Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  *

  The nightmare intensified over the next hour. At the police station, Zoë filled in details on a form under the sting of DI Fenwick’s disapproving eyes.

  When she’d finished, she turned it around and slid it towards him.

  ‘Unusual names, Zoë and Eleftheria,’ he said, glancing at the top line.

  ‘My mother was Greek. They mean “life” and “freedom”.’

  The door opened and a young officer popped his head into the room.

  ‘Sir, you’re wanted down the hall. It’s urgent.’

  Fenwick flicked a glance to Zoë’s feet.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, the contempt clear on his scrubbed, tired face. He picked up the forms and left.

  An hour passed, and Zoë began to wonder if they had forgotten about her. She should be out there, scouring the city for Megan, hoping to come across Emily in the process. They must sleep somewhere. Would Megan go back to the shelter, or to the building Emily had shown her? Zoë sensed she was close. In a short while, perhaps only hours, they might be reunited, picking up where they’d left off. This time Zoë resolved to be a better mother, more aware of her daughter’s needs and troubles. She would talk to her, really talk to her, find out if there was any truth in what Emily had said, if Megan had found out something about Frank she didn’t want her to know.

  Finally, Zoë decided to go to the desk and find out what was happening. Just as she stood up, the door opened. Fenwick held a vending machine cup, his face drawn and angry. She wondered how many hours he had worked that day and a spark of sympathy went out to him. Fenwick glared at her before he spoke. He had a sheet of paper in his hand and a woman PC behind him.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘They’ve found her.’

  Zoë sat down, relief flooding in. ‘Oh, thank goodness. I’m so sorry for the trouble I’ve put you through.’

  Fenwick showed no pleasure, or acceptance of her apology. His face was set like stone as he handed her the cup and sat opposite. The policewoman stood by the door, never taking her eyes off Zoë.

  ‘I brought you a coffee,’ Fenwick said. ‘Would you rather have tea?’

  He fumbled in his pocket and produced two sachets of sugar and a plastic spoon. He blew a ball of fluff off the spoon before placing it on the table.

  ‘Thanks, coffee’s fine. I’ll get out of your hair.’ Then Zoë realised he had no hair and bit her lip. ‘I need to check Centrepoint for Megan tonight.’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Fenwick grumbled.

  Zoë’s body slumped with fatigue. ‘Go on, what’s Emily done this time?’ she asked.

  Fenwick stared at the window and tugged his lip.

  ‘I regret to inform you . . .’ he said, and then rubbed his fingers up and down the bridge of his nose.

  ‘What?’

  He exhaled noisily, his hand still covering most of his face.

  ‘Unfortunately, the young woman was the victim of a fatal attack.’

  ‘Fatal attack . . . ?’ Zoë stood up. What was he saying? Had she misunderstood?

  Fenwick dropped his hand and met her eyes. ‘Your description, the clothes and her fingerprints – they fit the victim.’

  ‘Victim? You mean she’s dead?’ She shook her head. Emily . . . dead; the news seemed impossible. The room was silent. The cup slipped through her fingers, spilling the contents over the floor.

  ‘She was with me less than two hours ago. Why would anyone kill her? I trusted her. She was proud to be trusted. I saw it in her eyes. She went for chips. Chips . . . and she’s . . .’ Zoë shook her head.

  ‘Take it easy,’ Fenwick said, his voice softer. ‘I want you to go over your statement again. Then we want a fresh statement with everything you remember from the moment you arrived in Manchester. The sooner you do it, the more you’ll recall.’

  Zoë told him everything, her breathing hard, her head whirring. She still couldn’t believe it. The last few days seemed unreal, as if they belonged to somebody else.

  Fenwick left with the statement and Zoë sat alone with her thoughts. What should she do? Who could she talk to? The door opened and Colin came in.

  ‘This is a mess, isn’t it, Mrs Johnson?’ His voice was formal, accusing.

  ‘The poor kid. I still can’t grasp it. We must find out who and why – and also find my daughter – she can’t have disappeared again. If Emily was in danger, then Megan’s in danger too!’

  ‘I think it’s better if you leave everything to the authorities, don’t you?’ he said, walking to the window and staring out. ‘If we hadn’t released this Emily into your custody, she would be safely locked up in the remand centre right now and we wouldn’t have a murder to deal with. A young woman’s lost her life. We’ve got a lot of explaining to do, because, in some way, we’re all responsible.’

  Zoë understood the truth when she heard it. ‘You’re right. It’s awful.’

  Colin didn’t answer; his face was expressionless.

  ‘How did it happen?’ Zoë asked. ‘They won’t tell me anything.’

  ‘According to a witness, there was an argument going on, then a struggle. A gun went off. The hospital say it was instant – she wouldn’t have known a thing. The shooter scarpered.’

  Overcome by sadness, Zoë thought of Emily, limp as a rag doll in her new clothes.

  ‘Why? It doesn’t make sense. She wasn’t into drugs or anything. She was trying to keep out of trouble.’

  ‘We don’t have a theory yet. It could be an abduction gone wrong, or drug-related, or someone she’d crossed on the streets before. We’ve got tyre marks and shoe marks from the alley. Forensics are at the scene and the police are checking wreckers’ yards and chop shops right now. There’s a slim chance that’s where they’ll dispose of the vehicle for a few bob. More probably, they’ll torch it or drive it into the Ship Canal.’

  ‘What about my daughter? Is there any news?’

  ‘She slept at Centrepoint last night,’ Colin said. ‘That’s the last anyone’s seen of her. A volunteer at the centre made the appointment for Megan with the passport office but, as you saw, she didn’t turn up.’

  Centrepoint was going to be Zoë’s first port of call when she got out of the police station.

  ‘Where did it happen, Emily’s . . . murder?’ She found the word difficult.

  ‘In the alleyway behind your hotel,’ Colin said. ‘They found fish and chips, along with your change, in a carrier. The car ran over it.’

  Zoë put her head in her hands. ‘She’d got the food. I thought she’d just run off when she didn’t come back.’

  She remembered Emily’s crooked smile as she left the hotel room, the car’s backfire and screech of tyres. She had stood at the window, doubting Emily, fearing for her own reputation.

  ‘I heard the shot.’ Suddenly cold, Zoë shivered and hugged herself. ‘Colin, I need to add to my statement.’

  He left the room. The WPC didn’t move.

  Another hour passed before Zoë was out of there, and it was 3 a.m. before she found herself back in the hotel room. Although desperate to go to the Centrepoint shelter and see if Megan had returned, Zoë could not. She found herself battling with tears and trembling with exhaustion. The police were checking anyway, and it was unlikely that anyone would go to the shelter with a patrol car parked outside.

  She kicked off her shoes, lay on the bed and recalled the last twenty-four hours. Poor Emily, on the brink of adulthood, yet full of childish vulnerability. Zoë had been right to trust her – she saw it was a big moment in the girl’s life – but she was wrong to let Emily out of her protection. If they had gone to the chip shop together, Emily might still be alive.

  The terrifying question surfaced: was Megan in the same danger?

  Zoë needed to talk to Frank. If she hadn’t driven him from home with her obsession, her unwillingness to think of anything but Megan, she would be calling him right now, telling him her worst fears and searching for a solution.
r />   Her mind wouldn’t rest. Where are you, Megan? Still fully clothed, she pulled the duvet over her body, curled her knees towards her chest and hugged herself to sleep.

  CHAPTER 16

  SOFIA

  Athens, 1952.

  DESPITE OUR UNFORTUNATE START, I enjoyed singing for Madam Magdalena. As the months passed, she became fond of me too. She protected me from the more lecherous of her clients, and always praised my singing. Since my arrival, things had changed dramatically at the bordello. I worked from six in the evening until two in the morning, singing and playing the piano. The gentlemen waited in the lavishly furnished ground floor with its burgundy and gold flock wallpaper, chandeliers and chintz drapes. Madam’s women entertained them for half an hour or so in private rooms on the second and third floors.

  One evening, just after my eighteenth birthday, Madam led me into the salon, and sat down between a loud and pompous major I recognised and a smartly dressed stranger. Another four men occupied the ornately carved armchairs around the piano in the high-ceilinged reception room. I acknowledged them all with a nod and a smile.

  ‘Madam! You look as enchanting as ever,’ the major said to Magdalena. ‘I swear you grow younger each day.’

  The old siren placed a hand over the ropes of pearls that hung around her neck, covering her uplifted cleavage.

  ‘Why, thank you, sir. We have a special treat for you this evening. Sofia has a new gown and a new song for us.’

  ‘I hope it’s not one of those damn-awful rebetika songs about the rebels,’ the major said, raising his voice in my direction. ‘They should be shot, the lot of them. Damned communists!’

  I smiled, shook my head and curtsied in my satin, rose-printed dress.

  The major continued, full of self-importance. ‘Now we’ve joined NATO, that should be an end to them all! It’s time we had a stronger leader to sort out the mess this country’s in!’

  The stranger’s eyes scrutinised my body to such an extent I wanted to snap my fingers at him. I hoped he wasn’t going to give me trouble.

  ‘Can you sing like Maria Callas?’ he asked, catching my eye. He seemed as startled by the sudden question as I was, and touched his cravat. It was then I noticed his tiepin, a tiny locket, clearly a piece of woman’s jewellery in the shape of a simple gold heart.

  ‘I can sing anything you like, sir,’ I replied boldly.

  ‘Callas is performing here in town, in August. A fine singer. Beautiful, too. I saw her at La Scala. Magnificent!’

  The major clapped his hand down on Madam’s thigh and gave it a fierce squeeze.

  ‘General Eisenhower arrives in the city tomorrow. Be prepared for a few of his aides patronising your fine establishment, Magdalena.’ He turned to me. ‘Now come on, young woman, let’s have a song out of you.’

  I bowed, sat at the piano and fluttered my eyelashes at him while I performed a soldier’s love song.

  A light came on over the door and flickered twice, telling Madam that two of the girls upstairs were ready for their next client. Magdalena whispered into the major’s ear and he left the room; then she turned to the stranger and informed him he could go upstairs too.

  ‘I am quite content to stay here and listen to this beautiful girl all evening, Madam. Someone else can go upstairs.’ He turned to me. ‘Can you sing popular music, the sort young people are dancing to, girlie?’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  As I sang, I entertained myself, imagining I was on the stage performing to a huge audience. The smart stranger with the gold locket kept a straight face all evening, not showing any pleasure – but he never took his eyes off me. When I had finished work, the man approached and requested that I join him for a bite of supper at El Greco’s.

  I still cleaned the restaurant in order to keep my small apartment round the corner. The idea of walking into the establishment as a patron, wearing the glamorous, close-fitting dress Madam Magdalena had provided, amused me greatly. But I did not want to invite trouble. Many men had offered to take me out and I always refused.

  ‘I regret I cannot accompany you, sir. I’m a singer, not one of Madam Magdalena’s companions,’ I replied.

  ‘I am not interested in your body, young lady,’ he said, with a snort. ‘It’s your voice that fascinates me. Madam Magdalena tells me you’re the daughter of Alexa Bambaki – is that true?’

  Reminded of my mother, I nodded sadly.

  ‘Then join me – I have a proposition for you.’

  I hesitated and looked at him suspiciously.

  He sighed and held up his hands in dismay. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Spyridon Papas, booking manager and agent for the stars.’

  ‘Spyridon Papas!’ I tried not to stare, but then I realised my mouth hung open and snapped it shut.

  ‘I’m looking for a new singer to make records and perform, but if you’re not interested . . .’ He stood and moved towards the door.

  A jolt of excitement raced through me. I glanced around the room. All eyes were on him, then me.

  ‘Wait!’ After a calming breath, I continued. ‘I’d be honoured to join you, sir. If you could give me a moment to change?’

  ‘Come as you are. We’re going to El Greco’s – it’s very near.’

  My heart was tap-dancing. I looked at Madam Magdalena and, although her pencilled eyebrows were higher than usual, she gave me a nod.

  *

  As we walked into El Greco’s, I resisted the urge to run to the kitchen and tell the cook why I was there, and who I was with. Seven years had passed since they took me on as a frightened little girl wearing boy’s clothes. They had put a roof over my head and, along with Mr Zacharia, kept food in my belly. I owed them a lot, and wanted them to see what they had helped me achieve.

  In the restaurant, Mr Papas pulled out a chair and indicated for me to sit. He ordered food without asking what I liked, which meant one of two things. Either he had suffered extreme hardship in the past, like me, in which case anything would be a feast. Or, he was arrogant and expected me to eat whatever he ordered. I decided to reserve my judgement and listen to what he had to say.

  Mr Papas was talking about his plans: to find a new singer, make records and perform at specially organised concerts all over Greece. I heard the restaurant door open and close behind me and wondered if it was someone who knew me as the restaurant’s cleaner, or the baker’s assistant. The urge to stand and say ‘Just look at me!’ was difficult to resist.

  ‘I need some money, Papa,’ the voice behind me said. ‘Can you give me something off next month’s allowance?’

  Mr Papas looked up and spoke over my head. ‘Enough! I’m not handing over more money for you to give away, son. You can’t save the world!’ Then his voice softened. ‘Come and eat with us – I’m in the middle of a contract.’

  The speaker came around the table and sat, his enigmatic dark eyes barely glancing my way. I hardly recognised the wild and handsome man, with his black beret and his shoulder-length hair, though I felt sure I had seen him somewhere before.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said in my direction, before returning his attention to Mr Papas. ‘So be it, Papa, but instead of eating with you, I’ll drink water, and you can give me the cost of this meal. My friends are starving. If I don’t get milk to them, I’m afraid the baby will die before sunrise.’

  Mr Papas huffed. ‘Look at you! You’ve turned into a champion of the poor and needy!’

  I watched Mr Papas’s face. Clearly, he was having a conscience battle, startled, sad, determined, annoyed – all these things fluttered across his face. His hand came up and he touched the heart tiepin, his eyes staring into space for a second.

  ‘Please, Papa.’

  ‘Damn it, Markos, you always manage to wangle money out of me. I’m not a charity!’ He pulled his wallet out and passed a couple of notes to his son. ‘Don’t ask me again this month. I’m trying to build a business here.’

  That was it. I remembered the name. Markos Papas, the
boy with the bread in the park.

  Markos grinned. ‘I love you,’ he said mischievously to his father, before giving me a fleeting nod and heading for the door.

  As soon as his back was turned, Mr Papas touched the locket again and smiled proudly. But when Markos swung round and returned to our table, his father replaced the grin with a stern face.

  ‘Not another penny!’ he said.

  But Markos turned to me and his eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t I know you?’

  It was my turn to smile. ‘It was a long time ago. I was a starving child who slept in the park. You gave me some bread. I’ve never forgotten your kindness.’

  ‘Miss Sofia works for Madam Magdalena,’ Mr Papas said brusquely.

  Markos glanced at his father, then at me, and I swear he blushed.

  ‘Oh! I see. Nice to meet you again. Goodbye.’

  He turned abruptly and left the taverna. Mr Papas roared with laughter.

  My face burned. Markos had guessed I was a working girl. I couldn’t sit there and allow him to think that.

  ‘Excuse me. I’ll be back in a moment, Mr Papas.’

  I leaped up and hurried into the street.

  ‘Hello, Markos!’ I called after him.

  He glanced over his shoulder, then stopped. My close-fitting dress was not made for walking. I stumbled and clutched a lamp post to stop myself falling over. He turned, put his hands on his hips and laughed.

  ‘Do you mind! That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, you’re wearing a ridiculous dress!’ he said, grinning still. ‘But I guess in your profession—’

  I interrupted. ‘How dare you? I’m a singer, not a . . . I mean I don’t . . . I’ve never . . .’

  Lost for words, I swung round and returned to the taverna as quickly as my narrow skirt would allow. I could hear his laughter behind me.