Wounds Of Passion

She moved closer, put out a hand to him; and he was tempted for a moment. He could pretend, just for a little while, hold that slender body in his arms, touch her and pretend she was Laura. It would be so easy.

Her fingers brushed slowly along his bare arm, sending a wave of self-disgust through him.

‘I don’t dance, thanks,’ he said brusquely, and turned and walked away. It would have been madness, like an alcoholic taking just one more drink, kidding himself it wouldn’t be a risk. He would never forget Laura that way, and it would have been unforgivable to use that girl as a puppet in his private fantasies. She was so young, skin like a peach, tiny fair hairs giving her that shimmer, that radiance; and she had had an unconscious sensuality in the swing of her hips, in the rich curve of her mouth.

She had aroused him with her faint resemblance to the woman he loved. He was too restless now to stay around at the party. He walked out of the glare of lights, away from the blare of the music, the laughter and voices, into the shadows of the trees, down through the gardens to the beach, took off his sandals and walked barefoot through the creaming surf. He headed off along the beach with no real idea of where he was going, sat down on the sand to stare out over the sea for half an hour or so, then got up, brushed the sand off his jeans, and walked back up through the gardens to the villa.

Everyone seemed to be down around the pool, eating and drinking; he skirted the lights and managed to slip into the house without running into anyone, went to his room, took off his clothes, dropped them on a chair, and got into bed, naked, because it was so hot.

Outside the party was in full swing, noisier than ever; but Patrick’s shutters were closed and he was so exhausted, emotionally and physically, that he drifted off to sleep.

He woke up some time later when the door burst open with a crash and men poured into the room.

Dazed, blinking, as the room light was switched on, Patrick sat up in the bed, a sheet falling off his smooth brown shoulders.

‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’

The intruders fanned out around the room, watching him as if expecting him to do something violent. They were wearing uniform. His mind, still half asleep, registered: wasn’t that Carabinieri uniform? Policemen? he thought blankly; what on earth was going on? Had somebody burgled the villa while the party was going on, while he slept?

‘Patrick Ogilvie?’

Patrick’s head jerked round towards the man who had spoken in English, a short, broad man in his forties, black-haired, pugnacious-looking, who needed a shave, his olive skin rough around the jaw.

‘Yes, I’m Patrick Ogilvie. Who are you? What is all this? What are you doing, bursting into my room like this in the middle of the night?’

‘I am Brigadier Saltini of the Carabinieri. Please get dressed; I cannot interview you while you are naked in bed—do you always sleep naked?’ The man’s black eyes focused on Patrick’s clothes, thrown across the back of the chair. ‘Is that what you wore last night? What are those stains on the jeans? Salt water? Sand? You went down to the beach, then?’ He jerked his head, and one of the other men produced a plastic bag, put on transparent white plastic gloves, and began carefully sliding Patrick’s clothes into the bag.

‘Why is he doing that? Why are you taking my clothes away? What’s going on?’ Patrick was feeling chilled, distinctly disturbed now. He didn’t like the way these policemen watched him; there was a coldness in their eyes.

Calmly, Brigadier Saltini said, ‘How long have you been in bed, Mr Ogilvie?’

‘I don’t know—I’ve been asleep.’ Patrick looked at the time shown on his watch, which he had left on the bedside table overnight. ‘Two hours, maybe?’

‘Are you sure? You didn’t come to bed just around an hour ago?’

‘No, longer than that.’

‘Well, will you get up and get dressed, and come down to the station house, please?’ the brigadier asked him.

‘Not until I know what this is all about, and not in front of all these people!’ Patrick said stubbornly.

The brigadier nodded his head towards the door, and the other men filtered out.

‘A girl has been attacked,’ the brigadier said quietly, and Patrick looked at him in shock and disbelief.

‘Rae? Not Rae?’

The brigadier slowly shook his head, and watched him, frowning, as Patrick relaxed again on an unconscious sigh of relief.

‘That was not her name, Signore. She was a guest at this party—an American girl, with blonde hair. You spoke to her, I think. Do you remember talking to her?’

Patrick sat very still. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, sickened. ‘That girl?’

‘You were seen watching her,’ said the brigadier. ‘Staring fixedly at her, some witnesses said.’

‘She looked like...like someone I know...knew.’

Patrick pushed aside memories of Laura, thought of the other girl: her shy, half-veiled eyes, her young, golden skin, the beauty of her slim body, her instinctive, innocent sensuality.

‘She was so young,’ he said, to himself. ‘Barely out of her teens.’ Then he was struck by a new idea and looked sharply at the other man. ‘I hardly even spoke to her! Why do you need to talk to me?’

The brigadier’s hard black eyes watched him closely. ‘Her description of the man fits you exactly.’

CHAPTER TWO

TWO years later, Patrick was still having nightmares about what had happened to him over the hours that followed. Not every night, just whenever he was tense over something, worried, upset. On a night like that he would find himself back there, in that time, dreaming it over and over again, in slow, terrifying sequence.

The brigadier had left one of his younger officers in the room to watch him dress, and Patrick had instinctively hurried, putting on the first clothes that came to hand—clean underwear, clean jeans, a crisp blue T-shirt, socks, and another pair of trainers since the police had removed the sandals he had been wearing last night. He had needed to go to the lavatory urgently, been allowed to do so after the brigadier was consulted, had washed his hands and face and combed his hair, but he had had to leave the bathroom door open, and the officer had stood outside and watched him out of the corner of an eye.

‘Do you have to stand there?’ Patrick had burst out, and the man had nodded.

‘Orders, my orders,’ he said in thick English.

All that had been mere pinpricks; yet already Patrick felt uneasy, off balance; he was sweating, and yet he didn’t know why.

He knew he was innocent, after all. He hadn’t done anything to that girl. Yet his stomach was queasy, he felt his nerves jumping, and his mouth was dry. And his head buzzed with questions.

Why had she given them his description? What was going to happen now? Where were they taking him? What ought he to do?

‘OK, let’s go!’ the young officer said, grabbing his arm as he came out of the bathroom, pushing him towards the stairs. As Patrick stumbled he thought he heard the other man mutter, ‘Mi dispiace molto per lei!’ and only later understood what the officer had said—I’m sorry for you!

Patrick wasn’t sure what he had meant and couldn’t ask, but it had not been a friendly remark. It wasn’t pity or compassion he meant; there was hostility, distaste, in the young man’s eyes. It had been a veiled threat, meaning Patrick was going to be sorry for himself.

Self-pity wasn’t what Patrick was feeling, though. He was worried, he was frightened, but most of all he was angry; blazingly angry.

He hadn’t done anything—so why was this happening to him?

As he was hustled through the villa they passsed one of the main rooms of the house, a huge marble-floored lounge hung with cartoons, modern paintings and mirrors, where Patrick had sat earlier, talking to Rae before the party began, drinking chilled white wine.

It was full of people now—the guests from the party, he imagined—all seated, none of them talking. Faces turned towards the door; he recognised some of them, couldn’t put names to them. They stared at him, and he felt himself go dark red, in spite of knowing he was not guilty. Their eyes made him feel guilty.

That was when he realised they believed he was guilty—and the cold sweat sprang out on his forehead.

Alex Holtner was there, a jacket round his shoulders as if he was cold, sitting on a stool, looking pale and haggard. He stared across the room, and his eyes were full of loathing. He glared, clenched his fists on his knees as if longing to hit Patrick, then half rose as if to cross the room to get him. Susan-Jane Holtner was curled up on the floor next to her husband, leaning on him; she put her hands over Alex’s, whispering something, and Alex looked down at her, subsiding again.

A second later Patrick was past, being rushed towards the open front door. It was night, yet the front of the villa was ablaze with light. The police had set up floodlights; there were police cars parked everywhere; policemen moved to and fro, absorbed in whatever they were doing. But they all looked round as Patrick came out of the front door, froze, staring. He was pushed into the back of a police car just as another drove away, past him; and with a pang of shock he saw Rae in it. Her face was chalk-white, her eyes like bruises in her skin. She saw him at the last moment, turned her head to stare back, her pale lips parting, her eyes urgent, as if trying to say something to him.

Did she, too, believe he was guilty?