‘No, nothing.’
‘Have you heard from any member of the Dubois-Joseph family since that night?’
‘No.’
‘What about Bianka Langeland?’
‘Well, yes. We’ve been in touch, naturally. And the thing is—’ I pause, making my voice shaky and low, ‘she’s behaved very badly toward me.’
Fuentes raises his eyebrow incredulously again. ‘Badly how, exactly?’
‘Well. To begin with, she was literally all over me. Other people noticed and commented. Anette and Linda found it super weird. Like I said, I hardly remember anything from that night – I’m not a big drinker as I’m on a strict keto diet. You might have heard of me, actually, the Viking Keto Queen? On Streamstar? No? Anyway. So, I barely drink and clearly got smashed as I have no recollection of this picture being taken. But it makes a lot of sense considering how Bianka behaved after we returned home, just… ice cold. It’s as though what we had meant nothing to her. And then she threatened to tell my husband that we’d had some kind of sordid fling. She kept saying she’d expose me and ruin my life, unless…’
‘Unless what, Mrs Vinge?’ asks Fuentes, and he’s smart enough to make himself look soft and harmless here, like someone you might feel safe to confide in.
‘She wanted money.’
‘And did you give her any?’
‘No.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong. Is Bianka Langeland not married to the CEO at Norbank in London?’
‘Well, yes—’
‘Would she not have access to plenty of funds herself?’
‘She plans on leaving her husband. Maybe that’s why she needed money. I don’t think it’s about money, though. I think it’s about ruining my life and marriage.’
‘Why would Mrs Langeland wish to do that?’
‘Jealousy. She strikes me as a pretty jealous person.’
‘I see,’ says Fuentes, but I feel like he doesn’t see at all. He looks extremely sceptical, and his eyes keep darting to the horrible photograph of Bianka and me at Sa Capricciosa. It isn’t the kiss itself that bothers me the most, but the foolish grin on my face. Now it’s time for the grand finale. This was definitely not part of the script agreed with Bianka.
‘There’s one more thing,’ I say. ‘Just speculation, really, but in light of all this I think you should probably know about it. As I say, I believe that Bianka Langeland is planning on leaving her husband. But you should know that the person she’s leaving him for is Maxime Dubois-Joseph. I believe they have planned his disappearance together and she’ll run away to join him. I’m assuming trying to pressurize me for money is part of that plan. I bet she’ll swindle her poor husband first.’
‘Why would you believe such a thing?’
‘It was something she said, after we were back in London. I went to her house to try to talk to her. I missed her so much and I needed to understand why she’d gone so cold toward me. I mentioned that I’d heard Dubois-Joseph had gone missing, it was the same day I first spoke to you so I’d just heard it from you and it was naturally on my mind. I remember she laughed a little and said that if you had parents like his, you’d make yourself disappear too. I thought it was odd and asked her if she’d been in touch with him since Ibiza. She wouldn’t answer and basically shut the door in my face. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she knows where he is.’
Fuentes twirls his pen around and around between his fingertips and sighs heavily.
‘What are your plans moving forward, Mrs Vinge?’ He pronounces my surname ‘binge’ which really seems to be astonishingly ironic.
‘Well, I thought I might spend some time clearing out my mother’s old house on my property. You know, rethink its use. I don’t often get time away from my family.’
‘I see. We’re going to conduct some more interviews and investigations in the coming days. A lot of questions remain unanswered, so if you can think of anything at all that might cast some further light on the whereabouts of Mr Dubois-Joseph, give me a call without hesitation. In the meantime, I’d like to ask you to let us know if you plan to leave the island.’
‘What? I can’t come and go as I please?’
‘Of course you can. We are merely speaking to you as a neighbour and member of the public who came into contact with the missing person in the days leading up to his disappearance.’
‘You know, just my two cents, of course, but I do think that boy kept some bad company. Those Italian brothers, bad news in my opinion.’
‘You said you didn’t recall speaking with them.’
‘I don’t. But look at them, they look like criminals. Mafia, I imagine. Perhaps Mr Dubois-Joseph has gotten himself involved in some dirty business with them.’
‘Officer Gutierrez here will show you out now, Mrs Vinge. Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch.’
*
Back at Can Xara, I pace around the terrace in the shade, playing the interview over and over in my head. It felt disastrous, like they knew they had something on me and I kept walking into little traps. I think I managed to turn it around by planting the idea that Bianka had continued to be involved with Maxime, and very soon it will all make perfect sense to the police.
Someday, I’ll look back at this time and it will seem distant and almost impossible that I once killed someone and got away with it. I suddenly see Maxime in my mind again, and the cruel glint in his eyes as he said I should be careful. You don’t want to end up like your mother, do you? I stop dead at the far end of the pool and look down the hillside toward the finca, and beyond, where my mother’s grave lies, sheltered from view. I begin to run.
Standing in the brilliant afternoon sun at my mother’s grave, finally cleared and bearing fresh flowers, I try to bring order to my churning thoughts that are now descending wildly into ever crazier territory. I pull the letters and one of the smaller photographs from my pocket and stare at them. My mother was a beautiful woman. Too beautiful, dangerously beautiful.
And it’s these words, ‘beautiful woman’, that prompt the realization that slots all the pieces together. Bella Donna. Atropa belladonna, the plant of choice for instant death.
I stand here for a very long time, rooted to the spot by what I know to be the truth: my vivacious, otherwise healthy mother didn’t die at forty-six from an unfortunate mix of alcohol and painkillers – she was murdered by a simple plant from her own beloved garden, common across the Mediterranean regions. But why?
I sink back down onto my knees in the crumbling earth and place my hand on the cool stone.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, and it’s as though Ximena whispers back in a sudden sweep of salty air rushing at me from the sea. Charlotte, she says, my darling Charlotte.
‘I’m so sorry, Mama. I’m going to get to the bottom of this.’
