‘The last time anyone saw her was last Wednesday.’
I felt the silence fall. Five days. That was a long time, an abyss into which Cecily had fallen.
‘You’ve come all this way to talk to me,’ I said, finally. ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’
Pauline glanced at her husband.
‘The answer is in this book,’ he explained. ‘Atticus Pünd Takes the Case. You must know it better than anyone.’
‘Actually, it’s been quite a few years since I read it,’ I admitted.
‘You worked with the author, this man, Alan Conway. You knew how his mind worked. If we were to ask you to reread it, I’m sure there are things that might occur to you that we haven’t noticed. And if you actually came to Branlow Hall and read the book in situ, so to speak, maybe you might see what it was that our daughter spotted and why she felt compelled to ring us. And that in turn might tell us where she is or what’s happened to her.’
His voice faltered as he spoke those last words. What’s happened to her. There might be a simple reason why she had vanished but it was unlikely. She knew something. She was a danger to someone. The thought was better left unsaid.
‘Can I have one of these?’ I asked. I helped myself to one of Pauline Treherne’s cigarettes. My own pack was behind the bar. The whole ritual – pulling out the cigarette, lighting it, taking the first puff – gave me time to think. ‘I can’t come to England,’ I said eventually. ‘I’m afraid I’m too busy here. But I will read the book if you don’t mind leaving me your copy. I can’t promise anything will come to mind. I mean, I remember the story and it doesn’t correspond quite with what you’ve told me. But I can email you—’
‘No. That won’t do.’ Pauline had already made up her mind. ‘You need to talk to Aiden and Lisa – and Eloise, for that matter. And you should meet Derek, the night manager. He was on duty the night Frank Parris was killed and spoke to the detective in charge. He’s in Alan Conway’s book too – although he’s called Eric.’ She leaned towards me, imploring. ‘We’re not asking you for a lot of your time.’
‘And we’ll pay you,’ Lawrence added. ‘We have plenty of money and we’re not going to hold back if it helps find our daughter.’ He paused. ‘Ten thousand pounds?’
That drew a sharp look from his wife and it occurred to me that, without thinking, he had greatly increased, perhaps doubled, the amount they had intended to offer me. That was what my reluctance had done. I thought for a moment that she was going to say something, but she relaxed and nodded.
Ten thousand pounds. I thought about the replastering on the balcony. A new computer for Andreas. The ice-cream display chest that was on the blink. Panos and Vangelis, who had both been muttering about pay rises.
*
‘How could I say no?’ This was what I told Andreas now in our bedroom, late at night. ‘We need the money, and anyway, maybe I can help them find their daughter.’
‘You think she’s still alive?’
‘It’s possible. But if she isn’t, perhaps I can find out who killed her.’
Andreas sat up. He was wide awake now and he was worried about me. I felt bad that I had sworn at him. ‘The last time you went looking for a killer, it didn’t end very well,’ he reminded me.
‘This is different. This isn’t personal. It’s got nothing to do with me.’
‘Which sounds to me like an argument for leaving it alone.’
‘You may be right. But … ’
I had made up my mind and Andreas knew it.
‘I need a break anyway,’ I said. ‘It’s been two years, Andreas, and apart from a weekend in Santorini we haven’t been anywhere. I’m completely worn out, endlessly firefighting, endlessly trying to make things work. I thought you’d understand.’
‘A break from the hotel or a break from me?’ he asked.
I wasn’t sure I had an answer to that.
‘Where will you stay?’ he asked.
‘With Katie. It’ll be nice.’ I rested a hand on his arm, feeling the warm flesh and the curve of his muscle. ‘You can manage perfectly well without me. I’ll ask Nell to come in and look after things. And we’ll talk to each other every day.’
‘I don’t want you to go, Susan.’
‘But you’re not going to stop me, Andreas.’
He paused and in that moment I could see him fighting with himself. My Andreas versus Andreas the Greek. ‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘You must do what you have to.’
Two days later, he drove me to Heraklion airport. There are parts of the road from Agios Nikolaos – as you pass Neapoli and Latsida – that are actually very beautiful. The landscape is wild and empty, with the mountains stretching into the distance and the sense that nothing very much has been touched for a thousand years. Even the new motorway after Malia is surrounded by gorgeous countryside and as you draw nearer you dip down and find yourself close to a wide, white sand beach. Maybe that was what gave me a sense of sadness, an understanding of what I was leaving behind. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of all the problems and the chores of running Polydorus. I was thinking of midnight and the waves and pansélinos – the full moon. Wine. Laughter. My peasant life.
When I’d been preparing to leave, I’d deliberately chosen my smallest bag. I’d thought it would be a statement to Andreas and to myself that this was just a brief business trip and that I would be home very soon. But going through my wardrobe, looking at clothes that I hadn’t worn for two years, I found myself piling things up on the bed. I was going back to an English summer, which meant that it could be hot and cold, wet and dry, all in one day. I would be staying in a posh country hotel. They probably had a dress code for dinner. And I was being paid ten thousand pounds. I needed to look professional.
So by the time I arrived at Heraklion airport, I found myself dragging my old wheelie behind me, the actual wheels squeaking malevolently as they spun against the concrete floor. The two of us stood for a moment in the harsh air conditioning and the harsher electric light of the departure lounge.
He took hold of me. ‘Promise me you’ll look after yourself. And call me when you get there. We can FaceTime.’
‘If the Wi-Fi isn’t on the blink!’
‘Promise me, Susan.’
‘I promise.’
He held me with both hands on my arms and kissed me. I smiled at him, then trailed my suitcase over to the stout, scowling Greek girl in her blue uniform who checked my passport and boarding card before allowing me through to security. I turned and waved.
But Andreas had already gone.
Cuttings
It was quite a shock being back in London. After so much time in Agios Nikolaos, which wasn’t very much more than an overgrown fishing village, I found myself consumed by the city and I was unprepared for the intensity of it, the noise, the number of people in the streets. Everything was greyer than I remembered and it was hard to cope with the dust and petrol fumes in the air. The amount of new construction also made my head spin. Views that I had known all my working life had disappeared in the space of two years. London’s various mayors, with their love of tall buildings, had allowed different architects to gouge their initials into the skyline with the result that everything was both familiar and alien at the same time. Sitting in the back of a black cab, being driven along the River Thames on the way from the airport, the cluster of new flats and offices around Battersea Power Station looked to me like a battlefield. It was as if there had been an invasion and all those cranes with their blinking red lights were monstrous birds, picking over carcasses lying unseen on the ground.