Postcards From Rio. Tina Beckett
and I have heard of young women in the town who have been forced into prostitution. It is a lawless place where even the police are too scared to visit. The men who run the drugs cartels have little respect for life, but they do at least retain some respect for the church.’
The Mother Superior smiled gently at Clare, noting the signs of strain on the young Englishwoman’s face and the shadows beneath her eyes that told of too many sleepless nights of worry.
‘There is no need for you to feel like an imposter. You have come to Brazil with the selfless intention to search for your sister and pay the ransom her kidnappers have demanded. You are bravely prepared to put yourself in danger to help someone you love, and at least the church can offer you some small measure of protection.’ Sister Ann’s expression became grave. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that the men who took Becky are utterly ruthless.’
Clare followed the nun’s gaze to what looked like a jewellery box on the desk, and a feeling of nausea swept over her as she pictured the gruesome contents of the casket. Don’t think of it, she ordered herself. But her mind visualised the severed tip of an earlobe wrapped in layers of tissue paper like some ghastly mimicry of a gift from a lover. Surely it wasn’t a piece of Becky’s ear? She could not bear to think of her beautiful sister being mutilated by whoever had snatched her from the street outside the five-star hotel in Rio de Janeiro where Becky had been modelling for a photo shoot.
She tore her eyes from the box and stared at what she could see of her reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall of the Mother Superior’s office. The grey habit Sister Ann had lent her fell to just above her ankles to reveal a pair of flat black lace-up shoes. She watched the Sister place a veil on her head. With her auburn hair covered up she looked different—more elegant and sophisticated like Becky—although the sprinkling of freckles on her nose were a giveaway clue to her vibrant mane hidden beneath the veil, she thought ruefully.
‘If it helps your conscience, I have given you a white veil; they are worn by novice nuns before they take their final vows when they change to a black veil,’ Sister Ann explained. ‘That way, it is not entirely untruthful for you to appear to be a young woman who is contemplating a religious life. And, after all, you were drawn to seek comfort at the chapel of Santa Maria when you arrived in Rio de Janeiro. Many of us are called to our vocation in mysterious ways.’
Clare could not bring herself to admit to the kindly nun that she did not believe her future was to follow a life of religious devotion. Although the fact that she was still a virgin at the age of twenty-four meant that she fitted the requirement of chastity, she thought wryly. Mark had called her a prude, but she didn’t think she was. She had simply wanted to be sure he was the right man for her, and it turned out that he hadn’t been.
England and her break-up with Mark seemed a million miles away, and she wondered if she would wake up to find that her sister being kidnapped was a bad dream rather than a living nightmare. But, unbelievable though it was, the situation was real. On Monday morning she had arrived for work as usual at her parents’ company, A-Star PR, and received a frantic phone call from her father with the astonishing news that her younger sister Becky, an internationally famous model, had been kidnapped.
‘The kidnappers have sent a letter saying they will kill Becky unless I follow their instructions.’ Rory Marchant had sounded shaken. ‘They want me to go to Brazil and pay a ransom, but I can’t leave your mother, and I daren’t tell her that Becky’s life is in danger. The specialist said it is important that Tammi doesn’t suffer any kind of stress. She was lucky to survive the first stroke, and a second one could kill her.’ Rory had broken down. ‘Clare, I don’t know what to do. I want to rescue my precious girl, but I don’t want to lose my wife.’
‘I’ll go to Brazil and take the ransom money to the kidnappers,’ Clare had said instantly. ‘You can’t leave Mum, especially now that she is finally showing signs of recovering.’
She had dismissed the little voice in her head, which whispered that her father had never thought of her as his precious girl. It had always been her sister who had come first in their parents’ affections, but it was unsurprising after Becky had been seriously ill and nearly died when she was a child, Clare reminded herself. She loved Becky and could only imagine how terrified her sister must be feeling right now.
She blinked back a sudden rush of tears and turned to the Mother Superior. ‘Thank you for helping me. All the Sisters have been so kind. I felt scared and alone when Sister Carmelita spoke to me in the chapel in Rio.’
Clare’s thoughts flew back to two days ago when she had arrived in Rio de Janeiro and, following the kidnappers’ instructions, had checked into a rundown motel to wait for the gang to contact her. But, instead of receiving a letter telling her what to do next, as had happened when the kidnappers had contacted her father in England, this time she had been sent a package, and when she had opened it and seen the grisly, severed piece of earlobe, she had rushed to the bathroom to be sick.
The note sent with the box had instructed her to go to the town of Torrente, which she had found on a map was in the far west of Brazil, over two thousand miles from Rio and deep in the Amazon rainforest. It had been at that point, exhausted and fearful that the kidnappers had hurt her sister, that she had been inexplicably drawn to step inside the church near her motel, and she had broken down and told the nun she had met about Becky being kidnapped. Within twenty-four hours Sister Carmelita had arranged for Clare to catch an internal flight to the city of Manaus in northern Brazil, and she had been staying with the nuns of the Holy Order of the Sacred Heart while Sister Ann arranged her onward journey to Torrente.
‘I wish you would reconsider your decision to try to rescue your sister alone and go to the police.’
‘I can’t. The kidnappers said they would kill Becky if I told anyone they are holding her. I’m scared I may have put her life in danger by accepting help from the Sisters—’ Clare’s voice trembled ‘—but I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘I am afraid the kidnapping of wealthy tourists is becoming a growing problem in Brazil, and it is sadly true that often the police are unable to track down the kidnap gangs,’ the Mother Superior said heavily. The sound of a vehicle driving into the courtyard drew her to the window. ‘Mr Cazorra is here and, God willing, you will soon be reunited with your sister.’
Clare picked up the rucksack she had packed with a few of her own clothes and other essentials. ‘The gold prospector you have asked to take me to Torrente doesn’t know why I’m going, does he?’
‘Don’t worry, your secret will remain within the walls of the convent. I have explained to Diego that you are to take up a post teaching at the Sunday school and you must reach the town by the weekend.’
Fear cramped in Clare’s stomach. Sunday was when the kidnappers had said they would contact her again to tell her where she should take the ransom money. She picked up the leather briefcase that held five hundred thousand pounds in used bank notes. It was a terrifying thought that Becky’s very life was contained in the briefcase and Clare gripped the handle tightly.
‘I should warn you about the gold prospector,’ Sister Ann said.
‘Warn me?’ Clare’s tension ratcheted up a notch. ‘You said I could trust him.’
‘I don’t doubt he will get you to Torrente safely. He knows that area of the Amazon rainforest better than anyone I can think of. Mr Cazorra is a good man who has helped the Sisters in the past, but he has a reputation for...’ The nun paused before saying delicately, ‘Well, let’s just say that he enjoys the company of women. Many women. He is very charming.’
‘You mean he’s a flirt?’ Were all Brazilian men Lotharios? Clare wondered, remembering the taxi driver who had driven her from Manaus Airport to the convent. The man had greasy hair and was wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt, but he had suggested that he would give her a free tour of the city if she went to bed with him. Needless to say, she had declined his invitation.
All she could think about was saving her sister and the news that her escort to Torrente was a womaniser was the least of her concerns.