Angel of Death

by Charlotte Lamb

  Charles made the phone call, put the question to the doctor, listened intently. ‘Yes, she’s very depressed. I think it would do her good to get out even if only for half an hour.’ He listened again, smiling. ‘Yes, thank you, I promise.’ Putting the phone down he turned to his wife. ‘He says you can have one hour’s drive today, he’ll be along to see you tomorrow morning to make sure it wasn’t too much, but you are not to put a foot to the ground.’

  She let out a long sigh of pleasure. ‘Wonderful. Can we go at once? You will come, won’t you, Miranda? Or had you other plans for your afternoon off?’

  ‘No, I’ve nothing special planned, and I’d love to come.’ She walked to the door. ‘I’ll wait in reception while you get ready.’

  ‘I haven’t worn outside clothes since we got back here. I just lie about in my nightdress, all day. It’s so boring. Just getting dressed is going to be fun.’

  In the reception area Miranda found Milo and told him what was afoot. His face lit up.

  ‘That’s good news. I was getting worried about her.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘She’s been more and more depressed this week. I wonder the doctor and Charles couldn’t see it. They’re so concerned about this baby that they aren’t thinking about Pandora herself.’

  Miranda gave him an affectionate look. ‘You’re very fond of her, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve known her since she was born, she’s almost my own child. Can I get you anything while you’re waiting, Miranda? Tea? Some sparkling mineral water spiked with fresh lime and lemon? Very refreshing on a hot day.’

  ‘Some tea would be nice.’

  ‘Milk or lemon?’

  ‘Lemon, please.’

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No, thank you. I find it more refreshing without sweetness.’

  He brought it in a tall glass in a fretted silver holder; a slice of lemon floated on the top. There was a faintly herbal scent to the tea, Miranda sipped it happily.

  ‘Delicious, thank you, Milo.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He gave her that characteristic little bow of the head, his smooth, discreet, olive-skinned face warm. He was one of the nicest men she had ever met. He made her feel safe, cherished. But he also had a quiet authority – he could be anything, she thought – head waiter, hotel manager, prime minister, archbishop, absolutely anything.

  She finished the tea just as Charles pushed Miranda in her wheelchair through the swing doors. Milo came forward to take Pandora’s thin, frail hand, lift it to his lips and kiss it.

  ‘Agapeete moo!’ he said gently and Miranda knew enough Greek now to realise he had called Pandora ‘my dear’. She was pleased with herself. She had been having Greek lessons for weeks now and was gaining a little of the language every day, but learning a language was not easy for her.

  ‘I’m going for a drive! The doctor said yes,’ she eagerly told him and he smiled down at her.

  ‘Enjoy yourself. You’re looking better already.’

  It was true, she was, her eyes brighter, her face mobile and excited. She had put on a loose, dark red linen kaftan embroidered around the neck in gold, and falling to her feet; the reflection of the colour on her skin gave her a healthy flush. That worrying listlessness had gone; she was alive and alert once more.

  As they were getting into the car Elena walked over to them. ‘Going somewhere nice?’

  ‘Just for a drive,’ Charles said.

  ‘Well, have a good time. Tell me, when is Alex coming back?’ Was she waiting here until he did? thought Miranda bleakly.

  ‘He never tells us.’

  They drove out of the hotel grounds five minutes later and headed into the hills to the little village Pandora had talked about, a few dozen pastel-washed houses – pale apricot, blue and yellow – surrounded with ancient olive trees, their silvery green leaves fluttering like butterflies in a gentle breeze, their great, gnarled trunks growing out of terraces marked off by low stone walls. In the centre stood the church, pale terracotta, with white-painted windows. The colours blurred and shone in the afternoon sunlight.

  Charles parked outside the church and took Miranda inside, out of the hot, bright sun into the deep, cool shadows where the icons of saints glowed round the walls, silver and gold backgrounds to the faces.

  ‘The church was started in the eleventh century, but took many years to finish because whenever the village ran out of money they stopped work.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Miranda said, staring at the offerings attached to icons, thank-yous for the saint who had cured a disease, helped a woman have a baby. She walked around the circle of walls, under the dome, to look at the Byzantine faces; strong and stern, St John, St Basil, the Apostles staring down, grouped around Jesus.

  Her favourite was the Adoration of the Magi painted in gold, black and flame-like red, with a very plump baby Jesus waving a palm leaf at his mother who had a faintly bewildered expression, as if not quite sure who he was. Around them stood saints and kings whose faces were quite blank of expression except that they had great dignity and pride, enrobed in their magnificence, with golden halos round their heads.

  Before they left, Miranda knelt in front of a dark, tender icon of the virgin and lit a candle for Pandora, as she had promised, praying silently that the baby would be born safely in due time. Charles also lit a candle, knelt beside her; she sensed that his prayer was the same as hers. It must be very hard for him too, this difficult pregnancy, especially, as Pandora said, when he was kept so busy running the hotel.

  When they rejoined her, Pandora was leaning back in her seat, watching a small gecko on a stone wall near the car, his throat gulping, eyes closed as he absorbed the hot sun into his greeny-grey body.

  ‘I love lizards, don’t you?’ she whispered, then as they got back into the car a chestnut-headed little bird dived down out of the bright blue sky and flew off with the unfortunate lizard wriggling helplessly in his beak.

  It all happened so quickly it made them jump.

  ‘A woodchat shrike!’ Pandora said, shivering. ‘Horrible birds, they impale lizards on thorns and keep them to eat later – you can see their larders in the woods. A row of pathetic little bodies waiting for dinner time. Ugh. Enough to make you turn vegetarian.’

  ‘Let’s go home now,’ Charles said, watching her anxiously. Her emotional reactions were too fierce; she was white again, trembling. ‘Don’t upset yourself, darling.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted obstinately. ‘Charles, I want to buy some rolls from the shop across there. I’ve been smelling the bread while I waited, it’s made me hungry.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Miranda said. ‘It will give me a chance to practise my Greek.’ She had been working for an hour a day at the language, but reading it was one thing – speaking it another.

  There were several women in the shop; tanned so deeply they were almost black, with headscarfs over their hair, all of them in well-washed cotton dresses. They stared and she shyly said good afternoon.

  ‘Ya soo, thespeenees.’ they chorused. Hello, miss.

  She pointed at a wicker basket of rolls. ‘Psomakee, parakalo.’ Holding up her hands, counting off fingers, she indicated that she wanted six.

  The shopkeeper shook her head and said, ‘Ne!’ Why did they always shake their heads and make a negative sound when they meant yes? Were they trying to be awkward, or trying to deceive any enemy watching? She did not know of any other people who did that.

  As the rolls were put into a bag she noticed a bowl of fresh figs and asked for a kilo of them. The other customers watched her without comment or expression. Were they hostile, or simply being polite? The trouble with a foreign country was that you did not instinctively pick up the secret, subterranean language.

  She paid and walked back to the car. Pandora immediately began to eat one of the golden rolls, taking bites out of a purple-black fig, too, from time to time as they drove along.

  ‘It’s odd, I’m suddenly hungry,’ she said.

/>   ‘That’s good, you haven’t eaten much for days,’ her husband said, smiling.

  The figs had glistening, sensuous pink flesh; Miranda watched Pandora’s teeth tearing at them. Her mouth watered. They looked so good. There were always figs on the buffet table at lunch in the hotel; she must have some tomorrow.

  ‘I really feel so much better,’ Pandora confessed, yawning. ‘Just having a change of scene, and some sunshine, and fresh air, has given my spirits a boost.’

  ‘Well, whenever you want to go out, just tell me, in future,’ Charles said, pulling in through the gates of the hotel grounds.

  ‘There’s Alex!’ Pandora gasped, leaning forward to stare.

  Miranda’s heart crashed.

  ‘What on earth is he doing back here so soon?’ Pandora said. ‘I hope nothing’s wrong!’

  Alex was casually dressed in pale grey trousers and a dark pink shirt, but he looked pale, almost grim. He kissed his sister’s cheek. ‘Glad to see you looking so well, Pan.’ Then he shook hands with his brother-in-law. ‘How are you, Charles? I’ve just had half an hour with Milo, so I know business is good.’

  ‘We’re fully booked for the next fortnight. There isn’t a single room free.’ Charles was looking self-satisfied. His brother-in-law smiled at him.

  ‘I know. Well done.’

  ‘I’ll just pop Pan back into bed, then I’ll join you in the office,’ Charles said, but Alex shook his head.

  ‘Not yet. I’ll see you later. I need to talk to Miranda.’ He took her arm, his fingers incisive, and hurried her away, through the grounds to her bungalow.

  She felt Pandora and Charles staring after them. ‘What is it?’ she asked Alex anxiously. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said in that terse, harsh voice. ‘Where’s your key?’

  He opened the front door of her bungalow and let them in, followed her inside and walked over to open the shutters which the maid always left shut after cleaning the room. Daylight flooded into the cool, shady room.

  ‘You’re going to need a cup of tea and I could certainly do with some strong coffee. Let’s put the kettle on.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she said, but he was already busy. She watched him move about finding cups, a teapot, the coffee and tea bags.

  ‘Alex, tell me what’s happened, before I scream!’

  He looked round at her broodingly, that dark, Byzantine face shimmering gold in the afternoon sunlight. ‘They’ve found the body.’

  The shock made her sit down, a hand to her mouth as if to keep down a scream. As soon as she could speak she whispered, ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Where?’ She only seemed able to speak in monosyllables.

  ‘It came up in some fishermen’s nets and was taken to the nearest port in Ireland.’

  ‘Has it been identified?’

  ‘Yes, there’s no doubt it is the missing girl. And she was three months pregnant.’

  ‘Oh, poor girl!’ she breathed, biting her lower lip so that she didn’t cry.

  He poured her tea, put it in front of her and sat down next to her with his own strong black cup of coffee.

  ‘That detective rang me – the sergeant who talked to me in London.’

  ‘Neil,’ she nodded.

  Alex gave her a narrowed stare. ‘The one who was here. Yes. He says he’s coming again, quite soon, to see you, and he wanted me to tell you the body had been found and events were moving at last.’ He took a sip of coffee then flatly added, ‘And then I had a phone call from Terry Finnigan.’

  She looked at him, her nerves jumping. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Well, he said he was flying to Greece to see me about a new improvement in one of the navigational computers. He didn’t say a word about the police finding the body. I suppose he didn’t think I’d know.’ Alex’s mouth twisted cynically. ‘He’s arriving tomorrow. I had to come here to warn you. I’ll make sure you’re protected, don’t worry. Milo will move you back into the hotel. It will make it easier to keep an eye on you day and night.’

  She was touched by his concern, but shook her head, frowning. ‘I love my bungalow, why can’t I just stay here? The grounds are patrolled by security men, aren’t they? Nobody could get at me. And I prefer the independence of living here rather than in the hotel.’

  Alex looked impatiently at her. ‘There’s far less risk if you’re in the hotel. What if somebody does get through the security cordon? What if your bungalow is broken into? At least in the hotel there are plenty of other people around.’

  ‘You don’t honestly believe Terry would come here and try to kill me! Sean’s the killer, not his father. Have the police arrested Sean?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I imagine they will, now they’ve got the body. That detective told me they had now found plenty of forensic evidence.’

  She sighed. ‘Poor Terry. He must be desperate. And he loves his son, you know. Sean is the centre of his whole life. I feel so sorry for him.’

  They arrived first thing in the morning before even Terry was up, let alone Sean. Tousled, flushed, in a gaudy Stuart tartan red dressing gown, under which he was wearing nothing, Terry stumbled downstairs to open the front door.

  Neil Maddrell flashed his warrant card, walking past him as he did so. ‘Your son here?’

  ‘He’s still asleep. Hey, wait a minute, you can’t just barge into my house without permission!’

  Neil was already in the hall. ‘Get him up, Mr Finnigan. We’re taking him to the station for questioning.’

  ‘You wait a minute. I’m getting my lawyer.’

  ‘Your son’s going to need him. Tell him to meet us at the station. Because I am taking Sean there, so please get him up, or would you rather we did it?’

  Putting on a calm air, Terry argued. ‘Why all this urgency? You’ve already talked to him for hours and you know you can’t charge him. There’s no evidence against him except for what you were told by that neurotic bitch who worked for me.’ They must not know that he had been informed about the body brought up out of the sea. That would make them suspicious of him, of his contacts.

  Life had become so complicated since Sean killed that girl. He often felt he was walking through a minefield, always watching where he put his feet, intensely afraid of an explosion that could blow his whole world to smithereens.

  ‘We’ve found the body, Mr Finnigan. We’ve identified it beyond a shadow of doubt, through DNA, dental records, medical records – and she was three months pregnant and the baby’s DNA will give us your son’s paternity, I’ve no doubt.’

  Terry swallowed, realising for the first time that the unborn child had been his grandchild, his flesh and blood. That had been his dream for years, to have grandchildren, but this child, this first one, had died with its mother.

  ‘I’ll get him up,’ he hoarsely agreed.

  When he looked down at his son he had a terrible impulse to punch him in the face hard. How could Sean sleep so soundly after what he had done?

  Terry saw the ruins of his life around him and hated the boy for a second, but was it partly his own fault? A child was always the product of his upbringing.

  When you were young you had no idea what effect your every casual, impulse-born action would have. He and Sandra had made Sean what he was; loving the child they had always indulged him, given him anything he asked for, made Sean feel he only had to put out his hand and he would get what he wanted. Taught him to feel no guilt for whatever he did. They had rarely smacked him, they hadn’t believed in it. If Sean was naughty they forgave him at once.

  How could he be forgiven for killing the mother of his unborn child, and the child with her?

  ‘Wake up. Sean, wake up.’ He was afraid to lean over and shake him; afraid if he touched him at all he would end up battering the stupid boy senseless.

  Sean blinked, lids fluttering, yawned, looked up.

  ‘The police are here. And they’re taking you away with them. Get up, wash, get
dressed.’

  ‘Get my brief!’ Sean sat up, glaring, issuing his commands as if his father was a servant. ‘And do it now! I’m not talking to them without him, get it?’

  Terry looked at him bleakly. ‘You stupid, arrogant little bastard!’ His love for his son was turning to something like hatred.

  But he went down to his office and put through a call to his solicitor. There was nobody in the office yet. The secretary came in at nine, it was only eight thirty. He left a message on the answer phone, stressing the urgency.

  Then he stood by his desk staring out at the garden, watching birds looping through the trees calling. It was a beautiful autumn morning; golden and glowing. He had always loved days like this, but his spirits were too low for him to enjoy it now. He felt despair clogging up his throat. You think you’ve built a wonderful future for yourself and your family, then one day it is all destroyed. All because a stupid, selfish boy couldn’t keep his trousers zipped and then couldn’t face up to the consequences of his own folly.

  He had booked to fly to Greece this morning. Should he still go? Or should he stay here, in case Sean needed him?

  ‘Aren’t you coming with me?’ Sean demanded behind him and he slowly turned, looked at his son as if from a far, far distance.

  ‘You’re a big boy, I’m sure you don’t need me there.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want to come . . . well, don’t!’ Sean’s lower lip stuck out petulantly. ‘Did you ring the brief?’

  ‘Yes, he’ll come along when he can.’

  ‘That’s not good enough! Ring him again, tell him he either shows up at once or we’ll get someone else.’

  The police loomed up. ‘Time to go.’

  They seized Sean by the arm, one on each side.

  ‘You hear me, Dad?’ Sean resisted them, glaring at his father.

  ‘I hear you,’ Terry wearily said.

  He had just remembered that Bernie’s son was coming today to look over his books, check out the firm’s situation and prospects. The day that had started so badly was probably going to get worse.

  He would have to ring up and postpone his flight to Greece after all. There was no way he was going away with those bastards coming. He had to be there to protect his interests.