by J. D. Weston
But gravel was gravel. Amongst all the millions of tiny devilish stones, there was no clue.
Remembering the breeze she had felt on the left side of her face, she raised her head. She licked a finger and held it up to feel for the breeze, then turned until the familiar tickle of the wind caught her skin and the darkness ahead appeared somehow familiar.
The feeling brought on another smile. Another small win. Her heart rate slowed and once more she lifted her chin and took another tentative step forward, searching the stones for a place to rest her weight.
Another thirty steps passed when she considered looking back to admire the distance she had covered. Then her foot found a new surface. It wasn't tarmac, but it was harder than before with less stones. She stepped onto it with both feet, relishing in the possibility that her progress might speed up.
“It must be for the cars.”
Even as her insides came alive with hope to carry her further, a glint of light in the distance caught her eye like some far-off star, bright, but below her.
She stepped forward to study the light. Although it was tiny, although it was distant, she could see it was moving. It began to take shape.
“It’s a car.”
The further she ran, the clearer the light became until it split into two and confirmed her thoughts. It was lower than her, revealing that she was at the top of a large hill and the car was winding up a mountain road; it would disappear, as it drove out of sight, only to return moments later and relight Emma’s hope.
An eternity passed, or so it had seemed, when the twin headlights of a car rounded a bend close enough for Emma to see the ground in front of it as the headlights carved a path through the darkness.
She nearly ran toward it. But that would have been something the old Emma would have done.
The girl she had left behind.
Instead, she wiped the stones from her feet and slipped on her heels, ready to present herself as the new, confident woman she had become. Sucking in her stomach, straightening her legs and back, and lifting her chin, she waited for the car to turn and head towards her.
She envisaged the car slowing to a stop. The window would roll down and Emma would say nothing. She would simply climb inside and tell the driver where she wanted to go.
But where did she want to go?
She didn't even know where she was.
The car emerged from the bend only a thousand yards ahead of her.
A sudden thought crossed her mind.
She turned back to try and find the building in the darkness. She saw nothing. But in her mind, she pictured an old warehouse or a factory standing alone in the bright Mediterranean sunshine.
“This is the end of the road.”
Five hundred yards.
“Maybe it’s the lady?”
The fog of doubt rolled in.
Realising that the driver of the car was likely somebody allied to Darius, she looked left then right to the sides of the road. But the headlights blinded whatever vision her eyes had become accustomed to in the dark.
Three hundred yards.
“Stay. You can do this. The lady would be proud of you.”
But inside, whatever tatters of the girl she had left behind screamed at her to run. She would be punished.
Two hundred yards.
Any power she had summoned faded leaving only her trembling knees and a fear that gripped her chest like a vice. She leaped to the side of the road onto the gravel, where her heel buckled and she fell to her knees.
One hundred yards.
Frantic with fear of being found and being dragged back to the building to face Darius and pay for her misadventure, she tore off her heels and crawled across the stones searching for a tree, a bush, anything to hide from the oncoming headlights.
The engine grew louder, speeding up as if the driver had seen her. She cowered away, hiding her eyes as the car approached. But the fear was too much. She would surely be seen.
But with the roaring engine, crunching of tyres, and bright headlights came the silver lining of a fortuitous cloud. Ahead of her, two trees revealed themselves alone in the darkness.
She jumped to her feet as the car bore down on her, shutting the pain of the stones, her grazed knees, and elbow to one side. She ran. Reaching into the darkness, she jumped just as the car tore past, taking with it any light it had teased.
Emma landed with a jolt and fresh wounds opened up on her legs. Fighting the urge to scream and cry, she curled into a ball, thankful the car had passed but unable to withstand the stinging cuts.
Somewhere, just two hundred metres away, the engine was killed, returning her world to darkness. Opening her eyes and wiping the tears way with the back of her hand, Emma saw the car parked outside the building where she had left the door open.
Emma crept back behind the trees, sure that she would be hidden in the darkness, but keen to get away.
A car door opened and a man’s shape silhouetted against the interior light as he climbed from the car.
But as the man noticed the open door, he turned to search the surrounding area. Emma stepped back. Keeping her eye on the man, she ventured further into the shadows. With each backward step, hope began to return. This was her escape. She had done it. She’d been close to being captured like a stupid, little girl. But she had outsmarted them.
In the darkness, she smiled as the man ran inside. Once more, Emma stood tall, prolonging her escape to savour the moment.
Less than a minute passed when the man burst through the door. His body was partially lit by the interior light from the open car door. Then, with the anger of a small, spoiled child, he kicked at the gravel and cursed loud enough for Emma to hear.
Once more, the grin that crept onto Emma’s face was hard to repress. She took another step back, ready to run in case he saw her in the blanket of night.
But there was nothing there.
There were no sharp stones to puncture her skin. There was no solid ground to take her weight. She flailed, searching for a branch on one of the trees. But it snapped in her hands and her balance toppled with it. Blinded by the night and weightless in the fall, she pictured herself. It was a fraction of time so small it could barely be measured. A slice of a second, a flash of consciousness, where her body, rigid with fear, lay in the hands of fate once more.
She remembered the room in that short space of time. She remembered the lady and Darius, and how her power had made her feel. She remembered the lady’s touch and how her body had reacted, hardening.
She recalled the mirror and how she’d torn herself free of the little girl. How she’s stared back at herself from a new path, tall and confident, while the girl stared back, bewildered and weak.
And as the minuscule slices of time ticked by, there were two girls. One strong and powerful. The other weak and naive. But there was a knowing on the face of the latter. There was no resentment, no confusion, no hate. Just knowledge.
And as the air enveloped Emma’s body and silence commanded the night, she wondered which of the two girls had survived after all.
Her, or the girl she had left behind.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The hills and mountains that framed Varkiza, segregating it from the rest of Greece, blocked any hint of a sunrise. As Frankie leaned against his Peugeot, stretching his back and his legs, the world seemed to brighten around him and the calm Mediterranean Sea regained its mesmerising sparkle. Coastal birds dived for the small fish that sought the sunlight close to the surface and stray dogs scavenged any leftover scraps of gyros that drunken holiday makers had left behind, sniffing with distaste at empty beer bottles partially buried in the sand.
The low amplitude of the Mediterranean tide continued its cycle but failed to disguise the marks in the sand where the boat had delivered Constantine, his men, and the box. A series of footsteps in the sand indicated where the men had unloaded. With a keen eye, Frankie found the boot prints of three men of average size.
But
a few feet away, where the prow of the boat had indented a small channel in the sand, was one more set of prints. They were barefoot with the toes clearly outlined in the sand.
Picturing the scene, Frankie envisaged three men and a boy jumping down onto the beach. Two of the men had unloaded the large box, while the boy had remained beside the boat out of harm’s way.
Following the footsteps of the three men along the beach, Frankie noted how two of the tracks maintained an equal distance apart, governed by the length of the cool box they were carrying. The third remained to one side, but the right foot splayed out far further than the left.
The trail stopped at the footpath that ran parallel to the beach where Frankie assumed their van had been parked. He stood contemplating what could have been in the box and what Constantine was up to.
A sliding steel shutter broke the morning peace. A local cafe owner was beginning his day. He raised his hand in greeting to Frankie then continued to unlock the doors. Frankie returned to his car, wondering how long it would take the man to get some coffee brewing.
It was then that he noticed another set of foot prints. They began at the same place the first set finished but headed toward the boat. That, in itself, wasn't too much of a surprise for Frankie. The men had to come from somewhere. The tracks from the van to the boat also showed three men. But what interested Frankie was that the two men had clearly carried a box on both journeys.
He followed the tracks down to the mark of the boat in the sand. This time, Frankie was able to see that the three men hadn't jumped down from the boat. They had walked up to it. He hadn't seen the other set of prints the first time because they approached from a slightly different direction and had been dulled by the tide.
The scene played out once more in his head but with the new variations. Frankie narrated the action aloud to distract his mind from the early morning fuzz.
“The boat pulled in here. One man jumped down, barefoot, to secure his boat. Three men were waiting, but they were further along the beach. They had to walk to the boat through the surf carrying the first box. But there must be have been another man on the boat to receive the box and pass them the other. Five men in total.”
But he was distracted from the scene by the shrill tone of his phone from inside his car at the top of the beach. Fearing the call might be from Tom or Mary, or even Jake calling to hear his father’s voice, Frankie ran to the car. He reached in, unplugged the phone, took a breath, and hit the green button.
“Frankie Black.”
“Good morning, Frankie. It’s Sophia. You’re alive, which hopefully means you didn’t get into any trouble last night.”
“I told you. I don’t need a babysitter.” Leaning into the car, Frankie pulled his bag across the rear seat and rifled through it searching for a clean t-shirt. “And good morning, by the way.”
“You sound out of breath. Were you running?”
“No.”
Several lies to excuse his eagerness to answer the call passed by his tongue but none were voiced.
“Did you find a hotel? We expected you to sleep here at the Fletcher house.”
Switching the phone to loud speaker, Frankie rested it on the car roof and pulled off his shirt.
“I found somewhere nice. It has a great sea view.”
He sprayed some deodorant then pulled on the clean shirt.
“Come to the house. Have breakfast with us. You can’t start the day without a good meal inside you.”
Wedging the phone between his shoulder and his chin, Frankie wiped the sand from his feet and began pulling on a fresh pair of socks and his boots.
“I think I’ll just grab a coffee here, Sophia.”
“We insist. I insist. I think that maybe we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. Perhaps we can start again. I’ll make some coffee now. Let me guess. You’re a man who resists sugar but enjoys cream?”
Remembering the previous night in Athens, Angela’s sparse apartment, the meeting with Adrian and, of course, the diary, Frankie considered his options. The restaurant owner was dragging his feet, popping open large umbrellas to provide shade to the few tables in front of his cafe. Frankie doubted he even had the coffee on.
“I’ll be five minutes. Strong and black.”
Rolling his dirty t-shirt and socks into a ball, Frankie placed them in the side pocket of his holdall, zipped it up, and then climbed into the car with a sudden thirst that had developed at the mention of coffee. He glanced along the beach front to the small cafe and saw the owner dragging his A-board sign to the footpath.
“Another time, my friend,” muttered Frankie, as he started the car and selected reverse.
But as he checked his rear-view mirror, a white vehicle passed by, filling his view. He turned in his seat to find Constantine’s van ambling past, slow and unhurried. Sure that he hadn't been seen, Frankie watched as the van made its way to the end of the beach parking area where it pulled into the furthest space. The driver’s door popped open and a man dropped to the ground, his feet visible beneath the van. The man took slow steps as if he was early for a meeting or hadn't yet woken up.
Expecting to find one of Constantine’s men appear, Frankie was surprised to see Constantine himself emerge from behind the van. He pulled on a light jacket then unlocked the back doors. But before he pulled them open, he stopped, as though he felt Frankie’s stare from four hundred yards away. He looked up and met Frankie’s eyes, head on and unafraid. His guilty smile was visible even from a distance. But it was his patronising wave that riled Frankie. It was a wave that dared Frankie to make his move.
The man with the melted arm stood unmoving until Frankie reversed out of his spot. Then he offered a final wave as the little Peugeot carried him off to breakfast with Sophia and the Fletchers.
The drive was so short, he could have walked. As he thought about Constantine, he cursed for allowing himself to be seen and for letting the man know what car he was driving.
The media were no longer camping outside the Fletchers’ house. Frankie’s ploy to get rid of them had worked. At least for most of them. One van remained parked at the end of the road with its tell-tale dish and large antenna on the roof. In the front seat, Frankie noted a man with short, dark, curly hair sitting with his feet up on the seats. The windscreen was fogged in one spot from what Frankie assumed to be a coffee cup sitting on the dashboard.
The electric gates to the villa opened as Frankie approached. The curtain in the lounge window fell into place as he entered. As he turned off the engine, the gates closed behind him. On the drive was the Range Rover, the Fletchers’ little SUV with the dented wing, and Sophia’s Mercedes.
The door opened before he had a chance to knock to reveal a tired looking Alan Fletcher wearing a robe and slippers. Judging by the state of the man’s hair, it was clear to Frankie that he hadn't had time to look in a mirror yet, despite there being one on the wall beside the front door.
Offering no welcome gesture, Alan disappeared into the house, leaving Frankie to close the door behind him. In the lounge, he found Alan resuming his seat on the couch with a newspaper open on the sports page. The dining table was still littered with information and the closed curtains allowed almost no natural light to enter the room. The only welcoming feature of the house was the smell of fresh coffee.
“Strong and black?” Sophia leaned against the kitchen counter holding a mug with both hands. She offered him a weak smile and gestured at another cup on the granite kitchen top. “Can we offer you something to eat? Some eggs maybe?”
“I’ll find something when I’m hungry. Where’s Mrs Fletcher?”
The question was aimed at Alan, who looked over his paper for long enough to roll his eyes. But it was Sophia who answered.
“She had a rough night. She is back in her room getting ready to go and see her friend.”
“I asked her to stay here.”
“It has now been five days, Mr Black. Sharon is finding the nights increasingly difficult a
nd the days longer and longer. Did you find anything yesterday?”
Checking that Alan was still buried in his paper, Frankie moved across to collect his coffee, choosing his response with care.
“I’m just getting the lay of the land. I have two leads I want to check out. You’d be quite useful today if you’re free to join me.”
“Of course she’s free to join you, Mr Black.”
The new voice was unmistakable. Mr Saint emerged from the staircase pulling on a dark blue suit jacket. The smart but casual open-necked shirt Frankie had seen him wearing the day before had been replaced with a light blue one buttoned to the collar, and a black tie was draped around his shoulders.
“She goes where you go. I heard about your little meeting with Constantine. This must not happen again.”
Without him asking for assistance, Sophia pulled up her father’s collar, tied his tie in an almost perfect double Windsor knot, and then folded his collar down. A few last adjustments to the way the tie hung against his body was all that was needed, and she stood back to admire her handiwork.
“Do you have business today, Mr Saint?” Sipping at the mug, Frankie made a point to ignore the man’s authority with indifference. Instead, he nodded at Sophia. “Good coffee.”
Barely acknowledging the compliment, Sophia turned her attention to her father, waiting for him to speak.
“I have a meeting in Athens. As much as I would love to join in the hunt, alas, I must continue my business. But when I return tomorrow, I hope that you will have some answers. The clock is ticking, Mr Black. You have one more day to find her.”
The tone conveyed a little disappointment, as if he had expected Frankie to find Emma in the twenty hours he had been on the case.
“I have questions. Perhaps you can offer me some answers.”
“Such as?” Pulling the cuff of his tailor-made shirt over his expensive watch, Mr Saint implied that his time was short and his patience shorter.
“Who is Constantine and what does he do?”
Searching for Mr Saint’s reaction, Frankie was surprised to find the question roll off the big man’s back as if he had asked him what he would like for dinner.
