I feel foolish whispering into the wind, but it feels good and like the right thing to do. Then I turn back toward the path and the faintly visible glass structures of my house high up on the hill, reflecting the golden late-afternoon sun. My phone vibrates with a message from Bianka.
There in 5, she writes, followed by a long string of excited-face and heart emojis. Time to get this show on the road.
Forty-Five
Charlotte
I’m outside, reads the message from Bianka. Can you open the gate?
I stand a while in the white, empty hallway, staring through the thick expanse of the glass wall at the bronze gate across the yard, on the other side of which Bianka Langeland is standing. I hear the sound of a car engine revving and then disappearing, heading back south. Before I press Open on the intercom, I take a picture of Bianka standing there on my phone. As I watch her walk up the path to the house as the gate slides shut behind her, I shake off a sudden bolt of fear rushing through me at the thought of being alone at Can Xara with her. I have a plan and I know what I’m going to do, or what I have to do, rather, but that doesn’t make it easy.
I feel a fresh surge of anger and fear at the thought of the things this woman has done as I open the door and she stands in front of me. I don’t doubt for a second that she’d ruin my whole life if I let her. And still, there is a part of me that must be in thrall to her, because in spite of everything I can’t help be disarmed by her, even now, as she gazes up at me with those wide-set pale eyes, her smile slow but warm and only ever exactly like this when she’s looking at me.
‘Come here,’ I say, pulling her into the house, glancing past her to make sure no cars or cyclists have passed at exactly this moment, catching a brief glimpse of a blond curly-haired woman arriving at Can Xara just as the sun dips behind the western hills. She reaches for me and I give her a long hug, forcing myself to bring conviction and a feeling of passion to it.
We go through to the kitchen and I hand her one of the cocktails I’ve prepared for us.
‘Wow,’ she says, drawing its fruity scent in deeply. ‘What is this?’
‘Voilà,’ I say. ‘It’s my newest recipe, a low-carb kombucha mojito with berries and thyme from the garden.’
Bianka takes a long sip, then another.
‘You have to tell me everything about the interview. God, I hope it went well. Now our stories are totally in alignment, this is all going to go away soon, baby,’ she says, raising her glass to me in a toast. I nod, smile, and raise mine in return, touching it to hers.
‘Bianka,’ I say. ‘Why did you let me believe I killed Maxime, when really, it was you?’ She grows pale. I can’t be sure if it’s shock at my words or the drink. I’d imagine it works quite quickly, and especially at this concentration. Her face changes from relaxed and expectant to uncertain.
‘I’m sorry, what?’ She lets out a shrill laugh that ends in a spluttery cough. ‘That’s not true. You killed him and I’ve done everything I can to help you after it happened—’
‘No, you killed him, Bianka. Not me. And you let me believe that I’d committed murder. You’re really fucking twisted. And you’ve dragged me into your universe where everything seems to be something other than what it actually is. And poor, poor Mia. You know, when I saw the picture of her I was in total shock. No wonder you were so obsessed with me. And that you couldn’t handle it when I told you there is no such thing as us. Was it your plan that I’d end up like her?’
Bianka drains her drink and places her empty glass hard onto the marble surface of the kitchen island, then laughs loudly again, her eyes now strangely glazed.
‘Wow,’ she says, and chuckles. ‘I should have realized. I can’t believe I fell for your fucking games, Charlotte. Well, good luck trying to prove it. You’re going to jail for murder.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Charlotte. I’m going to the police right now. I’ll tell them everything. Who do you think they’re going to believe? I have pictures of you. With the murder weapon in your hair. I even have footage of you having sex with the victim. Yep. Oh, please, don’t look so shocked. Did you really think I’d wipe his phone clean without sending the evidence to myself first? Remember, Charlotte, that crucially, you’re the one who had motive.’ Bianka reaches out and steadies herself on the kitchen island. A dark rash has appeared on her collarbone. She must be starting to feel rather bad.
‘Bianka, you did know I’m a doctor, right?’
‘What?’ she whispers.
‘Your pupils look a little extended. Oh, wait. That must be the belladonna. I don’t believe you have more than two or three minutes to live. Your mouth must feel really dry. Yeah? I can tell. Atropine and scopolamine are rushing through your veins right now, shutting down your vital organs. Did you know that once, a king slayed a whole army with this stuff? Your eyes are crossing, I’m guessing your vision is pretty blurred. Soon, you’ll experience circulatory collapse, swiftly followed by death from respiratory failure. I don’t believe you have more than two or three minutes to live.’ Bianka tries and fails to say something, before she crumples to the ground. And for two minutes and thirty-nine seconds, I stand there watching as Bianka convulses and struggles for breath. Then she’s quiet.
*
Many hours later, when I have done things I wouldn’t have imagined myself capable of, I do a final sweep of downstairs. Everything is as it should be, perfect, except for the blood trickling down my face from underneath my crudely bandaged forehead, where a deep, self-inflicted gash will serve forever to remind me of Bianka and this evening. There is no trace of the splashes of projectile vomit that splashed from Bianka’s mouth when she hit the floor. And there is, of course, no trace of Bianka herself.
It’s three a.m. and I am exhausted, having worked for hours since Bianka died just after nine p.m. And now, it’s time. I dial the number for the police with a violently trembling hand and chase my voice into a high-pitched wail when a voice answers.
‘I’ve been robbed at knifepoint,’ I sob, and the tears and the shock and the pain and the blood – they’re all real.
Forty-Six
Charlotte
Eighteen months later
I got my life back. No, that’s actually not true at all – I got a new life, one infinitely better than the one I left behind. I came home, to Ibiza, to my mother, and to myself. I won, like winners always do. It was mayhem, of course. Utterly so. I can only imagine the shock waves that reverberated through the privileged upper echelons of the Scandinavian expat society of Wimbledon in the aftermath of everything that happened, but thankfully I wasn’t there to watch it unfold. Andreas filed for divorce after the video from Sa Capricciosa was leaked to the internet, but he got nothing apart from half of the house. Anette really is the best divorce lawyer in town.
My popularity surged to new heights after my armed robbery ordeal at the hands of Bianka Langeland. The police search for Bianka remains active and urgent, and Inspector Fuentes tells me they feel confident they will track her down eventually. The picture I took of her on my phone as she arrived at Can Xara circulates the island and indeed Europe on wanted posters.
She managed to escape Ibiza most likely on a yacht, possibly one procured for her by members of the Sicilian mafia, with whom Bianka had proven ties. Her phone was eventually traced to such a vessel, one that had spent the previous weeks crisscrossing the Mediterranean. One can imagine she might have gotten quite far with the cash she stole from my safe, after she threatened me to open it at knifepoint. At least that’s how the story goes. In reality, she didn’t get far, poor thing. She made it to the industrial-sized freezer in my pantry, where she spent several weeks underneath the mountain of organic steaks I’d ordered to tide myself and my family over for the summer holidays, which we naturally had to cancel due to the terrible trauma I’d suffered and the added shock of my callous husband filing for divorce.
I disposed of Bianka’s phone the same night she died, in a similar way to Maxime’s, though a little more hands-on. Why fix something if it ain’t broke, right? I’d been pleased to spot several large yachts out in the bay that night, not unusual in July. I waited until past midnight when I was mostly done with the clean-up and then I placed Bianka’s iPhone, which had been in her back pocket, back into her small clutch bag that also contained her passport. I left the bigger weekend bag at Can Xara. I’d let the police take care of that – it would serve to back up my story that she’d come to the house.
I sealed the little canvas envelope clutch into a wrap of two Ziploc bags, duct-taped shut. I covered my hair with a black swimming cap and put my wetsuit on, with the plastic parcel inside pressed to my chest, then hurried down to Cala Azura, walking silently to the far point and across the rocks until I could slip into the sea as far out as possible from the beach. The moon was a narrow sliver and the sea was inky and calm. I swam as quietly as I could, much of the time under water, until I reached the hull of one of the yachts, a large one with a long row of cabin portholes, all dark. I pulled myself onto the wide, teak afterdeck as quietly as I could and waited for several long moments before proceeding – had I heard a single sound I could have easily slipped back under the surface undetected. But there was nothing, only the gentle slap of the water against the hull and a distant throb of music from somewhere far away on the island.
I unwrapped the parcel and placed Bianka’s clutch bag onto the deck, in a corner where it might go unnoticed for a while. I hoped that the boat was full of rich playboy types and their silly girlfriends, and that all the silly girlfriends would just assume that the little bag belonged to one of the other silly girlfriends. The odds were in my favour, knowing the crowds that flock to Ibiza on yachts in the summer.
*
The children chose to live with me, though they see Andreas in London from time to time. Oscar and Madeleine enrolled at a beautiful international school in an old converted olive mill near Sant Joan de Labritja. Every few weeks Storm comes to visit and I encourage his relationship with Madeleine now, he’s a good kid, and he loves my daughter. Next year, after graduation, they talk about going to university in Vancouver together.
I set about building a new life for us, vowing it would be beautiful, and it is, though it has thrown some interesting curveballs my way. I knocked down the finca and in its place a new villa is taking form, this one smaller and less fancy than the main house, but I envision it as a space I can eventually retreat to, when all four kids have grown up. Yes, four. I’ll get back to that.
It felt good to watch the bulldozers raze the finca to the ground, all its secrets and violence and history obliterated, leaving an empty space behind that just felt peaceful. My poor mother was exhumed from her grave and, with the improved medical technology of the present day, it was possible to discern traces of Atropa belladonna in her remains. Anne-Marie Dubois-Joseph is awaiting trial for her murder, apparently motivated by obsessive jealousy prompted by her husband’s first love returning to Ibiza and her husband securing her retirement by selling her Can Xara at a fraction of its value. Honestly, I can see why she went mad; it must have felt rather humiliating to have the love of your husband’s life on the doorstep. Note to self: never confess to murder in your diary.
