by J. D. Weston
Opening his case, Frankie found fresh boxer shorts and pants then headed back into the steamy bathroom to dress. He left the door open to clear the air but moved far enough into the room to ensure Sophia was out of sight. She called through to him, raising her voice as if to confirm that she could no longer see Frankie.
“I thought we’d run through what we have so far. Maybe we can brainstorm our thoughts and make a plan of action? What do you think?”
“It’s a good idea. My head is like a fog right now. I could do with talking it out.”
“Do you want a drink?”
Two glasses chinked together in the room and a miniature bottle was opened. Frankie pulled on his pants and hung the towel on a hook, catching Sophia eying him in the mirror as she poured the drinks. She averted her eyes but with little shame or embarrassment. Then she returned to her armchair, leaving a glass of scotch on the hotel desk.
“My father will be wanting answers tomorrow. Whichever path you take now, Frankie, make sure it is the correct one. Time is short.”
Ignoring her comment, Frankie checked his phone for any messages from Tom or Mary. He found none.
“Tell me where you’re at then.” Sophia snapped her laptop closed and tossed it onto the bed, curled one leg beneath her, and made a show of getting comfy, ready to discuss the progress. By the time Frankie stepped into the room, wearing just his cargo pants, she was sitting with her hands folded on her lap, free of distractions.
“Christos.”
“The boy? No. He might steal the odd wallet from a tourist, but he’s not involved in this.”
“I didn't say he was involved. But he knows something. Why else would he run? Maybe he saw something.”
“Emma was taken in the middle of the night. What would he have seen? The police questioned everybody, him included. Besides, Christos might be a local kid but he’s streetwise. It is unlikely he would talk to a strange man like you on the beach.”
“And his father?”
“You think his father is involved now?”
“No. But his father is involved with Constantine.”
“Not this again, Frankie. I told you. Constantine is off-limits. I know him and his men. If they were involved, then I would know. Besides, what would Constantine want with a girl like Emma? He has too much to lose.”
Sinking the scotch in one hit, Frankie’s face soured until the warmth of the liquid found his stomach. He placed the glass down, shoving it away with the tips of his fingers, and leaned on the desk.
“There’s two possibilities, Sophia. One, she was killed. Now from what I’ve seen so far, she’s the perfect girl. Why would anybody want to kill the perfect girl?”
“Jealousy?”
“She wasn’t allowed boyfriends. She was barely allowed out of her parents’ sight.”
“What’s the other possibility?”
“Kidnapped.”
“For what purpose? The family have no money. That’s why my father is helping them.”
“The family may have no money, but a girl like Emma would be worth quite a bit to someone looking for the perfect girl to hang off their arm.”
“Human trafficking, you mean? In Varkiza?”
“It’s a sad fact. But this is Europe. It happens every day.”
“But what about the girl on the beach? Surely whoever killed her is the same person responsible for taking Emma?”
“Why?”
“Because they looked the same. They were the same age and build.”
“But the girl on the beach drowned and her body was washed up on the beach.”
Sophia considered his words. “Maybe Emma’s body floated away further down the coast?”
“The girl on the beach was an unknown. She couldn’t have floated in from almost anywhere. This is the Mediterranean not the Atlantic Ocean. The tides aren’t big enough to carry a body for miles in a single day. Which means that Emma wasn’t dumped. Which means that there’s a chance she’s still alive.”
“Why a single day?” Sophia sipped at her drink and pulled her legs beneath her chin, revealing enough of her leg for Frankie to move to the other side of the room, avoiding the view and maintaining his train of thought.
“Because the girl on the beach hadn't decomposed. Her body was bloated a little, but that would be expected. She’d been dead less than twenty-four hours and nobody had reported her missing, which means two things. She was killed locally and dumped in the sea somewhere close. But she wasn’t a Varkiza local. Maybe she was transported here by a car or a van?”
“Constantine is not into human trafficking, Frankie. I can see where you’re going, and it’s a dead end. Who else do you have in your sights? Or is everybody in this town a suspect?”
“Angela Simmons.”
“Sharon's friend?”
“What do you know about her?”
“She’s wealthy.”
“Right,” said Frankie. “She has a good job so perhaps she doesn't need the money?”
“She was with Sharon the night Emma was taken and they were old school friends.”
“Exactly. So what does that tell you?”
“She has a solid alibi,” said Sophia.
“So why was Emma’s diary in her apartment?”
“You went to her apartment? Did you break in?”
“I’m looking for Emma, Sophia. I’m not proud of what I did. But the fact remains that Emma’s diary was hidden in Angela Simmons’ apartment.”
“But she is Sharon’s school friend. Why would she hurt Emma?”
But Frankie had no answer. He paced the room, deciding if he should tell Sophia about the door he’d kicked in and what he’d seen.
“Sharon said that she visited Angela on more than one occasion. Maybe Sharon took it and left it there by mistake?”
“Not possible, Sophia. The diary was in a drawer beside Angela’s bed and the last entry was the night Emma was taken. So the diary had to be removed after she was taken.”
Pulling on a clean t-shirt, Frankie watched as Sophia resumed her position with her feet on the table. He pulled on his boots and lifted his foot onto the minibar to lace them.
“Where are we going? Don't you want to hear what I have to say?”
“I’m going to have a look around. I need to find out exactly why Angela Simmons is here right now.”
“She’s here?”
Frankie nodded as he finished tying his laces.
“And you’re going to find out everything you can on both her and Adrian Lockwood,” said Frankie. “I’ll see you back here in a few hours and, if you’re lucky, I might even buy you dinner.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“You chose the blue dress. How lovely it looks on you.”
The lady let the door close behind her before sauntering into the room.
“Thank you. I love the material. It feels so nice against my skin.” Making an effort to remember her posture, Emma admired how the lady walked, the way her hips moved, and the confidence she exuded.
Stopping a few feet away from where Emma was standing, the lady pulled the little stool from beneath the desk.
“Sit down, Emma.”
It wasn't a question or a request. It was an order. The lady’s tone offered no room for manoeuvre.
Emma obliged, taking a seat before the mirror once more. The lady resumed her soft, alluring voice, standing behind Emma to pull her hair off her shoulders. She opened the small case to display once more the array of beauty tools: a hair dryer, straighteners, and her makeup box.
“You will meet a man soon, Emma. It is important that you look your best.”
“Is he the man that will take me away from all this?”
“That all depends on you. Certainly, you fit the criteria. But how you behave will determine if you are ready.”
“How I behave? How should I behave?”
“Not like this.” The lady spoke as she worked. After a few short blasts of the dryer plus some careful applications of th
e straighteners, Emma began to see life in her hair once more. “You will need to show confidence. You will need to show him that you are not a simple girl who is there to serve him, but you are a woman who can be everything he needs.”
“Everything he needs?” Turning in her seat to look the lady in the eye, Emma felt her face drop and her heartbeat pound in her chest. “What does he expect?”
Snapping Emma’s head back to face the mirror with two delicate but firm hands, the lady continued.
“What will you get from this man, Emma?”
“Freedom. A chance at life. Opportunity. That’s what you told me.”
“That’s good. And what are you willing to pay in return for someone to take you away? To clothe you in the finest clothes? To buy you jewellery beyond anything you could imagine? And to give you a new life someplace exotic? What would you pay?”
“Right now? I’d give anything just to get out of here and leave all this behind.”
“Anything?”
Letting the question hang in the air, Emma considered her response. It would carry a lot of weight.
“For the right man, if he offered me what I want, I would…”
“Yes?”
“I would give myself to him.”
“All men promise the world, Emma. Few deliver.”
The hair dryer and straighteners were packed away and the makeup box was opened. Setting it on the desk in front of Emma, the lady arranged what she would need in a neat pile. Then she set about applying a cream to Emma’s face with a cotton wool pad.
“I give enough to get what I want.”
“Good. And when you want more?”
“I give a little more.”
“Good. You understand. But what if you have given everything you have to give and are yet to receive all that you need?”
“I… I don't know.”
“Then you do not get what you want. It is simple, Emma.”
“But I have only so much to give, and if he will want more and more…”
“That is why you must make him feel like you are giving more than you are. If he wants conversation, then talk to him. Talk to him in a way that only you can do.”
“But what do I talk about?”
“You talk about the things you love. The things you want.”
Using an eyeliner pencil, the lady began to bring out the definition in Emma’s large eyes so her natural eye colour shone through in contrast.
“He’s going to want to see me undress, isn’t he?”
“Not today. But one day, yes.”
“And then I’ll have nothing left to give. He’ll throw me out, won’t he? What will he do?”
“Stop behaving like a child, Emma.” The lady stood up from her work. “If he wants to see you undress then you must show him just enough to satisfy him.”
“And when he wants more?”
“The same rules apply, Emma. He will want more. He will want all of you. But how much of you he gets, how much enthusiasm you apply, and how far you are willing to go will depend on what you get in return. It is a game, Emma. You have control but the trick is to make him think he is in control.”
“A game?”
“Yes. All men are the same. They like to think they have the power, but we both know how strong your power is. Darius knows it for sure.”
“Poor Darius.”
“Do not tell me poor Darius, Emma. Do not apologise for what you did. You took what you wanted, and you gave just enough to get it. It is a lesson that will serve you for all your life.”
A cold sweat began to form on Emma’s brow while a hot wave of nausea rose from the pit of her stomach.
“I feel sick.”
Pausing the application of blusher on Emma’s cheeks, the lady stepped away, collected a small, round bin, and placed it on Emma’s lap.
“Do not dirty your dress, Emma.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong. It’s just everything. I wasn’t ready. I’m still not.”
“Emma, Emma, Emma. Stop. It’s okay.” Lowering herself onto the edge of the bed, the lady tapped on Emma’s leg. “Come. Face me.”
Emma did as she was told and put the bin on the floor beside her.
Leaning forward with her elbows resting on her thighs, the lady waited for Emma to look up at her to offer a reassuring smile and a gentle squeeze of her knee, just as her mother used to do.
“Do you remember the little girl you left behind, Emma?”
“I do.” Emma nodded and turned her face to her lap. “But it seems like such a long time ago now. So much has happened.”
“You’re right. So much has happened. But you have to move forward. You have to be strong or you will be crushed.”
“I can’t stop thinking about them. My parents.”
“It’s natural, Emma.”
“But that’s not it. I begrudge my mother for how she treated me and how she treated my dad. But then five minutes later, I miss her. I miss her so much. I never had a chance to say goodbye.”
Feeling her emotions building up behind her eyes, Emma looked away, taking deep breaths to calm herself.
“Shh. It’s natural, Emma. Did you mourn your parents like I told you?”
“I cried. I thought of them. I still do.”
“That’s okay. They were your parents. You can never forget them. Hold them in your heart always, Emma. But you must also make them proud. Imagine them looking down at you from heaven and smiling at what you are capable of, of what you can do, and of who you are.”
“That’s what I do. I see my mother in the mirror.”
“You look just like her. You have her eyes.”
“You’ve met her?”
“The photo, Emma. She was very beautiful.”
Emma smiled.
“That’s what I see. Her eyes.”
“Do you remember the girl I told you about? The poor girl whose parents died?”
Nodding, Emma turned to face the lady once more, who held out a tissue and dabbed at Emma’s eyes. Smiling, happy that the makeup hadn't been ruined by the tears, the lady pulled Emma’s hands into her own.
“When her mother and father died, everything in the little girl’s life was torn from under her. She was just a child, Emma. Not like you.”
“I feel like a child.”
“But you are not. You have shown me you are a woman. But the little girl was younger, and the world was ready to eat her up.”
“You said a man helped her. A man of wealth.”
“Yes, he did, until his age climbed and his health declined. A traveller came and released the old man of his burden.”
“He took the girl away?”
“He offered her a new life far away from the tears of Athens. Far from the memories and the pain. They started a new life in a new city and, for a while, the girl was as happy as can be. The man bought her diamonds that glistened and dresses of the like she had never seen before. They ate in the finest restaurants and he introduced her to people like she was a princess. For the first time in her life, Emma, she was somebody. She walked with her head held high and her shoulders back. She was buoyed by the admiration of women and the lustful gazes of men. She relished in the attention, each day growing in confidence and getting more and more of the life she wanted.”
“She sounds so pretty.”
“She was. But it wasn’t the admiration or the attention that carried her through those times. It wasn’t the diamonds or the fine clothes. Do you know what it was, Emma?”
Understanding where the story was going, Emma nodded, empathising with the little girl who had grown into a woman in some faraway place in a faraway time.
“It was the memories of her parents.”
“That’s right, Emma. You see, she had succeeded in doing everything her parents had sought to do. Their deaths did not mark their failures. They succeeded. For the girl to have the life they wanted for her, they had to die. It is life. Before us all are many paths. And for her to get the l
ife she wanted-”
“She had to give something.”
Emma finished the sentence as understanding formed in her mind. To prove her readiness, she turned in her seat, indicating that her moment of doubt had passed and the makeup should continue.
But as the lady rose to complete her work, Emma halted her with a raised hand.
“I do have one more question.”
“Go on.”
“What happens if I don't like him? Or if he is a bad man?”
Smiling at the question, the lady pondered as if searching for the nicest way to phrase the bad news.
“This is your one chance at the life you want, Emma. This man is your traveller. If you refuse him or fail to please him, you will spend the rest of your life in misery and poverty, a failure to your parents, always wondering what might have been.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The top floor of the hotel was dedicated to a restaurant and bar with formal dining inside. The informal outside area overlooked the city of Athens with a commanding view of the iconic Acropolis that towered above the low-rise buildings below. Choosing a seat outside furthest from the other guests, Frankie ordered a gin and tonic then sat back and allowed the view to occupy his mind.
Finding the images of Emma’s diary on his phone, Frankie flicked through to where he’d left off the night before. Then, with the same guilty sense of unease at reading the young girl’s most personal thoughts, he cast a glance over his shoulder and continued to read.
Day 3 - Dad said he’d found a nice restaurant in Athens we should try. But Mum being Mum vetoed the idea. So we ate at the same place as yesterday. I didn’t mind to be honest. The walk is nice, and it meant I didn't have to be trapped in a car with them. They are making an effort. Well, Dad is anyway. Mum just humours his attempts. I think the effort was too much for Dad though. We had finished our meal and Mum had finished her wine when he started talking to a couple on the next table. They were local, I think, but from the wealthier part of town judging by their clothes, the woman’s jewellery, and the man’s watch. Dad said that they should join us, which I think was so that Mum behaved. She’s always nicer when other people are around. It’s like an image that she wears in public. The man was nice and kept Dad amused with some male company, and I think he even covered our bill, much to Dad’s annoyance (he likes to be able to take care of us). It was nice to have some conversation at the table. I think Dad would like to see him again. He made a comment about returning the gesture of buying dinner, which the man just waved off. He had this infectious confidence like nothing could touch him. I wonder if that’s what money does to a man? Dad doesn't have it, but he doesn’t have money. He just seems happy with what he’s got.
