Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘But Spiro, I’m exhausted. My throat hurts. I’m losing my voice!’

  ‘Nonsense. Get on that stage and sing your latest again. Give it all you’ve got.’

  The audience went wild when I returned. How I loved the sound of their applause. After the refrain, Spiro came on stage and presented me with a bouquet of red flowers. He kissed my hand and then stepped back, clapping, as I finally walked into the wings.

  ‘Marvellous!’ he cried in the dressing room. ‘Remove the make-up and gargle with some salt water, then olive oil – and get some sleep. We’re catching the 6 a.m. ferry to Crete. You’ve got three concerts there. Chania, Rethymnon, and Heraklion. Just wait until you see your new dress!’

  Almost paralysed with exhaustion, I dropped into a chair.

  ‘Spiro, I’m so tired. Could you give me a few days off at some point?’

  ‘Yes, of course, of course – but not now. We’re on a roll and we can’t afford to lose momentum. Keep the crowds wanting more, then give it to them before they choose somebody else to idolise!’

  ‘I’d like to spend some time with Markos,’ I blurted. ‘He’s going after a job at the new university.’

  Spiro blinked at me. ‘Markos, a steady job?’ He shook his head solemnly. ‘I’m sorry to say it, Sofia, but he’ll never settle down. He’s had so many opportunities, but he’s always on a mission to save the world.’

  CHAPTER 19

  ZOË

  Manchester, present day.

  ZOË WOKE AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT. Her first thought: it was Josh’s birthday tomorrow. She should go back to London and return to Manchester later. She had two children; she couldn’t neglect her son in her desperate search to find her daughter.

  Then she remembered the tickets for Silverstone, still in her dressing gown pocket. Josh loved Formula 1, and the tickets had cost a fortune. She hoped Frank had remembered the three of them were going together – a family day, for Josh’s sake.

  Not that they would ever be a family without Megan.

  Zoë packed her things into a carrier bag and went down to breakfast, knowing a confrontation with Frank loomed. She had to find out if Frank knew more than she did about why Megan had run away. She sighed. The eggs on toast lost their appeal and she shoved them to one side.

  After paying the hotel bill, Zoë decided to check the abandoned office block before she left Manchester, hoping Megan had found the note. The sky, a sheet of dark grey, threatened rain again, and the thought of going into the derelict building alone made her nervous. Would she find the right street? Zoë marched past a newsagent and saw a picture of Emily on a newspaper front taped to the window.

  MURDERED TEENAGER

  She entered the cluttered shop and grabbed a paper, scrolling down the print as she stood in a queue at the counter.

  ‘Seventy-five pence, please,’ the assistant said.

  She handed over a pound. ‘I’m looking for a hot dog stand. I think it’s called Dave’s, maybe? Pete’s? A big white van.’

  ‘Pete’s Dogs, third on the right,’ the shopkeeper said, jerking her head at the door.

  Zoë rolled the newspaper, shoved it into her bulging carrier and went down the street. A police car overtook her and turned into a side road a couple of streets ahead.

  Megan!

  She broke into a clumsy jog, the carrier bag thumping her thigh until the handle snapped and her things tumbled onto the wet pavement. She stuffed everything back into the bag, gathered it into her chest and rushed on. Three police cars were parked behind Pete’s Dogs, blocking the way to the abandoned building. Zoë approached them, her heart racing. One of the officers, a policewoman, stopped her when she tried to get closer.

  ‘I’m looking for my daughter!’ she cried. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s been a fire. You can’t go any closer. It’s a crime scene.’

  ‘Please! Tell me what happened.’ Zoë asked again. ‘Was anyone inside?’

  ‘A teenage girl and an elderly man.’

  Zoë whimpered. ‘What happened?’

  The policewoman must have recognised the horror on Zoë’s face because she added, ‘The kid’s okay. She saved the old man’s life. You say you’re looking for your daughter? Give me your name and your daughter’s name and I’ll see if we can help.’

  An officer’s voice distracted the policewoman and she let go of Zoë’s arm.

  ‘Mrs Johnson!’ DI Fenwick called. He looked as though he hadn’t slept. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I left a note for Megan, up there, yesterday.’ She nodded towards the upper window. ‘I came to see if she’d taken it.’

  ‘What made you do that?’

  ‘Emily brought me here and said she and Megan had slept there a few nights ago, so I wrote Megan a note and stuck it on the window with Emily’s chewing gum, in case she came back.’

  ‘So, let me get this straight. You were here yesterday, with a girl that was later shot. You were expecting your daughter to come here last night. Now the building, where you stuck a note to your missing daughter with the dead girl’s gum, may have been the subject of an arson attack. Is that right?’

  Zoë cringed and nodded. It was all such a mess. Two men in white coveralls carried their forensic cases into the building, and Zoë turned to Fenwick.

  ‘You’ll probably find my fingerprints up there,’ Zoë said. ‘On the glass.’

  She remembered the dirt on her fingertips and the desire to wash her hands.

  Fenwick sighed. ‘Sit in the police car. You’ll have to come back to the station for questioning, make another statement and have your prints taken so that we can eliminate them. You should have told us all this yesterday, and now I’m wondering why you didn’t.’

  ‘I thought it wasn’t important. And with the shock of Emily being . . . I forgot.’

  Another car came to a halt alongside. Again, two men got out, pulled on white coveralls, gloves, shoe covers and masks, and hefted a heavy-looking case between them. Police officers ran blue and white tape across the alley.

  An hour passed before DI Fenwick returned to the car.

  ‘What was on the note?’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘I can’t remember exactly. I told her I loved her, and wrote down the name of my hotel, and my mobile number in case she’d forgotten it.’ She took a breath. ‘Was it still there, the note?’

  ‘We haven’t found it. I don’t suppose you know what shoes your daughter wore, or her size?’

  ‘She was a size five, but I haven’t seen her for six months, so she might have grown.’

  ‘We found a ball. Looks like a juggling ball. Could it have been your daughter’s?’

  ‘Megan was busking, juggling at the train stations and traffic lights. Didn’t I say so in my statement? That’s why I asked for Emily to be released into my care. We were looking for her.’

  ‘Right. Well, your daughter was checked over at the hospital this morning and released.’ Zoë felt her shoulders drop. ‘She made a statement to the local branch, but now there’s been a development and we have further questions. We’ll check the building for your prints. There were a number of wipes, the sort my wife uses to remove her make-up. We might get lucky and find a DNA sample to confirm she was up there. I’ll need a sample from you. There is always the bizarre chance that this is not the same Megan Johnson. Weirder things have happened, and I have to follow procedure.’

  Zoë prayed Megan would stay in Manchester long enough to be found.

  She got out of the police car and followed DI Fenwick into the station. A woman police officer took her fingerprints and a cheek swab. Then, she filled in form after form before DI Fenwick joined her again.

  He sat down heavily, elbows on her table, chin resting on her fists.

  ‘Was your daughter using drugs, or had she ever used illegal substances before? Do you know?’

  ‘No, she would never do that!’ Then Zoë frowned; she hadn’t seen Megan for seven months. ‘At least, I d
on’t think so . . . Whatever makes you ask such a thing?’

  Fenwick stared at her. ‘Because the juggling ball we found was stuffed with diamorphine.’

  ‘Diamorphine . . . ? You mean heroin?’

  ‘Exactly, 120g of white powder. That would be 360g of pure heroin in a set of balls. By the time it’s cut, we’re looking at a street value of something in the region of twenty thousand pounds.’

  Zoë stared at him. ‘Do you think these drugs were behind Emily’s death?’

  He shrugged. ‘We can’t know yet, but the girls’ similarity, and the fact that Emily was with you, may have led to an identity mix-up.’

  ‘But that means Megan’s in danger.’ Zoë swallowed hard. ‘We have to find her.’

  ‘Yes, we do, and sooner rather than later.’

  Zoë understood what he meant by ‘later’.

  *

  Zoë was torn between her children. Josh deserved more from her, and she had to go back to London in time for his birthday. Megan was in danger, but the police were on the case, and she trusted the law. With a heavy heart, she walked back to the train station, searching the underpasses and traffic lights for buskers along the way, but there was no sign of her daughter. At Piccadilly Station, she bought a ticket to London, took a seat at a café and ordered a club sandwich. She watched the commuters, hoping to catch a glimpse of Megan.

  Numbed by the events of the week, she stared through the crowd as she sipped an Americano. The rush of people, leaden acoustics and lack of sleep dulled her senses. Zoë’s mind fogged, and she found herself remembering Crete and her mother’s last days.

  Then it hit her. What had made Megan think her grandmother was in Crete? Granny Anna didn’t move back there until after Megan had disappeared. As far as Megan would know, Zoë’s mother was still living with them in London. The idea that Zoë’s own mother and Megan had been in contact, while Zoë herself was distraught, was too awful to contemplate. Besides, if they had been in touch, Megan would have known that her Granny Anna had died, or at least noticed when the contact stopped. She dismissed the thought.

  Perhaps Frank had told Megan about her grandmother? If he really had known more about why she’d left than he had ever said, then maybe they’d been in touch since . . . Or there was Josh. Had Megan been in contact with her brother? They’d always wound each other up, but Zoë knew they were close really. Josh was still a kid; he could have been persuaded not to tell anyone that Megan had called. And how many times had Josh told her he was completely certain Megan was fine, and that she’d come home when she was ready?

  *

  The train was packed due to the disrupted service. They had pulled out of Crewe when Zoë decided, birthday or not, she had to talk to Josh straight away. If he’d been in touch with Megan . . . She glanced around the carriage and that saw most of the commuters were working or playing on their smartphones. As she reached for hers, it rang.

  ‘Mrs Johnson?’

  ‘Yes, who is this?’

  ‘The receptionist at the Cherry Tree. I hope you don’t mind me calling. I got your phone number from the check-in details. I thought you would want to know – your daughter came here looking for you just now. I told her you were coming back on Monday.’

  ‘She came in? Megan’s looking for me? Oh, this is so important, thank you. I’m coming straight back. Can you keep my room, please?’ A train announcement drowned the receptionist’s reply. Frustrated, Zoë’s heart raced. ‘If she comes back, please keep her there. Tell her I’m on my way. Tell her I love her!’

  ‘Sure, I will. The police were here this morning. They’re looking for her too. I’m about to call them but I wanted to let you know first.’

  ‘Please, call them immediately. Thank you so much.’

  Zoë ended the call, breathing hard. She would get off at the next stop and go straight back. Megan was looking for her. Megan.

  Desperate to tell someone, she phoned Trisha and explained what had happened.

  ‘I wanted to get back for Josh’s birthday tomorrow, Trisha. I’m on the train now, but I have to go back to the hotel. Megan’s looking for me. I’m afraid for her. I don’t think she has any idea of the danger she’s in. I’ll phone Josh and explain why I’ll not get back for his birthday. He’s going to be hurt, Trisha, but Megan’s in real danger and I’m desperate to get her back home.’

  ‘Poor you! Sounds like hell’s spinning over there.’

  ‘It is. Look, I’ve got Josh tickets for Silverstone, Formula 1, tomorrow. He doesn’t know, and now I’m pretty sure I’m not going to make it. Will you go in my place? The tickets cost a fortune. Frank’s going but there are three tickets.’

  She didn’t have to say she didn’t want Frank’s secretary to have her ticket. Trisha would understand that.

  ‘Formula 1, sure. I’d love to go, sweetie!’

  ‘Thanks. You’re a real friend – I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for all this. You’ll find the tickets in the pocket of my pink dressing gown, on the back of the bedroom door. I’ll call Frank to remind him.’

  ‘Okay, that’s cool. Don’t worry about anything. Would you like me to phone Frank?’

  ‘Oh, yes, if you don’t mind. He’s useless at remembering these things.’

  Zoë didn’t want to speak to Frank. Not yet. If Frank knew why Megan had left, and Josh had been in contact with her . . . Had all her family been lying to her?

  ‘You there, Zoë?’

  ‘Sorry, Trisha. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’m getting off at the next station. Speak soon.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s with Megan. Best of luck!’

  Zoë ended the call. Her fellow passengers were staring. As she gathered her things ready to disembark, her phone rang again.

  ‘This is DI Fenwick.’

  CHAPTER 20

  SOFIA

  Athens, 1954.

  MARKOS WAS AWAY AGAIN. I hadn’t seen or heard from him for three months. Spyridon was anxious, too, though he never said it. We were in El Greco’s having supper one evening when I told him how concerned I was.

  ‘There’s no point in worrying, Sofia. He’ll turn up when he’s ready.’

  ‘How can he expect me to marry him if I never know where he is?’

  Spiro’s head jerked up. ‘He’s asked you to marry him?’

  I nodded. ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Look, Sofia, you’re twenty years old with a career to think of. Next year, I plan to take you to London, Amsterdam and Paris. You can’t give up all this to get married. The next thing you know, you’ll be having babies and your career will be over. There’s time for those things later.’

  ‘But you don’t understand, Spiro. He loves me, and I want to marry him.’

  ‘Ha! So he loves you so much he doesn’t bother to let you know where he is, or when he’s coming home? He gets up to all kinds of stuff you don’t know about.’

  ‘You’re wrong – he tells me everything. I know he’s made some mistakes, but it’s all for the greater good. You know very well he’s trying to make Greece a better place for everyone, you and me and him and our children.’

  Spyridon glared at my belly, horrified. ‘You’re not . . .’ His fists bunched either side of his plate.

  ‘No, of course I’m not.’

  His shoulders dropped. ‘Thank God – now’s not the time to start a family. And I still don’t know how you can forgive him so easily for destroying your family! I know I’ll never forgive Churchill for what happened to mine!’ He got up so suddenly his chair toppled. ‘I’m ashamed of some of the things Markos does . . . but what’s a father supposed to do? I know he believes what he’s doing is right, but he’s my son, and he’s all I’ve got left.’

  What was he talking about? I had never seen him so emotional. I stared at him, unable to grasp what he had said. He righted his chair and sat down again, but his fists remained bunched as he glared at the tabletop.

  A horrible sense of forebod
ing rushed through me.

  ‘What do you mean, “destroying my family”?’

  Spyridon’s eyes clouded before he turned away. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  ‘Spyridon, explain what you mean!’

  He appeared startled. ‘Nothing. Forget it. I’m worried about him, too. You know that. But he cares about nothing but the cause! Underneath it all, he’s just crazy for revenge. Don’t fool yourself into thinking he will devote his life to you. Marry Markos, and all you’ll have to keep you company is worry. That, and children you can’t afford to feed.’

  ‘Don’t try and sidetrack me. Tell me what you meant.’ My panic was rising. ‘If you don’t . . . if you don’t, I’m out of here and you’ll never see me again!’

  His eyes widened. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Just forget what I said.’

  I stood. ‘Tell me now, or I swear I’m gone!’

  Fear flashed across Spyridon’s face. ‘Stop it, Sofia. You need me as much as I need you, and you know it.’

  I rushed out of the taverna, regretting every step – but what else could I do? His words kept going around in my head. I still don’t know how you can forgive him so easily for destroying your family. I tried to sleep, but it was impossible. After midnight, I pulled on a dress, walked to the bakery and knocked on the back door.

  ‘Need any help?’ I asked, when Mr Zacharia opened up. ‘I can still cut a mean halfkilo.’

  He smiled and let me in.

  I scrubbed and floured up to my elbows and we worked in silence until the bread was ready for the oven. While I cleaned the mixer, Mr Zacharia reached for a dusty bottle on the top shelf and poured two small glasses of raki. He plonked himself on the upturned bucket and held his hand towards the only chair.

  ‘Yammas! ’ he said, when I’d taken the seat. He banged his glass on the kneading table and waited for me to reciprocate.

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ he said.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘I heard something terrible about Markos – I can’t believe it – I don’t know what to think, what to do. I know he’s done bad things for the cause before, but . . . Oh, Mr Zacharia. He proposed, and I said yes . . . but now, I’m all mixed up.’