned back, closing his eyes as he went over his interaction with Miss Polka at the school, how she had behaved and reacted to his questions. Had she been lying to him, was she that good an actress? Yet again a wave of scepticism swept over him, and he hoped against hope that for once he had not reached a total dead end.

Anna had been sitting outside the cottage on an old wooden bench for hours. She had lit a night-light in a lantern and the mosquitoes gathered above it like a small black cloud. Jo had looked out from the window numerous times, but could not or refused to interrupt or go and sit beside her. She had begun packing the few things they had brought, and the canvas bags for their paintings and books were ready to be put into the Land Rover. Anna’s rucksack was almost full, the top left open for anything else she wanted to take.

Earlier that morning Anna had frightened Jo as she had driven off without saying a word. She had been gone for over two hours, and unbeknown to Jo, had spent the time in an internet café discovering all she could about her father and mother. She had read the newspaper coverage of her own disappearance, and had even been able to bring up the footage of a few of the programmes that had been broadcast on British network television.

Jo had not seen her cry. Her reaction had been one of utter silence when she had told her about the visit to the jewellery store in Mexico City, the phone call to London and how she had subsequently gone to the internet café. Anna had shown little reaction to the news that her father was dead. However, when she had herself read about him and that the police were no longer searching for her, and no other suspects had been arrested, she had bowed her head in shame. By the time she returned to the cottage she was aware of the consequences her disappearance had created, and was almost overwhelmed with a sense of guilt. She had not discussed with Jo the need to uproot and find somewhere else to hide. She was even uncertain that she would agree to it; for herself she had found peace and had been happy for the first time in years. She was realizing the implications and cost of what she had done, and was now contemplating returning to England, but was intelligent enough to realize that she would have to face a barrage of questions from the police and might be charged with wasting their time for not coming forward earlier. Nowhere had she read of the poisoning or the threats that had been made, so she was unaware of exactly how her father had died. The article simply stated that he had not recovered after collapsing while being questioned and the police were no longer looking for a suspect connected to his daughter’s murder.

Jo heard the scrape of the bench and knew immediately that Anna had moved from the yard. It was so dark outside, the small lantern the only means of light; even the moon seemed to have paled into insignificance. She stepped outside, and could see Anna standing by the hosepipe they used as a shower. She was bending down a few feet away from it, and Jo walked softly towards her.

‘The new crops are coming up well – they like this damp earth and being in the shade.’

She was pointing to the old wooden crates filled with woodchips and wet newspapers from where the growing mushrooms’ white heads were beginning to sprout.

‘My mother taught me how to grow the most edible ones, and how to recognize the dangerous ones, the poisonous ones. She was an authority on all the different species and helped me write an essay about the poison that possibly caused the death of the Roman Emperor-’

‘We need to talk, Anna.’

‘Not yet, Jo, give me a little more time.’

‘We might not have it. I wish to God I had never made that call to London.’

Anna turned to stare into Jo’s concerned face, and then looked away, her voice hardly audible.

‘For God’s sake, let me mourn for Daddy; he did not deserve to be accused of abusing and killing me. He was a stupid weak man, but not a bad one.’

‘I know, dear.’

Her voice grew softer still. ‘No, you don’t know, you don’t know at all.’

‘Then talk to me, because I need to know. I am so scared I am losing you, Anna, I don’t think I could bear it.’

She wanted to hold out her arms and hug Anna tightly, but was incapable of doing so because she was afraid she would be rejected. Instead she looked on hopelessly as Anna continued to press her foot down onto the trays of mushrooms. The void between them felt impossible to bridge and to stop herself from crying Jo walked into the cottage and closed the door.

The small bed of wooden planks cobbled together covered with a straw mattress was not exactly comfortable, but was just about adequate and the duvet was feather-light. Two candles lit the stone-walled room and the shutters closed out the cold night air. Jo could hear footsteps on the old wooden porch floor, the scrape of the chair, and lastly she heard the low sound of sobbing as Anna entered the cottage.