Angel of Death

by Charlotte Lamb

  She didn’t really care where she went. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she promised.

  He rang off a moment later and she finished her salad, then ate some of the pear, which tasted tinny.

  ‘Why can’t they use fresh ones?’ she complained when the nurse came round to remove the trays.

  ‘Tinned ones are cheaper and quicker. I had them – I thought they were quite nice. Nobody else said anything,’

  I bet my mother did, thought Miranda. She would have said a great deal. Her mother had a pear tree in the garden, dropping snowy white petals in spring before the fruit began to develop. Dorothy bottled most of the pears and ate them through the rest of the year, just as she preserved raspberries, blackcurrants, apples, and other fruit. She led a very busy life in many ways.

  Last year she had won prizes for her preserves, for the tomato chutney she made and for strawberry jam, thick with whole fruit, meltingly delicious on bread and butter, or on thick brown toast. Her mother made her own bread too, which always tasted far better than shop bought. When they lived in London, Dorothy hadn’t made bread or bottled fruit; all that had entered her life only when she left the city, as though that part of her had been liberated by her new life.

  Once her mother had told her, ‘I used to dream about living in the country, lots of times, it was a fantasy, you know, like daydreaming about winning the lottery. It wasn’t really possible because I had to have a job and there was you, I wanted you to go to a good school and then maybe university, so I stayed on in London. We didn’t have room, either, for growing things. Once I was sure you were settled, I could afford to move out into the country. I would only have cramped your style by then, so I didn’t feel guilty. I knew you would need to be independent, free to live however you liked. I’ve been very lucky, I’ve achieved my dream, I’ve got the garden, and the life, I always wanted.’

  Mum was so lucky. Miranda wished she knew what she wanted, but she had no dreams, no ambitions. In fact, at the moment she had only fears, they darkened her horizon, were between her and the sun. She could think of nothing else, most of the time.

  That night she woke up in the shadowy ward to hear footsteps. Sleepily she raised her head and there he was – the Angel of Death – walking towards her. In a state of panic she climbed out of bed, running towards the ward sister’s office, where the two night nurses sat drinking tea not looking in her direction.

  One minute he was behind her, and the next he was between her and the nurses. She saw him too late to stop or evade him. She ran right into his arms which closed around her. Miranda looked up at him, eyes wide, barely able to breathe.

  He gave her a strange slow smile, then his head began to descend towards her.

  In terrified shock she realised he was going to kiss her.

  His mouth was beautifully moulded, she thought, staring at it. A full lower lip, parting from the firm-cut upper one, a warm pinkish colour, his white teeth just visible.

  She wanted him to kiss her. Yet she was appalled by the thought.

  Miranda closed her eyes, afraid to watch.

  At once she was back in bed, in the dark, with the dizzying abruptness of nightmare.

  Was that what this was?

  She leaned up on her elbow, out of breath, trembling – and there he was again, walking towards her down the ward.

  God, what was going on?

  She pulled back the bedclothes and climbed out, began to run and found him confronting her once more, his arms going round her, his head coming down.

  This time Miranda closed her eyes without looking at him at all, and in the same strange, dreamlike way was back in bed. She lay still, listening, her eyes tight shut. This time she wasn’t looking at him if she heard him.

  But the ward was still. Nobody moved. All she heard was the heavy breathing of the other patients, the sonorous tick-tick of the round-faced white clock on the wall, the distant sound of traffic somewhere in the streets round the hospital. She wouldn’t risk opening her eyes, though – she might see him again.

  In the morning, as she faced her boiled egg and toast, she wondered if she had ever been awake in the night. Had she dreamt the whole thing?

  Why had she dreamt of him kissing her? What did a kiss from death mean? But she would rather not know.

  Later that morning her mother came to see her before she went home. To Miranda’s surprise she was not alone. The beautiful, black-haired girl walked with her. They were leaning on each other, moving slowly and carefully.

  ‘Miranda, this is Pandora Leigh, we’ve both been discharged – I gather you met her husband yesterday?’

  The other girl smiled at her. ‘Hello.’

  Shyly, Miranda said, ‘Hello,’ thinking how ravishing she was, what wonderful skin and hair, what luminous eyes.

  ‘Her husband has offered me a lift in their car, to get my train,’ said Dorothy. ‘I’m off back home right away. I’ll ring you tomorrow, maybe you’ll have news for me? Is there anything I can do for you? Book a flight, or a hotel somewhere?’

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet. The police don’t want me to go too far, I’m to stay in Europe, not go to Australia. In case they need me quickly.’

  Pandora Leigh was sitting beside the bed, too. ‘Dorothy has explained your problem to me.’

  ‘You don’t mind, do you, Miranda?’ her mother interrupted placatingly. ‘We were chatting and it came out.’

  Miranda gave them both a polite smile. ‘No, of course not, but I’d rather you didn’t mention it to anyone else, either of you.’

  Pandora nodded. ‘Of course not. But . . . well, I wondered . . . we could offer you a job and somewhere to live, out of Britain, if you’re interested. I was going to be working as translator and courier, at our hotel, but the doctors want me to stay in bed as much as possible from now on, so we’ll have to get someone else to do my work. Does the idea of working in a hotel appeal to you?’

  Miranda was surprised and uncertain. ‘Didn’t your husband say your hotel was in Greece?’

  ‘Yes, not on the mainland, though. On a small island. Delephores, in the Cyclades – the little group of islands between the mainland of Greece and Crete. It’s beautiful, you’ll love it.’

  ‘But I don’t speak Greek, I’m afraid, I couldn’t translate or talk to Greek people.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be important at first – you would be dealing with English tourists staying in the hotel, you see; and there will be plenty of Greek speakers in the hotel, who would help if you had a problem. You could have Greek lessons, too, I’m sure you would soon pick up enough to get by with. You would share a bungalow in the grounds with other members of staff, and you would have one whole day free every week, for whatever you wanted to do.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful, I’d love it, but I don’t even know how long I could stay – the police may want me to come back to London, any time, at short notice. And I have a broken ankle. My wrist is sprained, but it seems to be improving a little every day, I expect it will heal completely soon. But I wouldn’t be much use to you with a broken ankle.’

  ‘I expect we could find a way round that, you would mostly be working in an office, not needing to walk anywhere – but I don’t want to try to push you into it. Here’s a phone number you can reach me at until we fly back to Greece.’ Pandora pushed a little piece of paper into her hand. ‘Let me know if you decide you would like to come. The job will be open for the next two weeks. After that, we’ll have to find someone else.’

  Her mother leaned over to kiss her cheek. ‘I think it’s a chance in a million. Be good, but above all be careful. I’ll ring you.’

  Chapter Five

  Terry Finnigan cradled the phone on his shoulder while he ran an eye down the order form in front of him on the desk, then spoke into the phone again. ‘That’s marvellous, Alex. We’ll be despatching them within a fortnight – they should be in Piraeus within a couple of weeks after that. I hope that date is acceptable to you?’

  At the
other end of the line Alex Manoussi nodded, sunlight glinting on his hair, giving the thick black strands a blue shimmer. ‘Yes, that should work out very well. We won’t complete the contract before the end of next month so we won’t need the electrical equipment before then.’

  ‘Good, good. We haven’t got enough stock to despatch them any earlier, we shall have to make part of the order. I’ll see to it that it’s processed with speed. When do you go back?’

  ‘Soon, I haven’t fixed a date, I have some unfinished business here. My manager has everything under control in Piraeus, so no problem there.’

  ‘And I’m sure Mrs Manoussi is taking good care of your home. She’s such a wonderful cook, too. I’ve never forgotten that barbecue she made for us when our sales team were over in Greece. Out in your lovely garden on such a gorgeous day, and your views are breathtaking. But what I remember most is that amazing lamb dish, with the aubergines and rice, I’ve never eaten anything like it.’

  ‘One of the best dishes she cooks,’ Alex agreed. ‘How is your boy?’

  ‘Sean.’ Terry stopped smiling, his eyes sombre as they moved to stare out of the window at the grey-blue sky and the roofs stretching into the distance; high office blocks with dark glass windows between the smaller buildings. It was the view he looked at every day during the week; he barely saw it any more. ‘He’s OK, thanks. You haven’t got a son, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, don’t be in too much of a hurry to get one. They give you a lot of grief. You want children, you get them, and while they’re small you think they’re magic. Then one day they turn into adults and you start having heartache. Thank God I’ve only got one. I wouldn’t survive having a couple of them.’

  ‘In Greece it is the daughters who give trouble. You have to take care of them day and night. The minute they are in their teens the young men appear, like bees around a honey pot. A nightmare for fathers.’

  ‘Have you got a daughter?’

  ‘Not yet, and I dread it. It was bad enough when I had to watch out for my sisters! My parents never stopped telling me to keep an eye on them. It ruined my own social life. I could never relax.’

  Terry laughed. ‘I remember how I was at that age! Always ready to try my luck with a bird.’

  ‘A bird?’ Alex frowned.

  ‘A girl.’

  ‘Oh, yes, a girl. Of course, I knew that, I had forgotten it for a moment. Well, I must ring off, I’m afraid, I have a lot to do.’

  ‘Of course, I know how busy you are.’

  ‘I shouldn’t complain, it’s better to be busy than to have nothing to do. Well, Terry, I look forward to getting my order in due course and my cheque will be in the post,’

  After hanging up, Terry said to his secretary, ‘You know the really worrying thing about Greeks? They shake their heads and say ‘Ne’ when they mean yes, and nod when they mean no. You’re never really sure what they are thinking.’

  She nodded and looked vague. ‘I know what you mean.’ But she clearly didn’t.

  And what was going on behind those black Greek eyes? thought Terry, picking up the phone. Alex Manoussi was an enigma.

  He rang the hospital, spoke to the ward sister, avoided giving his name. ‘I’m just a friend – I wondered how she was today?’

  ‘As well as can be expected.’

  The standard reply, telling you nothing – what did it mean? Whatever they wanted it to mean.

  ‘When are you letting her out?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say – the doctor will make that decision. Not yet, anyway. Can I give her a message?’

  ‘No, I’ll come in and see her sometime. Or maybe I’ll see her at home. Is she going back to her flat, do you know? Or going to stay with her mother in the country?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ The sister was getting starchy; her tone cold and distant.

  Terry ended the call, then rang home on his mobile. The housekeeper put him through to Sean’s room. Sean answered, sounding thick-headed and sleepy. Angry blood rushed to Terry’s head.

  ‘Were you out drinking again last night? How many times do I have to tell you – you should stay off the booze until this is all over. The police could come any time. You’re going to need to keep a clear head, you don’t want to make any stupid slips.’

  Sean snarled. ‘Stop nagging, will you? I’m perfectly clear-headed. Now, did you want something? Or did you only ring me up to scream at me?’

  ‘I just rang the hospital; she’s still there but her mother has been discharged. Don’t go near her flat. Do you hear?’

  ‘I’m not deaf.’

  ‘No, but you are stupid. Now, get up, take a shower, and do something useful. Go jogging, play golf – anything that gets you out into the fresh air. But stay out of trouble. And don’t chase girls. Why don’t you ring Nicola and arrange to have lunch with her?’

  ‘OK, OK. I’ll do that. Finished now?’

  ‘Yes.’ Terry hung up, feeling defeated. The boy was hopeless. Who would ever have thought that that adorable baby, with tight little blond curls, big saucer-like eyes and a sudden, enormous grin, would have turned into this sulky, selfish, indifferent man?

  His childhood had given no hint that he would end up the way he was now. At eight years old Sean had been so funny; always grinning, making very bad jokes, chucking himself about.

  He had been a solid, boisterous boy who loved football and watching TV, went around in a crowd of other boys, nudging and shoving each other, giggling in class, driving his teachers wild.

  When had he changed? In his teens? Yes, that was when he began to get into trouble.

  When his hormones began to riot and he started chasing girls!

  No, they had chased him in the beginning, remembered Terry. Sean had been a beautiful boy at fifteen. Girls had swarmed around him, he could have his pick. And did, no doubt. Terry had been amused by it at the time; now he saw that Sean had been spoilt by all that attention, had started to take his sexual power for granted, had come to despise girls. He had had them too easily.

  Or had it been the abandonment of his mother that made him the way he was? He had adored Sandra. She had been a very loving mother. When she went off like that it must have hurt Sean badly.

  The new PR girl came into the room as if on tiptoe. Terry looked blankly at her. He could never remember her name. She was older than Miranda, and not as pretty. Far too thin, with short brown hair and a bony neck. She wore a sort of office uniform; black skirt, white blouse, with flat black shoes. So far he had not seen her in anything else.

  ‘Yes?’ he demanded impatiently. Why had he chosen her? Perhaps because she was everything Miranda had not been, or perhaps because he saw at a glance that he could awe her into doing whatever he demanded.

  ‘The police are downstairs.’ She was breathless, anxious. ‘Should I deal with them? They say they want to see you.’

  Not again! What did they want now? They had asked a thousand questions, visited him at home, and here – why did they keep coming back? Terry’s hands clenched into fists on his knees, out of sight, but he fought to look calm and unbothered.

  ‘I’ll see them, tell my secretary to show them in!’

  There were the same two of them. Sergeant Maddrell and a six-foot tall constable with pink cheeks, curly hair and a notebook in one hand, ready to make notes.

  ‘What can I do for you today, Sergeant?’ Trying to make them feel stupid – maybe they would stop coming if they realised how ridiculous their questions were.

  ‘Do you have a private plane, sir?’ the Sergeant asked, watching him intently.

  Terry’s face went blank. How had they got on to that? It wasn’t something he talked about to his friends. He didn’t want them asking him to take them up.

  ‘Yes, I do, as it happens – a light aircraft, a four seater. I’ve had it for a few years but I rarely take it up lately, I’m too busy.’

  Miranda must have told them about it – he should have realised she would. Yet, why
should she? How had it come up in the conversation?

  ‘Where do you keep it?’

  He mentioned the name of the airfield a few miles from his house in the country. They probably knew it anyway, if Miranda had told them about the plane she would have told them which airfield he used. He had been a member there for years, had learnt to fly with an instructor there.

  ‘We would like to take a look at it.’

  ‘What are you hoping to find?’ Terry snapped. ‘Bloodstains? I can assure you, you won’t.’

  The sergeant looked bland. ‘She was drowned, we wouldn’t expect to find bloodstains.’

  The expression on his face made Terry so angry he wanted to punch the smug bastard.

  ‘My son did not drown anyone! You aren’t still listening to that crazy girl? Haven’t you talked to the psychiatrists at the hospital? Seen her records? She’s obsessed with people drowning. She imagined the whole thing.’

  Ignoring all that, the sergeant asked him, ‘Does your son fly?’

  ‘He doesn’t have a licence. But he has just begun to have lessons.’

  ‘At the airfield where you keep your plane?’

  ‘Yes, but he isn’t allowed to go up without a qualified pilot. He has only had a couple of lessons.’

  The two policemen looked at each other, then got up. ‘Thank you for your co-operation, sir,’ Sergeant Maddrell said politely.

  When they had left the office Terry reached for the phone, began to dial, then changed his mind and slammed the phone down again. It would be a mistake to ring the airfield and tell them not to talk to the police. What would they think, if he did?

  He ran his hands over his face and groaned softly. For years he had been free of this tension, this permanent anxiety, needing to watch everything he said, did.

  He had thought it was all behind him, he would never have to live with feelings like that again. But here they were once more. He was living in a minefield; before he took a single step he had to test the ground around him, and even then something could set off an explosion which might blow his whole world away.