Angel of Death

by Charlotte Lamb

  ‘Like the sirocco, the French summer wind,’ said an American woman.

  ‘Exactly, but the Greeks do not allow the wind to be used as a legal excuse for killing your wife, as the French do,’ the guide said, laughing.

  They arrived back at the hotel half an hour later and Miranda hurried off to her room. The shutters were closed against the afternoon heat; the room was cool and shadowy. She drank a bottle of iced water from the mini fridge, stripped off and took a quick, refreshing shower, put on her towelling robe and lay down on her bed. Within about five minutes she was fast asleep.

  When she woke up, it was almost dinner time. She rang her mother before she got dressed.

  ‘How are you?’ Dorothy asked in concern.

  ‘Fine – this is a really lovely place. I haven’t started work yet, but I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘Good.’ A pause, then Dorothy told her, ‘That boss of yours came down here, looking for you.’

  Miranda stiffened. ‘Terry?’

  ‘Finnigan himself. Yes. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him anything.’

  ‘He didn’t threaten you?’

  ‘No, and anyway, I’ve got Freddy here, taking care of me. You needn’t fret about me. Just take care of yourself. How’s Pandora?’

  ‘She was very tired after the journey, but she’s been in bed ever since we got here.’

  ‘Poor girl. I hope she manages to keep this baby inside her. She’s so desperate to have a child. You take care of her, OK? Keep her company if she has to stay in bed. It must be very boring lying down all day.’

  ‘I will, don’t worry. I like her very much, I’ll do what I can.’

  Ringing off a few minutes later, Miranda slowly got dressed, hearing a strong wind raking the trees outside, tossing them to and fro, tearing off their leaves, rattling the windows and banging the shutters. Somewhere in the hotel doors slammed. How long did the meltemi go on blowing?

  Looking in the mirror she saw the feverish brightness of her eyes and knew she was frightened. So Terry was still looking for her? Well, what did she expect? Her mother might not tell him where she had gone, but Terry would not give up looking.

  He loved his son too much. He would want to silence her, forever. He would do anything for Sean.

  Another realisation hit her, she bit her lip, shuddering.

  What if she had not been imagining it when she thought she saw Alex Manoussi? What if he was staying here?

  If he caught sight of her he might pass the news on to Terry. They were in business together, and often talked on the phone. And they were good friends. He probably knew nothing about what was going on; Terry was hardly likely to tell him. It would be perfectly natural for him to say: did you know that girl who did your PR is here in Greece?

  How could he guess what might happen if he told Terry she was here?

  If he did, this time he really would be the Angel of Death, for her.

  Chapter Eight

  Next day she moved into a staff bungalow, one of a row of four set apart from those used for hotel guests. Hers was single storey, roughly plastered, whitewashed, with a terracotta tiled roof. There was a bedroom, with a bathroom off it, a small sitting room with a kitchenette at one end, and a balcony overlooking the sea at the other.

  ‘I hope you will be comfortable,’ Milo said, watching her walk out on to the balcony and gaze over the dazzling blue sky, the even bluer sea, whipped into white caps by the meltemi, which had been blowing now for nearly twenty hours. The force of it was diminishing, but the trees still lashed to and fro and the sound of it had an eerie, disturbing whistle.

  ‘I’m sure I shall – it’s delightful. I shall enjoy eating out here, too.’ Her gaze was fixed on the sea, where she had yesterday thought she saw Alex.

  Had she imagined it? Or had he really been there?

  It wasn’t so impossible, after all. He was Greek. He had said he lived at Piraeus, where he had his boat-building business, but why shouldn’t he come over to the island for a holiday? He sailed, didn’t he? He could come here on one of his own boats, anchor in the harbour. It would be perfectly natural for him to visit the hotel, even stay here.

  Or was she looking for an excuse, trying to convince herself she wasn’t going out of her mind?

  She turned back into the sitting room, smiling at Milo. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to start work at once?’

  He shook his head. ‘Acclimatise yourself first. The heat here can be exhausting, you’ll have realised that by now. In a few days you’ll be used to these temperatures, you’ll find it easier to work all day. And if we need you to interpret for us with any guests we know where to find you! If I’m in the hotel, I can do it. If I’m out you may get a call asking you to come and help. OK?’

  She smiled, nodding. ‘I’ll be happy to do what I can. That’s what I’m here for, after all.’

  Milo left her to unpack again and explore her new domain. She put her clothes away in the built-in wardrobe then wandered around to look at the prints hanging on the walls. One was a watercolour of nineteenth-century Athens, a view with the Parthenon to the fore. Round it stood thickly painted trees, white Georgian-style houses a little below that and in the far distance an emblematic sketching of the sea; blue waves, a boat, masts. There were other watercolours of the island; she recognised the harbour, with its clutter of tavernas and houses, painted dark brown, blue and red. Beside it hung a painting of a blue-domed church. It must be the one they had visited yesterday.

  Even more interesting to her was an old map of the Cyclades. She studied it closely, orientating herself. There was the sacred island of Delos which was the centre of the islands. There was Mykonos. Nearby was another little island, called Syros. Where was Delephores? She couldn’t read some of the print, it was too small, and there seemed to be dozens of tiny islands scattered over the brightly painted blue sea.

  While the morning air was still cool enough she decided to go for a walk. First, she had to make sure the bungalow was safely locked up, the shutters down over the windows.

  She wished she could go swimming but she couldn’t risk getting her plaster wet. But she decided to walk to the sea again, by another route, past guest bungalows and swimming pools, some of which held people, splashing about, swimming lazily. And today the beach had a number of children on it, running in and out of the waves, playing beach ball, lying down on towels on the yellow sands where their parents sunbathed under umbrellas. The dry north wind, the meltemi, was still blowing in sharp little flurries.

  It seemed unbelievable that she was here, not in London. That was another world, far away.

  Terry Finnigan wasn’t in London, either. He was in Manchester, having driven up there overnight and taken a room in the Hilton. When he had settled in, he poured himself a shot of whisky from one of the miniatures in the fridge, before getting a number from directory enquiries, then dialling.

  A voice he instantly recognised, despite the many years since they had met, answered cheerfully. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Irene?’

  ‘Yeah. Who’s this?’

  Clearly she did not recognise his voice.

  ‘Terry.’

  ‘Terry who?’

  ‘Finnigan,’ he said and heard her intake of breath.

  ‘You’re kidding! Terry Finnigan? My God, we never thought we’d hear from you again. Where’ve you been all these years?’

  ‘London. How’re you, Irene?’

  ‘Fine – how are you?’

  ‘I’m in a bit of trouble.’

  ‘And now you need help, so you thought of Bernie?’ There was a touch of cynicism in her tone, which didn’t surprise him. Irene had always been blunt, and he could hardly deny the truth of what she had said, could he?

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ he admitted.

  ‘Come up here and talk to him, then. Whatever it is, he can’t do it over the phone. Come to Manchester.’

  ‘I’m here, staying at the Hilton.’

  ‘We
ll, jump in a taxi and come over. We still live at the same address. You remember it? Greeby Road? Number six. Have you had your tea yet? We haven’t. Have it with us. I’ve made a lovely hotpot, that was always your favourite.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ he said, remembering vividly the golden circles of potato fitting on top, the deep dish of lamb and onions and carrots. You could smell it the minute you walked through the front door. ‘Thanks, Irene. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  He drove there in his Jaguar, not merely covering the distance in miles but in time, back to his youth, in these grey, huddled streets. Why had Bernie and Irene stayed here? They had money, they could have moved out, as so many rich Mancunians did, to Cheshire or Shropshire, to the beautiful countryside so close to Manchester.

  Instead they had stayed here, in their grey-brick, tiled house ten minutes away from Old Trafford, the sacred ground on which Manchester United played. Bernie wasn’t simply a fan; he was a fanatic. To him the team were gods and Old Trafford was Mount Olympus. He was there whenever they played at home, and would travel round the country to cheer them on when they played elsewhere.

  Irene opened the door to him. She had grown old – what was she now, fifty-five? A few years older than him. She had never been very slim, even as a girl, but now she had really put on weight; her peroxide hair was as unreal and gold as a fairground ride, her skin heavily powdered, her mouth as red and ripe as a strawberry.

  They stared at each other and he wondered how he looked to her. Had he aged as much?

  ‘Hello, Terry, she said in her husky, whisky-thickened voice. Glancing past him at his car, she added, ‘Like the Jag. So it’s not money that’s your problem?’

  Without answering he leaned forward to kiss her cheek and she enfolded him in both arms, gave him a hug that almost squeezed the breath out of him, kissing his mouth at the same time.

  ‘Bernie’s waiting for you in the conservatory,’ she said, letting go of him, and led the way, her wide hips rolling as she moved. ‘How’s the boy?’ she asked over her shoulder. ‘We read in the papers about him getting engaged to that rich bird. Did Sandra go to the party?’

  ‘No.’ Sandra had always got on well with Irene. They were two of a kind, in some ways, although Irene was more of a home-maker, devoted to her four children and her husband.

  ‘That’s a shame – she doted on that boy of yours. Does he visit her?’

  ‘No.’

  That got him a shrewd look. ‘Won’t you let him?’

  ‘I’d never stop the boy seeing his mother, but Sandra’s too busy having fun to be bothered. When she’s over here she drops in to see him, but she rarely asks him over to Spain.’

  Irene sighed. ‘That’s too bad.’

  They were walking through a long sitting room which took up most of the ground floor of the house, full of what Terry thought of as brothel furniture: chairs with gilded legs, onyx occasional tables, gold velvet floor-length curtains with gold fringes, ornaments on every surface, a huge television.

  It was a grey evening, cloudy and threatening rain, but ahead of them he saw a brightness which resolved itself into a glass conservatory designed in Victorian fashion. It was ablaze with electric lights.

  ‘Here he is!’ Irene said to the man sitting in a comfortable armchair, facing them.

  That was when Terry had a shock. Bernie had been in his forties when they last met. Not a big man but very muscular, powerful, although he was already bald.

  Now he seemed to have shrunk, withered. Under his expensive suit his body was frail.

  ‘Hello, Terry,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Excuse me not getting up. Did Irene tell you what happened to me? A bit of turf war a few years back; one of the black gangs trying to muscle in on our territory. I got shot in the back. I was in hospital for months. And I still can’t walk.’

  ‘That’s too bad, Bernie. I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Terry shook the hand held out, noticing how thin and limp it was. The life force seemed to have gone out of the man.

  ‘Sit down, have a drink,’ Bernie said.

  Irene poured him a whisky, then said, ‘Excuse me, I have a lot to do, I’ll be dishing up in half an hour.’

  ‘Hotpot,’ Bernie told him contentedly.

  ‘Yes, she said, I can’t wait to taste it again, Irene always made the best hotpot. How are your kids?’

  ‘They’re fine, Irene will tell you over dinner. She says you’ve got a problem you hoped I could deal with – tell me about that.’

  ‘Are you still in the business?’ Terry said doubtfully.

  ‘Me and my boy Andy – remember him? The youngest one. The others make their money strictly legit. Matt’s a lawyer, and a good one. Jim’s a builder, makes a fortune, building estates all over the north west. Now, tell me about your problem.’

  ‘Sean, my boy, is in trouble.’

  ‘We were reading about him in the gossip columns only last week. Isn’t he marrying some rich banker’s daughter? Lucky boy.’

  ‘Yes, but he . . . well, he’s always after other women.’

  ‘Can’t keep his flies zipped? Takes after his mother, not you, then. Sandra was always chasing men.’

  Terry had never known until the end when she went off with one of them. He felt stupid. Had everyone known? Why hadn’t someone drawn him a diagram?

  ‘Yeah, well, one of Sean’s girls got herself up the spout and threatened to tell Nicola – the fiancée – and Sean panicked and . . .’ He took a deep breath, then forced the words out, ‘And killed her.’

  Bernie whistled softly. ‘So he’s in prison, waiting to be tried? Funny, we missed that story.’

  ‘He got rid of the body. The police know what happened but they can’t prove it, without the body.’ He quickly explained the background, how his publicity girl had overheard the murder, called the police and how he and Sean had been trying to silence her. ‘Now she’s vanished, and we haven’t a clue where she is – we think the police have her in a safe house somewhere. We must find her. The information has to be in the police computer, but how do we tap into that? Do you still have friends in the force?’

  Bernie’s fingers tapped thoughtfully. ‘You want me to ask my friends in the police to find out where she is?’

  Terry nodded. ‘Please. I’d be eternally grateful. We have to find this girl, deal with her, before she destroys my boy.’

  Miranda turned east along the sea shore. After another five minutes she came in sight of the house Milo had visited. This morning the shutters were closed. Whoever was living there must have gone out.

  She went right up to the house, slowly made her way all round both front and back. Had this been the original building on the site? Was it eighteenth-century, or had it been built more recently, in the style of two centuries ago?

  She could imagine Lord Byron living in it, swimming naked in the sea below these windows, making love to some beautiful Greek girl in fluttering white muslin, by moonlight.

  A plane tree grew close to the back of the house; the dappled, grey and pinky cream bark peeling in strips, the round green spiky fruit still hanging among the deep-lobed leaves. Miranda stood in its cooling shade for a while, gazing over the hotel grounds and orientating herself.

  It was so pleasant there that she was reluctant to move, to walk back, to her bungalow, or the hotel. A quick look at her watch told her it was gone mid-day. Lunchtime. She could eat at the hotel today, but soon she must go to a shop and buy food she could cook herself in her bungalow.

  She would get lots of salad and vegetables, some eggs, maybe a chicken she could put into the little fridge in her kitchen. The hotel staff were entitled to eat in the hotel, but she would prefer to make her own meals.

  Setting off at a brisk pace she found lunch being served when she arrived at the restaurant. She queued at the buffet table and selected chicken soup from the great urn. As she turned to go she collided with another woman in the queue, spilling a drink the woman held in one hand.

  ‘Oh,
I am sorry, stammered Miranda, uncomfortably observing the red stain the wine had made on the woman’s elegant peacock-blue dress.

  She received a glacial, angry stare from black eyes. ‘Why don’t you look where you’re going?’ The words were English, but the accent was a peculiar mix of American and Greek.

  Flushed, Miranda said sorry again. ‘Of course, I will pay the cleaning bill. Tell them at reception – my name is Miranda – they’ll see I get the bill.’

  She hurried away, not daring to meet Milo’s watchful gaze, and sat down at a table to begin to eat. The soup was delicious; light and fragrant with what she thought must be lemon.

  As she collected her main course – grilled sardines and salad – she noticed Milo talking to the woman she had bumped into. Was he apologising for her? Her job here was supposed to be liaising with guests – that had not been a good start.

  After lunch she visited Pandora, whom she found in bed, drinking green tea.

  ‘Do you like that?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘It’s OK. I’m not supposed to touch coffee – they say caffeine is bad for me. But I’m suffering from withdrawal symptoms.’

  There were stains on her upper cheeks; Miranda could see she had been crying. ‘Is something wrong? What has upset you?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Pandora denied, unconvincingly, then yawned, deliberately. ‘I think I’ll have a nap now.’

  Miranda left; knowing she was not wanted. Pandora did not want to talk about whatever was worrying her. The baby? Or was something else on her mind?

  Walking back through the gardens she paused, mid-step, hearing Charles’ voice. ‘You shouldn’t be here, you know that very well, Elena. There will be hell to pay if he hears about it.’

  The wind stirred the leaves; one detached itself and floated down, turning in mid-air and fell almost at her feet. She shifted sideways, staring through the trees. Charles stood a few feet away, his back to her. Facing her, but all her attention fixed on Charles, was the woman in the peacock-blue dress.