Angie wagged a playful finger at her grandmother. ‘So that’s why you were working on my dowry linen, you already knew I was getting married!’ She nodded to herself. ‘I thought you looked a bit shifty when you let slip what you were crocheting.’ She turned to Poppy. ‘Think about it, Mam. Nick and I got engaged before Aunty Heleny died.’
Maria’s eyes twinkled.
Poppy studied the photographs and read letters until Voula appeared with the coffees. ‘Matthia, why are you still with the bride on her wedding day?’ She whacked the side of his head, playfully.
‘Drink your coffee, Matthia, then go to the men’s house or you’ll bring us bad luck,’ Maria said.
Angie moved to the chair next to him and recalled the first time she had done that. ‘Thank you, Uncle Matthia. It took courage to tell me the truth.’ She reached for the cup in his hand. ‘Now go away and join the men. And be careful with that smile – it could become a habit.’
Matthia sat there grinning at them all.
‘Virgin Mary . . .’ Maria crossed herself three times. ‘Will somebody get my son out of here? We’ve a dress to put onto the bride, and food to bring out.’
A microphone bellowed up from the village square, ‘One-two. One-two. Alpha-Beta,’ followed by a screeching whistle and then the strum of a string instrument.
They all grinned at Angie. She laughed, delighted when Voula’s granddaughters appeared from the cottage in their traditional Cretan costumes.
‘Bravo! Right, we’d better get ready,’ Poppy said.
‘It’s about time you took control.’ Maria glanced at the empty table. ‘Fetch the food out here, and bring some glasses. Let’s open the sparkling wine.’ She pulled herself up from her chair. ‘I’m going to take it easy now, leave it to you girls. Voula, help me get ready. Angelika and Poppy should have ten minutes together.’
Angie’s phone rang.
‘How’s my bride doing?’ She heard a smile in Nick’s voice.
‘Hello! Listen, you’re not supposed to speak to me until we’re wed. You’ll bring us bad luck, the evil eye.’ She giggled, they both thought the Cretan superstitions were quaint.
‘I’m not speaking to you. I’m speaking to my phone. I love you.’
‘You love your phone? I knew it. Have you been drinking, bridegroom?
‘No, have you, bride?’
‘Just about to start. Is Stavro there?’
‘No, a bit of a panic about that, nobody’s heard from him for three days,’ Nick said. ‘Matthia has just arrived. He said to remember Stavro has a weak heart.’
‘Trust Matthia to drop that on us, like we need the extra stress. You don’t seriously think something might have happened to him?’ Angie asked, concerned.
‘No, don’t worry. Matthia just likes a bit of drama. There’s no reply from his apartment phone and his mobile’s turned off, which probably means he’s on a plane.’
‘Don’t forget, he’s our best man.’
‘I’ve just remembered – he’s got the rings,’ Nick said. ‘Hopefully, there’s a simple explanation – one of those stories that will be tagged onto our wedding forever. Don’t fret.’
‘All right bossyboots!’ Angie said, playfully, ‘Did you hear from Thanassi?’
‘He’s speaking to Matthia. I think they’re settling their differences. Got to go, I love you, bye.’
*
‘Still no sign of Stavro?’ Angie asked Voula half an hour later.
‘Perhaps he’s with the men now,’ Voula said. ‘I’ll send one of the girls down.’
Twenty minutes passed before Voula’s granddaughter returned and said, ‘Uncle Stavro has disappeared and Grandpa Matthia said he’ll give Angelika away. But he asks will you all stop making him feel like a stand-in.’
The house phone rang and Voula bobbed inside to answer it, returning a minute later. ‘Stavro called to say his flight was diverted. He’s on his way. Can we put the nuptials back an hour because he has the stefana and the rings?’
‘I keep meaning to ask, what’s the stefana?’ Angie said.
Poppy explained. ‘They’re supposed to be a surprise from me. That’s blown it! Silver wedding crowns joined by lengths of ribbon, never separated after the marriage ceremony.’ Her eyes clouded. ‘When me and Yeorgo wed, we stuck with tradition and had wreathes of citrus leaves and blossom. Anyway, we didn’t have the money for anything else. I kept ours. Now they’re all dried up and wrinkled like me, but still tied together.’ She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
‘Will you stop the snivelling, Poppy? Have a drink.’ Maria huffed.
‘It’s too early for me to start drinking, Mama,’ Poppy said.
‘Virgin Mary! Do as you’re told for once, child.’ Maria slid her glass towards Voula, who popped the champagne cork. It landed on the roof, rolled down the tiles, bounced off Maria’s head and fell onto the table. Everyone started laughing. Maria held on to her dignity and ignored them.
‘What do you mean: Stavro is going to take another hour? Where’s he coming from, Timbuktu?’ Maria said. ‘He’s usually very reliable. I can’t believe my son is messing up everyone’s plans.’
‘I’ve no idea where he is,’ Voula said. ‘He just told me we must wait for him because he has the rings.’
‘It’s the bride who’s supposed to be late.’ Maria slapped the table. ‘Somebody inform the priest and the band, and the women organising the food. Tell them it’s the Koumbaros’s fault, so they don’t put a curse on Angelika.’
Voula’s grandchildren went back down the steps. Angie longed to see Nick. So much had happened since they were alone together.
‘If nobody needs me, I’m going to get ready,’ Poppy said.
‘Angelika,’ Maria squeezed Angie’s hand and looked up toward the small chapel on the hill, Agios Charalampos. A herd of goats had gathered before it. The bells around their necks clanged mismatched chimes across the valley. As grandmother and granddaughter gazed up to the skyline, an enormous shaggy ram came to the forefront. It stared down at them, still for a moment as if searching, and then it slowly bobbed its massively-horned head.
Maria nodded back at it. ‘Bless you, Andreas . . .’ she whispered.
Angie and her grandmother were still gazing up when four burly policemen came around the corner of the cottage.
‘Calliope Lambrakis,’ the leader called out.
In her stunning red outfit, Poppy stepped into the garden and whimpered. She nodded at the policemen.
Angie rushed to her side.
‘Step away, please,’ one officer said to Angelika.
The officers surrounded her mother. One of them took her handbag, holding it awkwardly. ‘Place your hands behind your back,’ another said.
Poppy bowed her head and stared at the ground while he snapped on the handcuffs.
‘Calliope Lambrakis, I have a warrant, issued by the public prosecutor, against you, for the murder of Lambrakis Emmanouil. You may read the warrant if you wish.’
Poppy gulped and shook her head.
‘You have no obligation to say anything and your silence cannot be used against you,’ he said.
‘No!’ Angie cried out. ‘You can’t arrest my mother; I’m getting married today! No!’
‘Sorry, miss, I have no choice,’ the policeman in charge said. ‘Bring me her passport.’
‘It’s in my handbag,’ Poppy said quietly.
‘Quickly, Voula, phone Demitri and Matthia, right away,’ Maria said.
‘Let me say goodbye to my mother and daughter, please,’ Poppy said.
The officer nodded.
‘I’m coming with you,’ Angie said. ‘I can’t let you go through this alone.’
Poppy shook her head. ‘No, you and Nick must marry. Raise your glass to me at the reception, but until then, forget about me. I’ll be thinking of you, Angelika. We’ve come so far, haven’t we, love?’ Her eyes filled and her lips trembled as she said, ‘I’m truly sorry your real
mother can’t be here, but don’t let this stop your wedding, promise me. I want you to have a wonderful day, do it for me, please.’
‘Mam, stop talking rubbish, you’re my real mother, I couldn’t love anyone more.’ She gave Poppy a fierce hug and kissed her cheeks. ‘We’ll find a way out of this, I swear.’
‘Mama,’ Poppy said, turning to Maria. ‘I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve brought upon you. I’ve never stopped loving you. Can you forgive me for running away? I should have faced up to this long before now.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ Maria whispered, dabbing her cheeks and then embracing her daughter. ‘You knew you’d have to deal with this sooner or later, Poppy. It’s brave of you to return, and I’m so very proud of you. We’ll do everything we can to get you out of there.’
‘Oh, Mama, I don’t deserve you,’ Poppy said.
Angie held Maria who sobbed quietly. Together, they watched the police lead Poppy down the cement steps to a waiting police car.
*
Poppy sat on the back seat with her hands cuffed behind her. She stared at the scenery, remembering olive harvests when families gathered and everyone worked in harmony. Now that the truth was out, despite her predicament, a sense of peace settled on her.
Angelika would marry Nick and she would have her ‘happy-ever-after’. Nothing else mattered. Poppy hoped for grandchildren. Perhaps she shouldn’t have left Amiras all those years ago, but then she would have been executed for murdering Emmanouil, and would never have had the joy that was Angelika. Despite the heartache she had caused her family, she had no regrets.
She thought about her mother. If Maria hadn’t left the village in 1943, she would have been there when Petro was found, and everything would be different. Poppy wouldn’t have fallen in love with Yeorgo, if he had grown up as Petro, her brother. She still loved Yeorgo. That she found out he was her sibling, after they were married, made no difference to the way she felt. Society’s rules had no claim on her heart.
The pain of living without him had been almost more than she could bear but she had Angelika – his daughter – and that was the most glorious twist of the whole sorry story.
The patrol car entered Viannos and drove past the big tree, then down a side street next to the town’s church. She saw the modern police station building loom up ahead. They double-parked and she struggled to get out of the car.
‘Young man,’ she said to an officer. ‘Please may I have the cuffs in front of me? I’ve just had a heart operation. It hurts to have my hands behind my back.’
The policeman, tall, overweight, sweating in his dark surge uniform, studied her for a second. He rested his hand on his gun holster. ‘Will you behave?’
She nodded. ‘I swear. I won’t be any trouble.’
He took the cuffs off and clipped them onto his belt.
Sounds echoed inside the new building. A tired looking policewoman with unruly blonde hair tied back, shifted boxes of files from the corridor into several offices. She offered Poppy a sympathetic smile. The air was fuggy with cigarette smoke and paint smells.
The policeman took her into a small interview room and offered her a seat. Her chair legs screeched against the pink marble floor. Five minutes later a middle-aged man in civilian clothes joined them.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’ he said.
Poppy shook her head.
‘You realise we have to do this?’
She nodded.
The policewoman came in and put two glasses of frappé on the table.
‘I’m going to take your statement. Do you want a lawyer?’ the man said to Poppy.
‘No,’ she said and glanced at a clock on the wall. Angelika would be changing into the wedding dress that she had worn to marry Yeorgo. ‘Is there any chance I will see my daughter get married, sir?’ she said. ‘I swear I won’t run away. Anyway, you have my passport . . . it’s an island, where could I go? It’s really important to me, and to her. Her father’s dead.’ Poppy’s throat ached with hope and a sob escaped.
He rubbed his fingers over his mouth and then shook his head.
Chapter 45
HERAKLION, AT LAST! STAVRO unfastened his seatbelt, grabbed his hand baggage from the overhead locker and raced to the front of the plane. With a bit of luck his suitcase would be first off and he could grab a taxi. He pulled out his mobile.
‘Please wait until you’re inside the terminal, sir,’ the flight attendant said.
Stavro pocketed the phone.
They had to sit on the tarmac for ten minutes while a plane from Thessaloniki landed. Eventually, Stavro and his fellow passengers were bussed to the building. He watched the luggage carousel, wishing he had only brought hand baggage but Heleny’s family in Athens had sent too many wedding gifts.
Calm down, he told his racing heart. He had to accept he wasn’t likely to make the actual marriage, but at least he would be at the reception to greet the bride and groom. He patted the lump in his jacket pocket and wondered what they would do for rings.
Stavro’s suitcase see-sawed under the black rubber strips and then slid onto the carousel. He dodged travellers and knocked somebody’s shoulder calling, ‘Sorry’ without looking back. The handle felt great in his hand. He yanked it up, dragged the bag outside the terminal and then raced to the taxi rank.
‘Amiras, Viannos, quickly as possible! I’m the Koumbaros of my niece’s wedding. I’m late and I have the rings in my pocket.’ He threw his case into the boot of the silver Mercedes and dived into the front seat.
The taxi driver grinned. ‘Okay, let’s burn rubber!’ he said.
Again, Stavro calmed himself, no point in arriving dead on time, as the Greeks were fond of saying when they were late. The pain in his chest returned.
The driver blasted his horn, yelling ‘Malákas!’ at anyone in his way.
Work on the dual carriageway across Crete had stopped with the financial crisis, and three small villages interrupted the motorway. The cabdriver knew shortcuts. They bounced over rough ground and then hurtled through a gap that somebody had cut into the crash barrier, hair-raising but it shaved precious minutes off the journey.
Glancing at the speedometer, Stavro saw they were travelling at 110 kph. He phoned Matthia.
‘I’m in a cab on my way. Hold things up until I get there.’
‘It’s already been put back till seven,’ Matthia said. ‘Where’ve you been? Poppy was arrested for Emmanouil’s murder. She’s in Viannos police station, but she insists the wedding goes ahead. Thanassi said he’ll deal with it, but I don’t see what he can do.’
‘Poor Poppy, after all she’s been though. Tragic if she misses Angelika’s nuptials. I’ll try and think of something,’ Stavro said.
‘Poppy’s told everyone about Valentina, and the Yeorgo–Petro thing.’
‘Good, how did Mama take it?’ Stavro’s phone signal died. His watch said: six thirty-five.
The sun headed for the horizon. Racing up close behind them, another taxi blasted its horn and flashed its headlights.
The taxi driver cursed. They were flying down the outside lane of the empty road, steep mountains to their left and a ravine to their right. The vehicle pitched and dipped over subsidence and then bounced back on to a level surface, only to swerve violently to the left to miss a void where the tarmac had fallen away.
Stavro glanced into the wing mirror. The car behind came closer, honking and flashing. ‘Let him pass,’ he said, afraid of instigating an accident.
The driver huffed, lurched over, and the other taxi flew by, disappearing into the distance. They came off the straight road and snaked around the mountainsides. Stavro checked his phone repeatedly. Almost at Viannos, he got two bars. He called Matthia.
‘What’s happening? I’m just coming through Viannos, where are you, Matthia?’
‘We’re starting down the aisle and I’ll burn in hell from the looks I’m getting from Papas Christos,’ Matthia said.
‘
Ignore Papas Christos. Go back outside the church. We’ll be there in minutes.’
The taxi slid to a breath-taking halt. A head-to-head with a sixteen-wheeler in Viannos’s narrow thoroughfare. Stavro wished he had time to call at the police station. Poor Poppy, what a cruel twist of fate.
The taxi driver lowered his window, thrust his entire upper body out and yelled, ‘I’ve got the Koumbaros and we’re late for the Amiras wedding, Malákas!’
Motorists dashed to their cars, pickups crunched gears, shifting back so he could bump up the pavement and let the truck pass. Stavro found himself rocking back and forth in his seat, willing everyone to move faster. Arms waved, people shouted, hands rolled in guidance. The taxi driver pulled his mirror in and the truck squeezed through with centimetres to spare.
Under the big tree, people clapped boisterously as the taxi lurched onward. The driver hooted the horn, warning deaf old jaywalkers to get out of the way. Once through Viannos, they had to slow once more. The vehicle that had blasted past them earlier was parked on a bend, the driver pissing into the ravine. They managed to drive by and, with one kilometre to Amiras, Stavro phoned Matthia.
‘I’m just coming into Amiras. Is there any news about Poppy, Matthia?’
*
The square interview room contained four chairs and a simple one-drawer desk. The plain-clothes policeman and the uniformed policewoman sat opposite Poppy. The man, restless and uninterested, recorded the interview. The woman completed a form using small neat letters, her eyes flicking up with each question. When she had finished, she introduced herself.
‘I’m PC Katarina. Do you prefer to be called Calliope, or Poppy?’
‘Poppy,’ she said.
Katarina glanced at the man who sat back with his arms folded. ‘This is Detective Inspector Spanaki from Athens CID. He’s standing in for the chief, who’s away.’ She turned towards him. ‘Are we ready, sir?’
Spanaki flicked a switch on a recording device. He stated the time and date and the names of those present and then nodded.
‘Tell us every tiny detail about that day, Poppy,’ Katarina said. ‘Even the things you think aren’t relevant. You’d be surprised what can trigger a recall. Take your time, start when you’re ready.’
Island of Secrets Page 38
