Untold Story Read online

  I told her I’d be on the next available flight.

  She took a deep breath, my little sister. “Is it wise?” she said. Although she is admirably restrained in keeping her opinions to herself, I know she fears I am shortening my life each time I step on a plane. She may be right. Who knows? Certainly not Dr. Patel.

  “Everyone’s so . . . stunned,” she said. “I keep thinking about that time you brought her round for tea, how lovely she was, how natural, asking about the kids, admiring the garden. And then she did the washing up! I tell everybody that. And to think of her . . . Do you think . . . do you think it really was . . .”

  She was overcome, either by emotion or the delicacy of the situation. Although the endless media speculation was of sharks, Patricia found the word unutterable.

  3 February 1998

  It was as I had planned. Had I selected the main beach of Boa Viagem, where there are notices warning that “bathers in this area at a greater risk of shark attack,” it would have created a media storm when she insisted on taking her daily swim. Surfers are eaten with some regularity, but a princess is a different matter entirely. The beach I had selected was quite some distance from the Recife/ Boa Viagem area and it was generally considered safe and the waters calm. What I had weighed in my calculations, however, was that five or six years ago, shark attacks in Boa Viagem were more or less unheard of. Easy for the press, then, to speculate that some new shift in the underwater ecosystem had driven the bull sharks farther along the coast once again.

  I had done my research so thoroughly that in one of our planning sessions I was perhaps a little too eager to share the information. “Oh, please would you stop?” she said. “I don’t need to hear the gory stuff. I’ll have to get in the water, you know.”

  The basic idea had been hers. She’d talked of it for a year or so. “Isn’t there some way, Lawrence, to make me disappear? People stage their own deaths, don’t they, walk into the sea and vanish? Make me vanish, Lawrence. Make me go up in a cloud of smoke. I bet you did that at the Foreign Office, didn’t you? Spies, and all that. You know how. You could do it. You’re the cleverest person I know. You’re the only person I’d trust.”

  There were variations on this theme—some joking, some semicasual, and some delivered with heartbreaking earnestness. I must admit I was flattered more than alarmed. At least at first. She became increasingly desperate.

  When I finally began to realize how serious she was, I told her it could—at some risk—be done. She sat quietly. We were in her private drawing room. A large vase of her favorite white roses stood on the table to my side, but either they were scentless or all my senses were tuned only toward her. I remember the drift of her perfume, 24, Faubourg, I believe. “Yes,” she said, “please help me.” And, with those simplest of words, I was entirely at her disposal.

  4 February 1998

  Spies, and all that. It was a line she delivered with her special mixture of knowing coquettishness and disarming naivety. There was a grain of truth. I know how to get things done. What I had to research from scratch was location, and the credibility of no body (or body parts) being found. In terms of absolute numbers, Florida and Australia have more shark attacks, but those in Pernambuco have a far higher ratio of fatalities. I favored Brazil too as a non-Anglophone nation, making it easier for her to disappear in those first critical weeks. That settled the location. Then I searched for cases in which people have gone missing at sea.

  Sure enough, the media has obliged with a regurgitation of those very stories that I felt provided a strong enough precedent. On 17 December 1967, Australian Prime Minister Harold Holt went swimming off Cheviot Beach near Melbourne, and disappeared. After a massive search-and-rescue operation, which failed to recover a body, it was presumed he’d been eaten by sharks, and a funeral was held. They dwelled too on Alcatraz escape attempts, such as those by Frank Morris and Clarence and John Anglin. It gave them a meaty narrative, and a chance for macabre speculation. All those who swam from the rock over the years were officially declared to have drowned, although no bodies ever surfaced, most likely providing meals for scavenging leopard sharks. There was a multitude of other stories too, famed or fabled, and the collated reports of workaday disappearances in Florida, Hawaii, Australia, Brazil, and so on. The list was long. It added a great deal of ballast to the story as I wished it to be told.

  5 February 1998

  The conspiracy theorists are out to play, which was only to be expected. Harold Holt was considered by the fantasists to have been abducted by a Russian (or sometimes Chinese) submarine. Morris and the Anglins were “sighted” by eagle-eyed citizens after they drowned. Probably the same keen individuals who went on to spot Elvis after his death. I keep an eye on the current conspiracies. She’s been bumped off—that one leads the way. Various angles considered, including, most preposterously, that the murder was ordered by her father-in-law, the Duke of Edinburgh, and carried out by the security services. Pressure is mounting for a public inquiry, not as yet forthcoming. Suicide has been posited, with a nice twist that she had been pregnant and unwilling to bear a mixed-race child. There are a few theories, too, that she has absconded, and even “sightings” of her in Geneva and in a burka in a sprinkling of Muslim lands. Thankfully they are restricted to the Internet’s lunatic fringe.

  Chapter Ten

  Last night he actually said his prayers in bed while turning the rosary beads through his fingers. Usually he just counted them off or clacked them together because he found the noise soothing. Looked like he was getting his reward—Lydia was right there in front of him, striding down Albert Street, the spaniel trotting so close it looked like the dog was glued to her ankle. He needed a moment to gather himself, think of an open-ended line with which to begin. He stepped off the street beside the coffee shop, where he could make a few sartorial adjustments out of view. He quickly tucked in his shirt. He ran a hand through his hair. Maybe he should use the camera. Say, I wonder if you’d mind if I took a few shots. You’re very striking. Chicks liked that. No, only the younger girls liked that. A woman her age would think it was weird.

  She’d be passing in a few moments. He couldn’t make up his mind.

  Now she was walking by and if she turned her head he would look like some kind of pervert, lurking in the shadow.

  Grabowski, he told himself, you are an idiot. He automatically lifted the Canon and framed a shot. He didn’t take it. Why take a shot of the back of her head?

  He followed her at a distance down the street. He still didn’t have a plan.

  She had a good backside. It looked pretty fine in those low-rise jeans.

  When she turned into the drugstore, he hesitated, wondering if he should follow her in. What are you going to do, Grabowski, ask her advice about which toothpaste to buy?

  He looked around and then crossed the road. There was a big truck parked a short way to the left. If he stood behind it he could keep an eye on the store and in the meantime decide on his approach.

  Mrs. Jackson had told him that Lydia was English and had lived in Kensington three years. “She works with the dogs, you know that place over west by the woods.”

  “I’m from out of town, Mrs. Jackson,” said Grabowski, although he already knew that sarcasm was wasted on her.

  The landlady blew her nose on a Kleenex. “Allergies,” she explained. “I’m a martyr to that dog. I got him from the shelter, the place I was just telling you about. Here on business, are you? Is it the funeral home? Mr. Dryden will never sell. We’ve had a few trying to persuade him over the years, coming down from the city. But, of course, your accent, you’re from overseas. Not that that means anything. We’re quite cosmopolitan in these parts.”

  Grabber regarded Mrs. Jackson’s beads and belt and patent leather shoes, the determined optimism of her manicured and heavily veined hands. “I’ll bet you are,” he said. “There’s Lydia, she’s foreign, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, Lydia,” said Mrs. Jackson, “she’s not foreig
n to us. She’s one of the girls. Bought that house off the Merrywicks when they moved to Florida, lovely little house it is, Cedar Road, she’s had me over, well, I drop by when I’m passing. Never too busy for a friend, that’s the way around here. What line of business did you say that you were in?”

  “I’m . . . an author,” said Grabowski. “I’m writing a book. Thought this would be a nice place to hole up for a few days and work.”

  He wasn’t about to tell her his curriculum vitae. People could be funny about it, especially now that it was coming up to the tenth anniversary and that whole debate was being brought up again, about hounding and press intrusion and irresponsibility. The hypocrisy made him sick. Those people bought the newspapers and magazines that bought the photographs. No demand, no money, no pictures. Simple as that.

  “Ooh,” said Mrs. Jackson. “A writer. What’s it about, or shouldn’t I ask? Writers don’t like to be asked, do they? Well, you’re welcome to stay just as long as you wish. Would you like a meal brought up? I don’t do meals, only breakfast, but I could make an exception. I read about a writers’ retreat once, they had all their meals brought to them so they wouldn’t have anything to think about except their work.”

  Grabowski said that was very kind but he liked to get out now and then to get his juices flowing, creatively speaking. He was thinking about venturing out to find a sandwich now.

  Mrs. Jackson fluttered her hands as she gave him directions to the bakery. He could have sworn she fluttered her eyelids as well. The writer angle was going down a treat. Before he knew it she’d be saying, I expect you’ll be putting me in your next book.

  When he went downstairs she was sitting behind the registration desk in the hallway (which she referred to as the “vestibule”) and had added a smear of lipstick to her mouth. “Mr. Grabowski,” she said, “this may only be a small town but we’re not without culture. Just last year, Mr. Deaver held an art show in the school hall. My husband was indisposed on the opening evening but I, of course, was there. Mr. Deaver’s watercolors are very much acclaimed. Yes, you’ll find a great regard for artists generally. And if there’s anything I can do for you, to get those juices flowing, please feel free to ask. See this little bell here on the desk?” She picked it up and gave it a shake. “Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, and voilà, that’s me at your disposal right away.”

  There was something Mrs. Jackson could do for him, thought Grabowski, as he peered through the truck windows and across the road. She could introduce him to Lydia.

  Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, Lydia served up on a plate.

  He doubted it. It was no use asking, unless he could make it seem like her own idea. Mrs. Jackson wouldn’t take kindly to playing second fiddle in her own orchestra.

  When Lydia came out he would walk over the road and . . . say . . . Hi, you look really nice, and it’s been a while since I got laid, so how about it, darling? Your place or mine?

  Fuck it, he was going to LA. He’d go in the morning. But he’d never get laid in LA. It was a nightmare. Worst place on earth. He’d been on a date there once. It wasn’t like a date, it was like a job interview. And he didn’t get hired.

  She was taking her time in the store. What was she doing in there?

  Grabowski adjusted his camera strap. He lifted the camera and clicked off a few shots of the street. It was a cute street, it had character, proper stores, not those strip malls he saw nearly every other place. A kid rode by on a bike and Grabber reeled off a few frames. They’d be nice, kind of arty, the spokes would blur and the light was good with the sun low over the town hall. But art was not what sold, no matter what Mrs. Jackson said.

  It was obvious what he should do. He’d go over and pet the dog.

  She was coming out of the store now. Grabowski sucked his stomach in. He took a step forward. There was a man walking down the road toward him and next thing he knew the spaniel was across the street and yapping at the other guy’s feet.

  The guy bent and picked up the dog. That’s my prop, you bastard, thought Grabowski. Put that dog down right now.

  But he didn’t. He loped over to Lydia.

  They knew each other, clearly. Maybe they’d exchange a few words and head off in different directions.

  Or maybe they’d arranged to meet.

  At this distance, it was difficult to see the expression on her face. Grabowski pulled a long lens out of his bag. Never leave home without your camera bag. Even if you reckon you’re just out to take a few photos of small-town life, because the camera is the only way of seeing what’s in front of you, and you never know what you’re going to need.

  He zoomed in on her. He had a clear view just to the side of the dog thief ’s shoulder. It was pure reflex for him to take the pictures. He could see the way she was looking at that guy.

  Thank you, Mrs. Jackson, thought Grabowski. One thing you forgot to tell me about Lydia, one detail that would have been useful.

  Grabber went back to the bed-and-breakfast. He slung his camera and bag on the bed. Then he slung himself down.

  He thought about going down to the “vestibule” and ringing that stupid brass bell. When Mrs. Jackson came running, asking what she could get for him, he would say, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a gram of coke, and a couple of teenage whores. Help me stimulate some writerly juice, if you are a true friend of Art.

  He picked up his camera and scrolled through what he’d shot, still lying on his back. They were average. None of the painterly qualities he’d been hoping for. He came to the shots of Lydia. The first was out of focus, on the second the frame was off, in the third one she was blinking, and the fourth was beautiful.

  He scrolled back and deleted the first three, with a sigh he was about to delete the fourth. Then he took another look. He zoomed in even closer. Her lips were slightly parted, she was about to speak or laugh. Those eyes were amazing—ultramarine. You couldn’t blame a man for trying.

  That’s exactly what he hadn’t done. He’d only lurked.

  Grabowski pushed in closer on the eyes. He stared at them. He sat up.

  He got up and found the cable that connected the camera to the laptop, and loaded the photo onto the hard drive. He brought it up on the screen.

  It was uncanny. He could have sworn it. It even had him a little spooked.

  He brought up the picture he was planning to use for the cover shot. He arranged the two photographs side by side. It wasn’t her, but the eyes were exactly the same. Exactly.

  He needed a drink.

  What if it was her? What if he had a story right here? The biggest story of his life.

  Hadn’t she been sighted in Abu Dhabi and Switzerland? What if all the cranks who said she had faked her own death weren’t cranks after all? It was possible. There was no body. People have been known to fake their own deaths. And those were only the ones who got caught. What about Lord Lucan? What happened to him? Eventually declared dead, but he only went missing, right after someone, probably the merry lord himself, murdered the kids’ nanny. Perhaps he was still living it up in Rio or wherever he fled. He’d be old by now, but still lucky. Lucky Lucan, that was his nickname.

  His cell phone rang and he jumped as though someone had just shot at him.

  “Tinny,” he said, “can I call you back? In the middle of something here.”

  “Grabber, I got a hot one coming up, big bang, big bucks. I’m not telling you on the phone.”

  “Good, that’s great. Don’t tell me. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

  “I’m not telling you on the phone, Grabber. You’re not getting it outta me.”

  “I’m in, I’m in,” said Grabowski. “I’m sold. I’m coming down.”

  He hung up and stared at the pictures on his screen.

  Very possibly he was going mad. What had he been doing for the last few weeks other than driving around pissant towns and staring at boardinghouse ceilings? Working. That was a joke. He hadn’t settled to anything. He’d brooded. He’d worked himself up. He’d
calmed himself down with too many drinks. He’d hardly spoken to anyone.

  Obviously it wasn’t her. She was dead. She didn’t fake it. She wasn’t assassinated by the secret service. She wasn’t kidnapped by aliens.

  You could alter a lot with plastic surgery. Criminals on the run did it.

  She wasn’t a criminal.

  Drowned, eaten, whatever. All the true icons die young. James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly, whoever. The way it went.

  He looked again at the screen. It was bizarre. The eyes, apart from a light smattering of wrinkles around them, were identical, down to the tiny, barely visible ring of green inset around the right pupil. He checked the left eye—pure, bright blue. And the right again. You had to look very closely to see. Grabowski saw it clearly, as he had a thousand times before.

  Chapter Eleven

  6 February 1998

  Went for a long walk yesterday along the front. My left leg behaved, more or less, not as shaky as last week. I availed myself of a bench from time to time. Alan came down for lunch, which was good of him, pie and mash in the Crown and Anchor. I have to force myself really, interesting how food loses its appeal when one can no longer smell anything.

  He gave me all the departmental gossip, although I don’t know all the players these days, turnover has been high in the past couple of years. Spats about office space, rumored romances, minor scandals involving the spending of discretionary grants. Inevitable questions about the book, inevitable nervous questions about state of health, inevitable uncomfortable shifting in his seat. Was suddenly seized by the temptation to say that Dr. Patel had revised her opinion and decided to operate, and that I’ve made a miraculous full recovery. The urge was very strong. Do I take that as a sign of the “personality change” of which I’ve been warned? Or is the fact that I resisted a sign that I have not changed at all?

  Useless to ponder on imponderables, although that does not usually prevent me from doing so.