Page 75 of Someone in the Water
I shake my head and watch Harriet try to navigate the now drooping pizza slice into her mouth. ‘What work does Dom do?’ I ask. Harriet points at her mouth, and I wait for her to finish chewing.
‘Well, I’m not exactly sure,’ she finally says, taking a gulp from her pink Chilly water bottle. ‘He’s always pretty cagey about it. When I asked him once, he said import, export. And I’m a lawyer, so I was not going to risk delving further into that hot potato.’
‘You think Dom’s into something dodgy?’
She holds her hands up. ‘Far be it for me to speculate. He makes an amazing bouillabaisse and that’s enough for me. But he’s not short of cash.’
I lean back against my chair. Import, export. Is Dom a drug dealer? No, he can’t be; not Dom. This is my wired brain in overdrive again. Not helped by seeing yet another one of my paintings.
Import, export.
A fear creeps over my skin as those words settle. I only paint fourteen pictures a year – one per night for the fortnight I spend hiding away – and the shop has displayed two of them in the time I’ve been here. Someone at the hotel must know my art dealer, Nick.
Import, export.
I lean forward again. ‘Do you think that Dom could be an art dealer?’
Harriet scrunches her forehead. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve never seen any pieces around his house, other than what he’s bought himself, and why would he keep that under wraps?’
Then I find a rusty fact from somewhere deep inside my brain. ‘Didn’t he study art history at uni?’
‘Well if he did, you have a better memory than me.’
I shrug, like I’m not really interested, even though my heart is clattering at the thought of Dom knowing about my paintings. ‘So how was dinner last night?’ I say, testing Dom’s assertion that Harriet was with him.
‘Not as juicy as the night before sadly. Dom had to go out somewhere, so I stayed in with some stinky cheese and binge-watched three episodes ofGossip Girl.’
I take a gulp of fizzy water. Dom looked so guilty last night and Harriet has just confirmed that he lied to me. At the time I thought it meant that he’d taken Lola’s documents, but it could have been anything. Like dropping off one of my paintings, pretending to be someone he’s not.
I think about what it would mean if Dom was my art dealer. The secrets I’ve shared with the faceless person I know as Nick Daniels on those lonely summer nights, waiting for dawn for arrive. Dom would know all about my mazzeri dreams, the fears I carry with me.
But is this just another crackpot theory I’ve come up with because I’m too tired? Harriet knows Dom much better than me and she’s more willing to suspect him of drug dealing than being an art dealer.
I’ve barely slept and I’m starting to not trust my judgement. I know where that leads.
I need to get off this island.
Frankie
31st July
My heart booms in my chest. I’m dog-tired but also fizzing with the energy that fear creates. Am I really doing this? Prowling the hotel in the dead of night? Especially after spending the last few hours alone in my room, my mind going to darker and darker places after Lola made it clear that she feels safer with Patrick than me.
But I can’t think of a better plan. I need to get away from Corsica – from this hotel, from Dom and what he might know. From whoever is threatening us. And that means finding Lola’s travel documents.
I know there’s only a slim chance they’ll be in the office. If Dom has them, they will be hidden away in his house in Sartène. And if Jack took them, they will probably be in Salvo’s old house where he lives now. But if one of the Paoli family took them – Raphael, Anna, Patrick – then there’s a chance they’ll be hidden in the office, especially with the postman delivering them to reception. I know it’s a long shot, but I need to try.
I edge down the last few stairs. There are security guards who work through the night, but hopefully they’ll be outside, protecting the perimeter rather than checking what’s happening inside the hotel. I wait at the corner of the reception area with my excuses ready, but it’s deserted, and my heart slows a beat. The lights in the area are switched off but there’s enough ambient light to see by. I tiptoe over to the desk then slip behind it and push on the office door handle. I allow myself a silent sigh of relief as it opens.
There’s one window in the office overlooking the front driveway, but the heavy oak shutters are closed, so I turn on the desk lamp. Its weak beam gives me just enough light to search by. My hands shake as I open each of the three desk drawers in turn. The top drawer is full of office staples – pens, paperclips, Post-it Notes – and the bottom drawer is empty except for a half-drunk bottle of Pastis.
The middle drawer takes longer to search. It is full of paperwork – loosely filled cardboard wallets in pastel shades – and I flick through them, searching for Lola’s envelope. By the time I get to the last wallet in the pile, I’ve run out of hope, but my fingers slow when I realise what I’m reading. A legal document from a solicitor’s firm in Porto Vecchio, the wordstestament authentiquewritten across the top. As I scan for words I can translate, I realise it’s a copy of Salvo’s will.
This is not what I came for. Salvo’s final wishes are none of my business. But this is the man who fucked up my life. Who made me think I was crazy, and somehow responsible for my friend’s death. Alive or dead, I don’t owe him anything.
It’s written in French, so I can’t understand most of it. But there are some names I recognise, and numbers too. It says that Salvo owned thirty per cent of Hotel Paoli when he died, which is less than I might have expected. But it’s who he’s leaving his share to that’s the real surprise. He has bequeathed it all to Anna. Why would he do that? And how does Raphael feel about it? Twenty-one years ago, Anna was like Raphael’s puppet – or puppy. Now she acts like she’s in charge. And according to Salvo’s will, she now owns a major share of the hotel. Is this all because she took the reins after Izzy’s death or is there more behind his loyalty to her?
I look back at the document, scan more writing I don’t understand, then turn the page. On the second sheet, there are handwritten scribbles in the margin next to one clause. Scrawling black ink with three exclamation marks at the end. I concentrate on the words I recognise. It looks like Salvo owned a one-half stake in a vineyard in Sartène, and he’s leaving it all to one person. But the benefactor is no one in the family – which means neither Raphael nor Patrick have inherited anything significant.
