Torn in Two

by J. D. Weston

  But Emma held them closed. She wiped her eyes with her hands, felt the stinging of tears, and hid away beneath her splayed fingers.

  “Open your eyes, Emma,” said the lady, her voice retaining its kindness but conveying the same authority that had entranced Emma since she had arrived in her life.

  Emma opened her eyes.

  She stared down at her hands, which once more pulled at the loose thread of her pyjamas.

  She sniffed, as loud as a child might, then reddened at the embarrassment.

  “Now, look in the mirror, Emma. Tell me what you see.”

  Pondering on the command for a few moments, Emma lingered, finding distraction in fingering her pyjamas. But the lady’s silence was as authoritative as her verbal instructions, and she found herself obeying.

  Her eyes raised first, followed by her head, until she found herself staring at the most miserable sight she could possibly imagine.

  “Tell me what you see, Emma.”

  At first, her voice sounded croaky with almost a thick tone like a whine. But Emma cleared her throat and started again.

  “Pathetic.”

  “Good.” The lady sank into the shadows leaving Emma with no distraction other than the sight of herself. “What else do you see?”

  “Weakness? A child. Scared. Afraid.”

  “Good, good, good. Keep going.”

  “Emotion. Vulnerable. A victim.”

  “Will the girl you see before you survive?”

  “No.” She said the word almost without thinking. Her voice had taken on a robotic feel.

  “Does the girl you see before you impress you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you find her attractive?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? She’s blonde. She’s pretty.”

  “She’s weak. She’s fragile. Nobody would respect her.”

  The girl in the mirror sank further into her chair with each passing question and answer. The dark shadows beneath her eyes grew darker until only two small dots of moist reflection shone like the eyes of something cruel and evil. The image suggested a bitterness. A revulsion. A self-loathing. As if the girl who looked on was to blame for everything she was.

  “Do you feel her?” asked the lady. “Do you feel her pain?”

  “No.” Surprised at her own response, Emma was shocked at how cold she had become.

  “You do not empathise with her? You do not want to help her?”

  “No.”

  “Talk to her. Tell her that she’s on her own now. Tell her that she will not survive.”

  Emma glanced up to the shadow where the lady was standing.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Tell her the truth. Tell her all the things that you were once afraid to hear.”

  Finding the two little, moist eyes shining back at her in the mirror, Emma studied them. She saw how weak and fragile the girl appeared, the way she slumped in the chair as if the weight of the world was crushing her and only seconds remained until she would be gone forever.

  “You’re alone,” said Emma, shocked at how bitter and cold her voice sounded. It was the voice of knowledge. Of wisdom and confidence. The lady remained silent in the shadows but her stare found some innate sense inside Emma, coaxing her to say more. To reveal something new. “Nobody can help you now. Life has taken everything from you, and you must let it go. Don't hold on. Don't struggle. You have suffered more than most. Let it go.”

  A single tear fell from Emma’s eye. But it wasn't the onslaught of dejection. It wasn’t the beginning of the tirade that had been looming but had since been replaced by something far stronger.

  It was a single tear of sorrow.

  “What do you feel?”

  “Pity.” Still studying her own reflection, Emma was lost in her split of character. “Pity and sorrow. Helpless yet devoid of compassion.”

  “Good.”

  Emma thought she could hear a slight flavour of pride in the way the woman breathed the word.

  “Now take one last look at her. Feel the pity if that’s what you feel. Offer her your sorrow if it makes you feel human. But do not feel helpless and do not seek compassion on the basis that your heart tells you she begs for it.”

  In the mirror, the girl shrank even further away. Her shoulders lay at acute angles and her head hung low against her chest. Wild hair hung forward shielding most of her face save for the two shining eyes that peered out of the darkness.

  “Now say goodbye.” Stepping out of the shadows, the lady’s perfume hit Emma with renewed strength. She stopped in front of Emma, blocking the mirror. “Close your eyes.”

  Emma did as instructed.

  A gentle finger beneath her chin raised Emma’s head until her hair fell back over her shoulders.

  “The Emma Fletcher you once knew no longer exists.” The lady smoothed Emma’s hair flat against her head as if she was examining her face. “When we are finished here, you will be somebody entirely different.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “How dare you just walk into my house and snoop around. Who do you think you are?”

  The woman stepped into the room with her head held high and her face indignant. It was not the look of a woman who had lost her child.

  “My name is Frankie Black, Mrs Fletcher. I’m the man you hired to find your daughter.”

  “And do you normally break into the houses of the people who are paying you?”

  Leaning his weight on the back of one of the dining chairs, Frankie relaxed, folded his arms, and stared at the lady, sizing her up. She wore shoulder-length hair, more blonde than brown, and mostly, Frankie surmised, to hide the grey that many women her age tried to cover. But her hair was neat as if she had put time and effort into ensuring her appearance was immaculate. As was her makeup. Not enough for a night out or even enough to cover the heavy bags beneath her eyes of sleepless nights and endless worry, but it was enough to turn the head of any man.

  She wore a simple dress, expensive looking with a light floral pattern, beneath which the thin straps of a white bikini reached up and encircled her neck. In Frankie’s experience, the woman’s attire had probably cost her the same amount he’d paid for two weeks with a Peugeot.

  “I entered the house in this manner for two reasons, Mrs Fletcher. There are fifty reporters on the road outside, thirty of whom have cameras. I don't wish to be seen here. My investigation will rely on anonymity. Do you often leave your back door unlocked?”

  “It was locked. I locked it.” Her eyes retained their accusing glare. “Before I went to bed, as I always do.”

  Behind her, a man Frankie assumed to be Mr Fletcher crept into the room and leaned against the wall. His hands were buried inside the pockets of a pair of tan chinos. He wore a white, loose-fitting shirt that showed off his tanned arms. He was lean and of medium build with well-defined features, which, judging by his poor complexion and greasy, dishevelled, brown hair, was the result of a poor diet rather than a strict exercise routine.

  His stare told Frankie all he needed to know. Mr Fletcher had been outside to have a secret smoke but was not prepared to announce this to his wife. It was clear who wore the trousers in the relationship even from less than a minute in their presence.

  “Regardless, if I can get in so easily, then anybody could.”

  Moving the conversation on before it became awkward, Frankie stepped away from the table to the front of the house where he peered between the curtains at the driveway.

  “I’ll need to start from the beginning. I need an accurate time line, a sequence of events starting from the day you arrived in Greece to now. Where you went. Who you spoke to. What you said. I need it all.”

  “But how is that going to help? We’ve given all that to the police.”

  “Can you get me the transcripts of those discussions?”

  “I think it’s best if the local police were not made aware of your presence, Mr Black.” Mr Saint’s voice of reason solidified Fra
nkie’s argument.

  “Agreed. Which is why I need Mr and Mrs Fletcher to give me the information.”

  Mrs Fletcher huffed. She turned to Mr Saint and gave him an accusing look.

  “I thought you said he was the best.”

  The comment was enough to raise Frankie’s eyebrow.

  “He is. So my sources tell me.”

  Unwilling to witness an argument about his own competence, Frankie pushed the conversation forward.

  “The quicker we start, the quicker I can get out there and find her. But with nothing to go on except what’s printed in the papers, all I have is conjecture and the opinions of the reporters.”

  “And that’s not enough to go on?” It was Mr Fletcher who spoke for the first time. His voice was quiet and shallow as if he repressed it, or as if it had been repressed.

  “I prefer to come to my own conclusions, Mr Fletcher. Perhaps we can start with yourself.”

  He turned to the man’s wife who appeared to be searching for some kind of argument. But Frankie was in control. The underlying tones of the house bore more than the mourning loss of a child. There was a weight in the air. Frankie would need to understand the cause of it if he was to get the truth from them.

  Addressing Mrs Fletcher, Frankie set the tone and commenced his investigation. “A water would be nice. Thank you.”

  A look of surprise spread across Mrs Fetcher’s face.

  But before she could respond, Frankie turned to Mr Fletcher. “Is there somewhere private we can go?”

  “I think it would be best if maybe we asked our lawyer to join us.”

  “And where is your lawyer?”

  “She’s heading back to London. But I can call her.”

  “So what do we do until then?”

  Nobody answered.

  “Look, you asked me to come out here to help you and all you’ve done so far is question my methods. If you want my help, you’ll need to play by my rules. Why? Because they work. If you want to find your daughter, let me do my job. I understand you’ve both been scrutinised by the police. I’m not here to do that. I’m here to find your daughter. But I’ll need your help. I’ll need honest answers to my questions and I’ll need you to accept that we are right now four days into the investigation and statistically the chances of finding Emma alive are slimmer than finding her dead. I need you to understand that.”

  The statement was designed to break Mrs Fletcher’s defensive wall.

  And it worked.

  Her arms fell to her sides where they hung limply. Her angered frown softened and her tight lips relaxed into an open-mouthed gaze as if somebody had just sucked the wind from her sail.

  “The study should be fine. It’s this way.”

  “Perfect.”

  Frankie moved over to Mr Saint, retrieved a card from his inside pocket, and slid it into his hand. He lowered his voice and met the man’s intelligent eyes.

  “Fifty per cent up front. The rest when I find Emma. Transfer the money to this account. I imagine the money will be in there by the time I finish talking to the father.”

  Mr Saint hesitated. He seemed to study Frankie’s eyes looking for a flaw or a weakness. But he found none.

  “You drive a hard bargain, Mr Black.”

  “We’re talking about potentially saving a girl’s life here.”

  Raising his voice to instigate some kind of energy into the dark room, Frankie’s words coaxed Mrs Fletcher back from the blank stare she had adopted. The statement caught the attention of the room, ready for Frankie to get them all involved.

  “From now on, this is our HQ.” Frankie placed his bag on the table and retrieved a roll of masking tape, which he then threw to Mr Saint. “Fix all the photos you have to this wall. Label them so I know who they are. I want these maps fixed to this wall here.” He retrieved two pads of yellow sticky notes. “Label the places of significance. Where the family has been. Who they saw. I want to build a time line. And I want all this done by the time I finish with Mr Fletcher. Any questions?”

  Mr Saint shook his head, unaccustomed to being given directives by anybody. Frankie was sure the sentiment would be expressed at a later date, but he’d broken the defensive wall and won a little confidence. What he needed them to do next was to be involved and to get into his way of thinking. He turned to Mr Saint and raised an eyebrow in question.

  “No.”

  “Good.” Frankie tossed him the keys to the rental car. “Last thing. There’s a black Peugeot five hundred yards up the road. I’d appreciate if you could have it brought into the property.”

  Without waiting for a response, Frankie led Mr Fletcher to the study, which was at the far end of a small corridor. Waiting by the door, Mr Fletcher watched as Frankie peered into each room.

  “I presume this is Emma’s room?”

  Mr Fletcher nodded.

  “Has anything been touched?”

  “Only by the police when they carried out their searches.”

  “Anything removed?”

  “No. Only fingerprints,” he added.

  “They won’t find anything there. Okay. Let’s do this.”

  The study was a small room but large enough for two people to sit in comfort with a long desk against one wall and a view out to the side garden. Two framed prints had been hung on the walls by the landlord featuring paintings presumably by an unknown local artist. They were good, not exceptional, but they complimented the style of the villa.

  From his bag, Frankie retrieved his notepad and pen. He turned to a clean page and placed them on the desk, crossed his legs, and folded his hands across his lap. Then he waited. Mr Fletcher took the second chair, adopted a similar position, and began to pick at a loose piece of skin on his thumb.

  Enough time passed for the man to begin to wonder when the questioning would start. He raised his eyes to meet Frankie’s stare.

  “I thought you were going to ask me some questions?”

  “I will. In good time.”

  The nervous shuffling began. It was the trigger Frankie had been waiting for. Mr Fletcher uncrossed his legs, seeking a posture that might give off a stronger impression. But it was too late. Frankie had already begun to develop an image of the real Mr Fletcher.

  “Do you have children, Mr Black?”

  “Call me Frankie.”

  “Okay. Do you have children, Frankie?”

  “One. A boy. Ten. Jake. He’s a better kid than I am a parent. Anything else you want to know about me? Or shall we talk about you?”

  Mr Fletcher absorbed the information then shook his head.

  “It’s Alan, isn't it?”

  Mr Fletcher nodded.

  “It must be hard, Alan. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But I can tell you this. If you really want me to find Emma, you’ll tell me the truth. I won’t judge anybody for any of their mistakes. God knows, I’ve made enough of my own. I’m here to do a job and when this is over, you’ll never see me again. If she’s out there and you tell me the truth, I’ll find her.”

  The nervous shifting in his seat stopped. Adopting a more natural posture, Alan looked away from Frankie and stared at one of the prints on the wall.

  “Ten days ago,” he began. “We arrived Ten days ago. We landed at Athens, rented a car, and drove down to the house. We stopped at a small mini-supermarket we found on the edge of town just to get some supplies, you know. Bacon, eggs, bread, and milk.”

  Frankie nodded. “What time was that?”

  “Midday. Roughly, anyway. We had enough time to go for a walk along the beach then get some dinner from a local restaurant.”

  “Which restaurant?”

  “I can't remember the name. It was beside the Blue Palace Hotel. A seafood restaurant. We had a nice time. The food was good. The staff were friendly and we chatted like old friends, you know. Holidays do that, don't they? They somehow put a temporary patch over life.”

  “That depends on what needs patching, I guess.”

  �
��We stayed up and had a few drinks in the garden that night. The sunset was stunning. Emma was excited so we let her stay up too. We spoke about what we would do with our time here.”

  “And what conclusions did you come to?”

  “We had a few ideas. Nothing concrete. Sharon has a friend who lives a few miles away, so she wanted to spend some time with her. Plus the girls both wanted to go into Athens to see the Acropolis, you know. The tourist stuff. Some beach time was factored in and I had planned on taking them both on a boat trip around the islands.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “I always treat them.”

  “And when you woke up the next morning?”

  Making notes on his pad, Frankie forced the man on with his account. A break in flow would give him time to omit detail. Keeping the flow would encourage the truth.

  “Emma was in the garden. She was smiling from beneath this huge, wide-brimmed hat that she loved. She had her feet up on the chair opposite looking like a film star. I remember it like it happened a few seconds ago. So clear. Sharon was cooking breakfast and, for the first time in I don't know how long, we felt like a family.”

  Nodding, Frankie made a note of the family tension but said nothing, allowing Alan to continue. He was beginning to find his voice.

  “I had some work to do. So after breakfast, Sharon took Emma to the beach for some girlie time.”

  “And you stayed at home? Working?”

  “I had to pop out for a bit. But mostly I was here.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Just out. I got the newspapers. I did a little digging into some excursions for the girls. Then I came back before they had returned.”

  “Where?”

  “There are a few places in the bay. I just walked in and inquired.”

  “Did you leave your name and number?”

  “Of course. I had to sign a form to tell them what I was looking for.”

  “And did they get back to you?”

  The question seemed to stop Alan in his tracks. He appeared to be thinking, trying to remember something.

  “Did they reply to you with the information, Alan? I’m trying to understand if they were a legitimate firm wanting your business or if they wanted to know if some tourist was staying nearby. It’s not as uncommon as it sounds.”