by J. D. Weston
“What about you? Have you found anything?”
She smiled as if she’d been waiting to deflect him. “I’m an investigative journalist, Frankie. I’ve found lots.”
“Anything tangible?”
“Stories, rumours, lies, and gossip.”
“So which one do you prefer?”
“The stories.”
“Any one in particular?”
“I have a hunch.”
Letting the quiet rush of the small waves fill the empty space, Frankie waited for her to continue.
As she always did.
“Promise you won’t crowd my story?”
“I served our Queen and country, Penelope. My word is my honour.”
“You were dishonourably discharged, Frankie. That carries little credibility, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
Stopping in the sand, Penelope glanced back at the crowds. Frankie followed her gaze. The police had widened the area around the girl and were ushering the public off the beach, along with Sharon Fletcher who appeared to have found a shoulder to cry on with the crazy lady.
“Five years ago, a girl was reported missing,” said Penelope.
“Do you think it’s linked to Emma?”
“Maybe. The cases are similar.”
“And the media hasn't picked up on it?”
“I am the media.”
“I mean the local media.”
“It was brushed under the carpet, I expect. Can you imagine what it would do to tourism in this little town if that old story was dragged up again?”
“She was killed?”
“No. She was found locked in a cellar.”
“And the culprits?”
“Culprit. Singular. They chased him out of town. He hasn’t been seen since.”
“And the world keeps on turning.” Frankie considered the lead Penelope was following, weighing up in his mind the chances of such a man returning to such a small town. “Who are they?”
“Sorry?”
“You said they chased him out of town. Who are they?”
Turning to face the scene of the crime, Penelope leaned into Frankie, pushing her bosom into his side and bringing her mouth close to his ear.
“You see that man?”
On the footpath beside the restaurant, Constantine seemed to be having a heated argument with somebody out of sight behind his van.
“The angry man?”
“He runs this town. Not officially. But not a lot gets past him.”
“What does he do?”
“He has his fingers in a lot of pies. It’s all a bit hush-hush. But suffice to say that the town is kept peaceful mainly due to him.”
“What? Is he some kind of Robin Hood?”
“If Greek mythology had such a myth.”
She turned to face him, taking advantage of the gap she had closed and pulling herself closer, offering Frankie enough view of her chest in her loose blouse to pull his attention away from Constantine and his men.
“Your turn.”
But Frankie said nothing. He was aware that history had demonstrated Penelope’s lust for a story over the well-being of others and herself.
“You’re looking further afield. I can read you like a book, Frankie Black.”
“Is that right?”
Searching Frankie’s eyes, Penelope seamed to peer inside his mind, as if all the clues were there and only she had the ability to translate them.
“You think Constantine is involved, but now you’re not so sure. You don't trust the Fletchers. You’re following up on the Simmons woman, the mother’s friend.”
“I just want to know who she is.”
“She’s a business woman, Frankie. A lonely, old business woman with more money than friends.”
“I’ll find out for myself.”
“Who’s the third lead?”
“There’s a third?”
“Frankie Black doesn’t limit himself to two dead ends.” She placed her hand on his chest as if she might feel the answer inside. Unable to hold his concentration with Penelope’s chest staring at him from beneath her thin blouse, Frankie turned away.
“Him.”
“Who?”
But Frankie’s concentration was altogether removed from Penelope’s charms. At the top of the beach, standing beside the marina fence, distancing himself from the activity, was Christos.
Sure that he hadn't been seen and that the boy was engrossed in the drama further along the beach, Frankie gave chase. Leaving Penelope behind, he ran to the left, cutting off Christos’ escape into the marina.
The look of alarm on the boy’s face conveyed enough guilt to convince Frankie he was onto something. He pumped harder as his heavy boots sank in the soft sand, and the boy thought twice about making the fence before Frankie. Stopping in his tracks, Christos turned with the agility of an athlete and ran back towards the road. His light weight skimmed the surface of the sand, but Frankie’s longer strides made up for any disadvantage.
On the road, the boy turned left, glancing over his shoulder for oncoming traffic, signalling to Frankie that he was once again heading for the alleyway and to the safety of Constantine’s men.
Doubling his efforts, Frankie crossed the road behind him, his heavy boots now an advantage over the boy’s bare feet on the hot tarmac.
Only five feet ahead, the boy slipped into the alleyway before Frankie followed, not slowing.
But Frankie was stopped in his tracks as he turned the corner by a large fist in his face.
Chapter Thirty-Two
A cool breeze stung the wounds on Emma’s body in a pleasant, cooling way that was bordering pain. The sweat on her brow when she opened her eyes had dried along with the blood to form a crust that seemed to have tightened her face like one of the face masks her mother used to apply during their girlie nights in while her dad was out. The soft cushion beneath her broken body felt as if angels were carrying her to someplace cool and light. Maybe where her parents would be. Maybe where she could return to the girl she’d left behind.
It was only when the braking car rolled her forward onto her arm that reality hit. Any dreams of finding heaven, her parents, or the old Emma were torn from her mind.
In the driver’s seat, a man with greying hair and a natural tan stared straight ahead. She considered saying something, asking for water, or asking who he was. But the peace and comfort of the car was far too much to abandon in return for the possibility of his anger.
She would enjoy it a while longer.
Sleep called to Emma, pulling her back with dark fingers of shadow that enveloped her mind. But fear’s grip had a stronger hold. It clutched at her heart and stomach, forcing her to stay awake in the no-man’s-land of semi-consciousness. Here, her imagination could run wild and tease at every fear, wielding the threat of the unknown over her as a cruel child might wield a stick against a cornered stray dog.
Emma remembered a game she played as a child when her family would holiday in the British countryside. Blankets would be laid out in the back of the car for Emma to lie on among the bags of clothes and food. There, she would guess how far along the journey they were by the twists and turns in the road.
But with no idea how long she had been unconscious, Emma had no idea how far they had travelled before she had woken up. But she dared not move. She dared not alert the driver to her conscious state.
But what would he do?
The car was well kept. It was as clean as her father’s and the cologne the driver wore was similar too. It reminded Emma of the wood shop at her old school. But the scent was deeper and richer.
Surely a man who looked after himself and his car would be a respectable man?
But the new Emma was cautious, wizened to the ways of the world and the men that preyed on girls like Emma. Men like Darius. She considered the driver. From her limited view of just the back and one side of his head, she saw his hair had been shaved short, almost military style. But th
e man was overweight. A roll of flesh at the back of his neck was visible above the collar of his shirt. He reminded Emma of her friend’s uncle. He was a happy man in his fifties who drove a nice car and visited on birthdays and at Christmas. The driver appeared friendly, someone that a young niece or nephew might run to greet when they arrived.
He also appeared familiar.
But where do I know him from?
The days in Greece had gone by so fast before the night in the villa when everything had changed. However long it had been since, Emma struggled to recall a single event without another memory diluting the first. The time on the beach with her mother was one of her favourite memories. But Christos’ face was no longer clear. It was just a blank outline. Then after the beach was the memory of a restaurant with her father, who hadn’t been with them on the sand.
It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.
Trying a different approach, Emma thought of the mornings, segregating each morning in her mind. But the mornings had all been so relaxed. She recalled the morning in the garden listening to the waves and the sea birds. She recalled the morning on the beach again, hoping to find some clarity in Christos’ face. But she found none. Another morning had been spent having breakfast in a local restaurant her father had found. But no man had been in any of her memories. Save for her father.
It had been only in the evenings when Emma’s family had invited guests to dinner at the villa or met people outside. She recalled one night when she and her mum had planned to meet her mum’s old school friend, Angela. They had taken a taxi to Athens city and gone to a nice bar. The memory soured as Emma remembered that her mother wouldn't allow her to have even one glass of wine.
But there had been a man there. In her mind, she and her mum were sitting at a table outside the restaurant. The Acropolis was behind them, where rows of whitewashed houses with terracotta roofs had been built into the side of the steep slope.
But it was as if the knock to Emma’s head had closed off a part of her brain. Each of the faces that, during her stay in the room, had been so clear and vivid in the memories that had kept her company had faded now to dark, featureless masks. The faces laughed and smiled at soundless jokes, but they wore no expression and revealed no clues of identity.
But there had been a man. He had apologised and said that Angela couldn’t make it. She’d had to work. Emma had admired the man from the far end of the table. A flicker of light teased at a memory that lay in the shadows of her mind. She saw a suit. An expensive looking suit. Broad shoulders. Strong hands tanned from a life in the sun.
Being careful not to alert the driver, Emma opened one eye and studied him, searching for a resemblance to the featureless man in her memory. She allowed her mind to carry her away to a time when her mother was alive and the man was of no significance.
“Emma, dear, don't slouch.” In the taxi to Athens, Emma’s mother had made a point of ensuring her daughter was on her best behaviour. “People judge you, Emma. They might not think they do, but they do. You mark my words. And the first time somebody meets you, that’s when it happens. That’s when their perception of you is cast. Angela is my old friend. She has money. She can help us in the future.”
“Help us? Why? Do we need her help?”
“We don’t. Not right now. But you never know. Friends like her are hard to come by and chances to make a good impression are even more seldom. Plus she knows some very well-connected men in Athens. We might even find you a suitor.”
“Are you really farming me off? Is that what this is about?”
“Of course not. I’d never farm you off, sweetheart. But I’m just saying that she knows people, men that might be a little more capable of providing you with the life you’re after.”
“You mean men with money?”
“I mean men with potential, darling. Prospects. Imagination. Drive. That’s what you want.”
“I haven't considered what type of man I want. I don't see that it matters, Mum. As long as he loves me and he’s honest. But let’s face it. I’m hardly likely to meet someone until you actually let me out the house, am I?”
“Don’t be like that, darling.” Her mother always had a way of using her loveliness to stop Emma from voicing opinions.
“Why can’t you just let me be like the other girls? I just want to be normal, Mum.”
The supporting gesture her mother had always used to back up her loveliness was to place her hand on Emma’s knee and lean in as if only the two of them knew a secret.
“Because you're not normal, Emma. You’re perfect. Since the day you were born, I knew it.”
“Oh, stop it, Mum.”
“I’m serious. You were home-schooled because we couldn’t find a school good enough for you. Well, within your father’s budget, that is. We allowed you to socialise with a select few friends only because a young lady should know how to act.”
“I’m not a young lady, Mum. I’m a teenage girl who wants to make friends my own age.”
“And drink and smoke and ruin yourself and all the hard work I’ve invested in you.”
“No, that’s not-”
“I won’t have it, Emma. I won’t see you go down the same road as the other girls. One day, you’ll thank me for it.”
“But, Mum-”
“Emma, darling, please.” There was the hand again, and the eyes. “Do you trust me?”
“More than anyone. You know that.”
“So trust me. Trust that I’ll only ever see you have the best. Trust me when I say you’re perfect. Because you are. You might not see it, but I do. So very perfect.”
Feeling a tear build in her eye, Emma turned to stop her mum from seeing it.
“What?” her mum continued. “You don't believe me, darling? Emma? Look at me, sweetheart.”
“It’s not that I don't believe you, Mum. It’s not that I’m ungrateful for what you do for me and how you think of me. I feel special and I have you to thank for it. Times like this, when it’s just you and me, these are nice times. I feel like a grown-up. And that’s just it, Mum. I am a grown-up. I’m an adult and I don't know how to even talk to boys. You talk about me meeting some rich guy who will take care of me. But I wouldn't even know what to say. I haven't had any practice. I’ve never even…”
“What, Emma? You haven't what?”
“It doesn't matter.”
“Tell me, darling.” The hand returned. “What is it?”
“I haven't even kissed a boy. How am I supposed to make a man happy when I haven't even kissed a boy?”
Like many of the memories Emma had with her mother, the kindness and loveliness soured as soon as Emma voiced her opinion or desires. The sourness had continued into the night with the man. While her mother had chatted, the man had smiled and feigned interest, winking at Emma as if to say, It’s okay. Let her chat away.
Leaning her face on her hand in such a way to annoy her mother, Emma had admired the man for his patience, his manners, and the care he had taken with his appearance. A wry grin broke the layer of dried blood and sweat on Emma’s face as she remembered thinking that he might be able to teach her a thing or two that the other boys couldn’t.
The man had been wearing smart jeans, stylish for his years, but had carried his age well. Her mind had wandered to his strong hands and formed an image of what he might look like with his shirt off. How it might feel to be wrapped in his big, strong arms. Letting her eyes wander over his body, Emma considered the size of his legs, the thickness of his thighs, and surmised him to be a sporty man, at least in his younger days.
Her wandering eyes stopped at the man’s shoes. Emma had recalled her one true friend saying something about the size of a man’s feet and hands, and then giggling as Emma hadn't understood what she’d meant.
But the man did have big feet, neatly packaged in soft, immaculate, brown shoes.
Brown shoes. The same brown shoes?
From her position on the back seat, feigning unconscious
ness, Emma was unable to see into the foot well to see his feet. If it was him, then he would help her. He had been a nice man. He’d winked at her, forming an unofficial bond while her mother had bored her with anecdotes of college years with Angela and the eighties music that Emma hated so much.
At the very moment Emma decided she would wake and ask where she was, glancing at the man’s shoes, the car stopped.
She lay as still as she could, trying to place the two memories side by side: the man’s shoes beneath the table and the shoes she had seen on the road not long ago.
The driver’s door opened and an alarm on the dashboard began to emit a soft beeping noise.
Then the door behind her head opened, letting in a shower of sunlight that blinded Emma. So she turned away, rolling onto her side and peering at the ground below.
Where she found two shoes.
Two red, high-heeled shoes, expensive and stylish.
She raised her head in confusion and found a familiar face smiling down at her with a level of compassion akin to her own mother’s.
“Hello, Emma.”
But before Emma could respond, she felt a sharp prick in her neck, and thoughts of the man and the lady faded to a deathly black.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Running at full speed, the blow to Frankie’s face took him off his feet. He landed on his back on the gravel where he rolled to his side clutching his nose and pushed himself up to his knees, holding up his guard to avoid another blow.
But both the attacker and the boy were gone.
Using the wall for support and angered to the fullest, Frankie stood and stepped into the road, searching up and down for any sign of the attacker and Christos.
But the only people he saw were in the mass of police, tourists, and locals on the beach in the distance.
Still riled, Frankie re-entered the alleyway. Ignoring the wall of graffiti on his left with the strange re-occurring omega symbol, he walked to the end of the alley where Constantine's men had stopped him previously and turned the corner to where the van had been parked.
Before him was a single story building. It was large enough for Frankie to gauge it as an old boat workshop.
