She's Mine Read online

  *

  I reach the boardwalk and wait for Christina. She hands me the bucket and leans against my shoulder. Oh, my God! It’s so incongruous the care she takes in brushing sand off her perfectly manicured feet before she tugs on the ridiculous stilettos.

  Suddenly it occurs to me:

  ‘Where’s Damien?’ I say. She shrugs. Her face is rigid as a mask.

  ‘I haven’t got a clue. He told me he was meeting you and Katie at the play area. He told me to meet him there too. He never showed up.’

  She stumbles towards the hotel, while I peer down at the empty bucket and wonder idly, whatever happened to Katie’s precious hoard of shells?

  *

  The chatter in the lobby dies when the police officer ushers us through the entrance to the hotel. The receptionists are huddled at one end of the check-in desk conversing anxiously and ignoring the line of new arrivals, most still ignorant of the tragedy unfolding on the beach. The guests wait impatiently, waving passports and fidgeting with their suitcases. All I can hear is Christina’s stilettos clicking like ice picks on the white marble as we are escorted in a walk of shame across the lounge and up the nearest staircase to two adjoining vacant guestrooms. The first is for me. The door shuts and I am left on my own to wait.

  Suspended in time, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the pattern on the carpet, unable to move, locked in misery and remorse. Eventually, the tears come. I collapse onto the mattress and bury my face in the pillow, pounding my fists against the headboard until my knuckles are raw. I can’t forgive myself for being such a fool. What was I thinking? To take an alcoholic drink when in charge of a child – especially a child who was – is – so vulnerable and needy as Katie? She would still be here, if it wasn’t for that drink. I’m so mad at myself, and even more mad at Damien, the self-entitled bully who won’t take ‘no’ for an answer – the man who always has to take the part of the dominant male and the playboy at the party!

  My thoughts are interrupted when a police officer enters the room. She introduces herself as the family liaison officer and asks if I need anything. Then she sits down and takes out a notepad. She says her role is to make sure we are all OK, and to provide us with any support we may need in the tragic circumstances. She says it’s not an interview but an off-the-record informal chat and while I take sips of tea she opens with questions about my welfare. Am I overworked? Stressed? Is this why I fell asleep on the beach? Mortified, I explain again that I believe I was drugged. I was well-rested and had been enjoying the holiday looking after Katie, I say. She moves on to questions about my relationship with Christina and Damien. She wants to know how long I’ve been working for Christina? Do we get along? Have there been any issues or anything unusual in my employment relations? I assure her that I have a good working relationship with my employer based on mutual trust and respect.

  ‘We bonded over Katie,’ I say. ‘Christina knows I love her little girl to bits and she has full confidence in me. I’m like a second mother to Katie.’ Though my words ring hollow now, I know they were true until the moment Katie disappeared.

  ‘What’s more,’ I say, ‘although I’ve only been working for Christina for three months, we’ve become great friends.’

  Casting my mind back to my life in New York, that now exists only in the past tense, I tell the officer about our Sunday afternoon outings. Christina would occasionally invite me to join her browsing the second-hand bookstores on the Upper East Side. She would spend hours poking around in search of first editions of children’s classics and vintage paperbacks. She loved finding a bargain and I was happy to go along with her even though I didn’t share her passion for rummaging through stacks of dusty old books.

  ‘Damien, on the other hand, protested quite openly that these outings bored him rigid,’ I say. ‘So we’d leave him at the apartment babysitting Katie. This gave him the opportunity to spend the afternoon watching cartoons.’

  What I don’t share with the officer is an account of my wild night out with Christina at the Brooklyn Bowl just two weeks ago, as I fear this might create the wrong impression. That was the night we really bonded as girlfriends. Generally stressed, anxious and overworked, Christina really let her hair down that night. She had surprised me by agreeing to come along to the hottest hip-hop, indie-pop and rap festival in town which, by lucky coincidence, was taking place on my night off. Being some fifteen years my senior, Christina’s taste in music was radically different to mine but she was up for it. The truth is, I think she was lonely. Outside work, she hasn’t any real friends. But getting to know me gave her the opportunity to get out and have some fun. That night, I did her make-up and lent her my leather skirt and heeled boots. After the frenzy of music and dancing, high on vodka shots and pot, we giggled and flirted like teenagers with sleazy men in sweaty bars well into the early hours. Damien was waiting up, morose and bad-tempered when we staggered into the apartment. He had agreed to babysit surprisingly graciously when asked by Christina earlier in the week but when we got back much the worse for wear, I could tell from the scowl distorting his handsome dark features that he was mightily hacked off we’d had such a fabulous time without him. Later I was woken by his shouting coming from Christina’s bedroom and the following day I noticed a bruise on Christina’s cheekbone that she had tried unsuccessfully to conceal with her foundation.

  The voice of the police officer drags me back to the present.

  ‘So how well do you know Damien?’ she says, responding to my earlier comment. Her ears have pricked up with my mention of him doing the babysitting. I tell her that I met Damien after starting work with Christina and that I understand he works in finance in downtown Manhattan but personally know him only as Christina’s partner.

  ‘We get along fine but I don’t entirely trust him,’ I say. ‘There’s something about him. I can’t put my finger on it…’

  That’s the truth, but not the whole truth. What I don’t reveal to her is an incident that took place in Christina’s bedroom the week before we flew out to the British Leeward Isles. I don’t disclose it because the incident doesn’t put me in a good light either! On Tuesdays, Katie does a full day at kindergarten so I have a little time to myself. I’ve got into the habit of using Christina’s en-suite, luxurious, walk-in power shower and expensive beauty products following the weekly hot yoga class that I go to after dropping off Katie. So last Tuesday, I had just finished my shower and wrapped myself in Christina’s bathrobe when I heard her bedroom door opening and then the sound of her antique roll top desk being unlocked.

  I thought she must have come back early from work for some reason. There was nothing else for it but to come clean (literally!) and apologise for taking the liberty of using her bathroom without asking first. So I took off her bathrobe, draped a towel around me and opened the door. But it wasn’t Christina. It was Damien with his back to me, checking the contents of the desk. Caught in the act. Hearing the catch he started and turned in alarm. He reddened but quickly composed himself and went on the offensive.

  ‘What a vision of beauty!’ he sneered as I stood there, my wet hair dripping onto the carpet. ‘I didn’t realise you and Christina were so intimate.’

  ‘And I didn’t realise you made a habit of going through her private papers!’ I snapped back. I know very well that the desk, an old family heirloom shipped over from the UK, is a strictly no-go area that she keeps locked at all times. He just laughed and then cool as a cucumber, he slipped some documents into a green cardboard file under his arm, locked the desk, pocketed the key and marched out of the room.

  ‘Just mind your own business and keep out of our affairs. Or you’ll be going the same way as the previous nanny,’ was his parting shot.

  I understood this was no idle threat. Christina’s so possessive and distrustful that I knew if she got wind of this brush with Damien, she would imagine the worst and I’d be out of a job. So I said nothing to Christina in New York and I say nothing to the police officer now as s
he converses with me in the hotel bedroom.

  I decide to keep my suspicions about Damien to myself – for now.

  *

  For something that was supposed to have been a ‘friendly chat’ the questioning is intense. After asking about my relations with Christina and Damien she embarks on a list of questions clearly aimed at working out a timeline for my movements this afternoon. What time did I arrive at the beach with Katie? Did I speak to anyone? Did anyone approach me or Katie? Did I notice anyone watching her? What time did I fall asleep? What time did I wake up? When did I become aware Katie was missing? What did I do next? Did I see anyone on the beach when I was looking for her? How long did I spend searching the beach before raising the alarm? What time did I tell Christina her little girl was missing?

  My head is pounding and I feel like a criminal by the time the family liaison officer finally puts her notepad away.

  ‘These questions are nothing to worry about,’ she assures me. ‘We just need to establish the timeline for the disappearance of the little girl.’ She ends the conversation by encouraging me to contact her ‘any time, any place’ if I need support or if I ‘remember’ anything else that may be relevant to the investigation. I half expect her to clap me in handcuffs and announce that she’s putting me under arrest, when at last she says that I’m at liberty to go.

  *

  In a waking nightmare, we struggle on through the grief-stricken hours of the day making calls, badgering the search team for any new scrap of information and giving interviews to reporters in the belief that getting Katie’s story out there might somehow help in her rescue.

  The worst moment comes just after midnight when the operation is called to a halt. I collapse onto a chair in a quivering heap. All the strength has gone from my legs. Christina appears distraught, begging members of the police and emergency services to go on searching.

  ‘There’s nothing more we can do tonight. We’ll resume at dawn. You should get some sleep,’ says the commander sternly. Holding our despair at bay and unable to contemplate the thought of sleep, we pace the beaches and the rocky headland for the next two hours, tripping over stones in the darkness, our steps lit only by the moon and stars in the cloudless black sky and the light from our mobile phones.

  I am lightheaded with exhaustion by the time I accompany Christina to her room in the early hours of the morning. We sit out on the balcony mesmerised by the sound of waves rolling on to sand. We are too tired to speak. I make tea and give her three sleeping tablets from a packet I find in her wash bag. Once the tablets take effect, I steer her to bed, her expression vacant and confused, as she lets me pull the covers over her. It’s not until I shut Christina’s door and go down the corridor to the room I’m sharing with Katie that it strikes me again. Where the fuck is Damien? I haven’t seen him all day, not since he handed me the cocktail at the pool.

  When I open the door, there is Katie’s blue bunny, propped up on her newly-made bed. The tears stream down my face. The bedtime story I was reading to her last night is still open at the page we got to when her eyes finally closed. It’s a beautifully illustrated copy of Peter Pan that Christina discovered in a quaint little bookshop called the Book Cellar, one of her favourite haunts for second-hand books. I glance down at the page. ‘The Mermaids’ Lagoon’ – Katie’s favourite chapter. She loves the colour illustrations of the mermaids diving in the waves. The doors to the balcony are open. I shiver in the sea breeze and step out through billowing curtains.

  I stand there for a few moments still clutching Katie’s bucket.

  Lost. Drowned.

  *

  As I look out over the ocean, a shadow on the curtain catches my attention and I experience a sudden irrational leap of hope.

  ‘Katie?’ I call out, turning round to look.

  Has she miraculously returned?

  The room is empty.

  I open the door, and call down the corridor,

  ‘Christina?’

  The corridor is empty and behind me in the room, the only sound is the flapping of the curtain.

  Don’t be an idiot! You’re imagining things.

  Still, I force myself to go out and quietly let myself in to Christina’s room, with the spare key that she gave me on arrival, to check that she’s OK.

  She looks fast asleep. Knocked out by the sleeping tablets.

  Am I losing my mind? It must be the adrenaline overload making me hyper-vigilant, my mind playing tricks on me. There’s nothing more I can do until morning. I need to get some rest – to lie down at least – even though sleep is unthinkable. On autopilot I return to my room, walk into the bathroom and reach for my toothbrush.

  My hand stops in mid-air.

  D – – I E –

  The smudgy letters and dashes slice through my reflection in the glass, scrawled in my brand-new lipstick, bought in Macy’s the day before we came away. DIE. The word screams out at me. The message is rammed home by a lipstick stick-figure of a hangman drawn next to the letters. I glance in the mirror at the open doorway behind and spin round sharply. My nerves are on a knife-edge.

  What the hell is going on? Did Christina do this? Was it her who came into my room? But no. That’s impossible. She’s out for the count. More likely, it was one of the maids or one of the other guests. Word has got out. I’m the one to blame. The feckless, irresponsible nanny who let a little girl drown. Asleep on the watch. A child killer. From now on I’m going to be the object of everyone’s hate

  I grab a towel and start to rub at the letters frantically. Then suddenly it occurs to me that this could be evidence of something even more sinister – something connected with the fact that my drink was spiked. I throw down the towel.

  Stop it now – you’re being paranoid. Calm down… breathe…

  Someone is fucking with my head: first spiking my drink and then – I look up and hold my gaze in the mirror – sending me a death threat. I grip the edge of the cold china basin. My hands are shaking. Someone is setting out to intimidate and incriminate me.

  A cold chill comes over me.

  This isn’t just a threat. I’m being framed.

  My stomach churns. The sickness I’ve been battling all evening, overwhelms me. Overcome by a surge of nausea, I collapse, retching onto the tiled stone floor.

  3

  Scarlett

  At last the black night ends and dawn breaks over the sea. Through three tortured hours of darkness, I’ve been curled up on the bed with Katie’s blue bunny, cold and shivering. The soft toy is soaked with my tears. Every muscle in my body aches from the tension of the previous day. After tossing and turning, I must have eventually fallen into a fitful sleep. As I wake, I reach out automatically to feel for Katie’s sleeping form and the empty expanse of cold sheet brings me to my senses with a jolt. I’m gripped again by anguish and fear. The pain is brutal. I’m exhausted both mentally and physically.

  I get up stiffly and rummage in my suitcase for migraine tablets. I’m still wearing my crumpled sundress from yesterday. It’s stiff from seawater and smells of vomit. What happened to me? A rod of pain runs from the top of my skull down into the socket of my left eye.

  I walk into the bathroom to splash some water on my face. I didn’t imagine the gashes of red on the glass and the broken lipstick lying open on the shelf. Someone came into my room last night and wrote me a death threat. But, why?

  I strip off my soiled sundress. Scrubbing myself in the shower, I relive the horrible confrontation with Christina on the beach yesterday afternoon like a newsreel unfolding. I can’t erase the images of her hurtling down the sand towards me yelping like an injured animal. I wash traces of blood off my arms and wrists, still covered in scratches and bruises where she had grabbed and squeezed me frantically, all the while screaming, ‘Where is she? What have you done with her? I trusted you, you careless bitch. What happened? Where is she?’

  I can’t get the words out of my head.

  I recall sinking to my knees in the san
d and hiding my face in my hands. She had carried on slapping me round the head again and again shouting, ‘You lazy fool, I trusted you, you failed me,’ until a police officer had pulled her away and she collapsed sobbing into his arms.

  Eventually, Christina had managed to get a grip on herself and later even apologised for having lost control.

  ‘It was only a matter of time,’ she had said enigmatically.

  Revived by the shower, I gaze at my suntanned face in the mirror. I don’t look like a feckless loser or a child killer. Despite the traumas of yesterday, on the outside I’m bright-eyed and bursting with vigour. But on the inside, I’m broken.

  I drag a brush through my wet, tangled hair. I must pull myself together for Katie’s sake. Although the death threat written in lipstick on my mirror freaks me out, perversely it gives me reason not to give in to despair. I’m hoping against hope that Katie is still alive. I’m hoping against hope that some depraved soul is playing a sick joke on me and that she will be found safe and well. Thank God the letters are still legible. The police will have to take me seriously now.

  Back in my bedroom, I pick up the business card I left on the desk. Detective Sergeant Paul Costa. The family liaison officer gave it to me yesterday.

  ‘Sergeant Costa will interview you personally tomorrow,’ she had said. ‘He’s asked you to come back at noon.’ She had spoken with deference, as if this big shot would be doing me a special favour. Before he decides to throw me in jail, I’ve got to do everything in my power to find out what’s happened to Katie. Someone’s out to get me: first spiking my drink then the writing on the mirror. Something very strange is going on.

  I tug on a pair of denim shorts, a faded T-shirt and my trainers. If Sergeant Costa’s tied up until noon, I can’t sit here in my room doing nothing until then. It’ll drive me mad. I woke up in the night with an absolute conviction that Katie is still alive. It was almost like a vision – a vivid image of Katie running along the coastal path towards the little cove where Christina and I took her the other day to hunt for shells. This morning I intend to retrace our footsteps from that day and spend the morning scouring every cove and inlet I can get to along the coastal path.