Lynda La Plante: Twisted

Fifteen minutes later Jo was driving at a frantic pace in an attempt to catch up with Amy. The girl was not on the dusty sand track and Jo presumed she must have caught a lift from one of the locals and been driven into Mazatlan. Just as she reached the tarmac road the engine began to splutter and she closed her eyes, praying that it was not true, because the petrol gauge didn’t work, but the spluttering and shuddering of the old engine signified it was empty.

There was nothing for it but to return to the cottage to get her wallet as she had simply run empty-handed from the place in the hope of catching Amy. She then had to go on foot, carrying a petrol can, on the long trek to the nearest gas station on the outskirts of town. The sun was blistering hot as Jo eventually got to the petrol station and filled the can after hitching a ride in a farmer’s run-down truck. He took her back to the Land Rover and she finally drove into town. She was sweating heavily, alternating between crying and angrily cursing that she had not woken Amy sooner. She drove to the bus station and made enquiries there, and then headed for the beach in the hope of catching sight of her, but by noon, struggling beneath the over-powering heat of the midday sun, she eventually turned back towards the cottage. The hens were clucking around waiting for their feed, but she couldn’t even think about tending to them as she hoped that she was wrong and Amy would come back.

Jo walked around the empty cottage, too exhausted to even cry, then lay down on the bed and tried to think what she should do next. She picked up the letter and read it again and again, and the more she read it the worse she felt. She debated returning to England by herself in the hope of seeing Amy there, but then she had to also accept the fact that she didn’t have enough money for a plane ticket.

Over and over she tried to think of what Amy would be doing, and if she was heading for an airport, if she would go to Mexico City and fly from there, but she had made enquiries at the bus station and no one had seen the blonde English girl. It was depressing and frustrating, and hard to believe that after all they had been through Amy would have chosen to walk away and leave her. At some point she did acknowledge that Amy had left her parents and without any thought of the repercussions; now she had done the same to her. She started to grow angry. She remembered her saying that Jo did not know her, and she began to think that it was true, groaning at the terrible sense of betrayal. For the second time in her life she had loved deeply and profoundly and the rejection this time felt even worse.

After a long flight on which he’d scarcely managed to sleep, DI Reid arrived in Mexico City and hired a vehicle. This had not been without its problems as the Hertz at the airport had no cars available, and so he had eventually agreed to rent a camper van, which cost more, but he was eager not to waste any more time. It had been a hair-raising few hours as he had attempted to circumnavigate the thronging mass of traffic in Mexico City. He had, with great difficulty, eventually traced the jewellers and they had confirmed when shown the photographs of Josephine Polka that it was without doubt the woman that had attempted to sell the tiara. They didn’t recognize Amy Fulford as the woman had been alone. The jewellers impressed him, seeming well-established and very successful, although whether they would have paid the right price for the tiara was questionable. He had told them only that he was working for an insurance company for a ‘finder’s fee’, and that the tiara although not stolen was part of an inheritance.

With little to go on, Reid made the journey to Mazatlan. The only clue he had was so tenuous that he hoped it wasn’t going to be a fruitless costly journey. The drive was over eight hours, but he had stopped only to fill the petrol tank twice and grab a bite to eat. The heat was oppressive and he had stripped off his shirt to wear only a vest and a pair of shorts he had thrown into his case at the last minute. He had even taken his socks off, as the air conditioning in the camper van was faulty. It was getting dark by the time he eventually saw the road signs to Mazatlan, and it was with great relief that he neared the beautiful beach-side town. The air was not as stifling here and with the windows open, he was feeling less uncomfortable. He had driven through the main town, passing glorious white stucco-fronted hotels and was on the main road when he realized he needed to fill up once more, so he pulled over to a gas station. As he picked up a six-pack of bottled water and was paying for it at the counter he casually asked if they would look at a photograph as he was there searching for some friends.

Reid returned to the camper van and opened a bottle of water; he could hardly believe that he had hit the jackpot so soon. It had taken a while for the station attendant to understand his enquiries but a twenty-dollar bill had helped. The man had drawn the directions on a scrap of paper and had managed to convey that the lady he was hoping to meet lived in a farmer’s cottage on the outskirts of the main town a further twenty or more miles north. Reid was warned that the roads were not lit, and in some areas still unfinished, and when he reached the end of the main tarmac road he would need to drive carefully as the track became uneven, with gravel-filled potholes.

Reid took the wrong turn over and over again; the camper van was spluttering and the springs made each dip in the uneven road painful on his backside. Coming to a barred broken gate, he was going to carry on, but his headlights picked out small white pebbles that appeared to indicate a path. He turned in and his lights caught the parked Land Rover, and now he could see the white pebbles were seashells marking out the narrow path to a run-down cottage. The shutters were drawn, but chinks of light indicated someone was inside. He parked up and walked towards the wooden door, swearing as he twisted his ankle in the dark.

Almost at the door, he ran his hands through his hair and buttoned up his shirt, and was about to knock when it flew open. He recognized her immediately but before he could say anything she shouted at him to go away and slammed the door.

‘Miss Polka, please, please LET ME TALK TO YOU.’

She inched the door open and there was no recognition on her face but rather fear as she asked what he wanted.

‘Do you remember me? I came to meet you at the school in Ascot, I’m DI Reid.’

She stared dumbfounded as if unable to comprehend what he had just said. What happened next caught him completely by surprise, as she literally collapsed in front of him and he had to push the door further open to pick her up. He carried her in his arms as he looked round for a suitable place to put her down, and noticed there was a pile of cushions by the unlit fire.

‘Miss Polka, Miss Polka.’ He propped her head up in the crook of his arm.

She slowly opened her eyes and he took a cushion and placed it beneath her head. She seemed to be totally incapable of speaking or acknowledging him, but just lay there, her eyes open. He glanced around to see if there was a kitchen or running water to fetch her a drink. The two candles gave only a faint light to the room and he knocked his shin on a stool before he found, in the small annexe, a plastic gallon water bottle. He poured some into a tin mug and carried it back to her.

‘See if you can sit up and sip this.’

He lifted her by placing his hand under her shoulders and held the mug out for her to drink. She took a couple of sips and then rested her head against his chest.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured as he encouraged her to drink some more. It seemed to revive her, as she moved away from him, and then cradled her head in her hands.