‘Terry. Look,’ Alex said abruptly, then stopped, listening. ‘Right, OK, I’ll expect you. What flight will you be on? I’ll make sure you’re met. I’ll go back to Piraeus today.’
Miranda’s legs were trembling under her, she could barely walk, but she made it, somehow, to her own office, staggered to her desk and collapsed on to her chair.
Alex had betrayed her. Had lied to her all along, was in league with Terry. It had all been lies, his concern about her, his desire to keep her safe . . . oh, yes, safe until Terry could come and . . . and . . .
And Terry would kill her, to make sure she never gave evidence against his son.
Alex’s love-making, his passion, had all been phoney, a lie. She felt sick, remembering her own abandoned desire, the intensity of her own feelings. She had been cheated, deceived. Alex had made a fool of her. How could he be so heartless, luring her here and making love to her only to hand her over to Terry, knowing she would be killed?
The Angel of Death she had called him once.
Her intuition had been spot on; she had known from the beginning that he brought death, first to Tom, then to that poor girl who had been murdered by Sean – and now to her.
She heard footsteps, the outer door was flung open. Elena swayed through it, sinuous in a black suit with a low, plunging neckline and tight waist, a very short skirt that showed off her beautiful legs.
‘Oh,’ she said, looking around. ‘I’m looking for Mr Manoussi, where will I find him?’
‘The next door along the corridor.’
Elena left, not bothering to close the door behind her.
Miranda glared, hating her. She went to the door to shut it, and saw Elena open the door of the manager’s office, glimpsed her entwining herself with Alex, cooing up at him.
‘Darling Alex . . .’
He didn’t exactly push her away, either. ‘Good morning, Elena, how are you? I hope you slept well. I’m sorry but I’m busy. Maybe we could have lunch?’
Miranda shut her own door and sat down at her desk again. Her temples were throbbing with pain. A migraine, she felt it gathering, darkening her sight. She had been such a fool. She put both hands over her eyes, pressing her palms down.
She wished she were dead.
For a few minutes she sat, breathing slowly, feeling the aching in her head lessen. Then the door opened, and she let her hands drop, fought to appear calm.
Alex came over to her desk. ‘Good morning. How are you today?’ His voice was warm, held a hint of passion.
‘Fine,’ she said, her stomach churning with sickness and pain. How could he cheat, lie and pretend like that?
‘You look beautiful.’ He ran a hand over her hair, cupped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. ‘Every time I see you, I can’t believe how lovely you are. It’s going to be hell to leave you again. But I’ve got to, I’m afraid. I have some important business to deal with. I’m sailing back this morning.’
When he had gone, would Terry arrive to kill her? Fear choked her, fear and misery over Alex’s betrayal. She pulled her head away, refusing to look at him. How could he live with himself afterwards, knowing he had abandoned her to her fate? Or was he leaving so that he needn’t be here when she died? Maybe that was his version of a conscience? What he didn’t have to see he need not feel guilty about?
‘I’ll miss you, I hate to leave you,’ he said huskily. He was a consummate actor. Men could be such liars.
She couldn’t bring herself to answer him; she couldn’t pretend, the way he did.
‘I wish you would move back into the hotel so that it would be easier to keep an eye on you,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you do that while I’m away?’
She forced herself to answer that, her voice rusty. ‘No, I told you, I prefer to be independent.’ Why was he so insistent that she move back into the hotel? Was it because he knew Terry would come here and stay in the hotel, and having her under the same roof would make it so much easier for Terry to get at her?
‘You obstinate vixen!’ he said, sighing. ‘Well, I must go. I’ll ring you tomorrow to check up on you.’
He kissed her averted cheek, then was gone and she sat bleakly listening to his departing footsteps.
When would Terry arrive? Today? Tomorrow?
What was she to do? Just sit here like a trapped rabbit and wait for the final blow? Yet what else could she do? Well, she could take the ferry to the mainland and fly back to London, of course. But her passport was locked in the office. Milo had taken it weeks ago for some official reason to do with the Greek police she thought.
He probably had it locked away for safe-keeping. If she asked for it she would have to explain why she wanted it, she would have to say she was leaving – but she couldn’t say why because Milo would think she was crazy.
Later that morning she saw on her computer screen that Elena had checked out. Had she gone back to Athens with Alex? Was that why he had left so unexpectedly?
She went back to her bungalow when she stopped work, ate a light salad for supper and went to bed early, exhausted by the tension and misery she had suffered with all day.
That night she had the old dream which she had had for years, where Tom was drowning and she could not reach him, however hard she struggled. He called her name and she cried out, ‘I’m coming, Tom, I’m trying to get to you,’ yet knew she wouldn’t. The marbled sea tumbled her over and over. Her head rang with echoes. Miranda, Miranda, he called, and in her sleep tears ran down her face.
‘Oh, God, Tom . . . I’m sorry.’
This time, though, she heard another voice, luring her towards him. ‘Miranda, Miranda, come to me,’ She quivered with weakness and the green sea took her, drifted her, into his arms.
‘Help Tom,’ she begged. ‘Save Tom, never mind me.’
He kissed her passionately, his mouth demanding, and her body grew limp, weak and helpless, kissing him back, despite the guilt she felt.
Alex put his hands around her neck. They tightened and tightened, the fingertips biting into her flesh. He was going to kill her, she realised. He meant to strangle her.
She woke up screaming, her face wet with tears. The room was shuttered, warm, dark, a womb of sleep. She listened to the sounds outside: the soft shushing of the palms, the rustle of fronds, the distant whisper of the sea on the beach. There was no sound from the other bungalows, no light pierced her darkness. She could have been alone on a desert island.
The last time she had been this unhappy had been during the months after Tom’s death. She had been haunted by grief and guilt. This time her misery came from knowing Alex had lied to her, betrayed her, plotted her death. Yet she still loved him, her Angel of Death, she always had, from the minute she first saw him, and that was why she had felt so guilty over Tom. In wanting Alex she had always felt she betrayed her husband, and now she had betrayed herself, too, by letting Alex make love to her. He did not love her. Oh, God, why was she such a fool?
Sean was charged that evening. Edward Dearing saw him alone afterwards. By then Sean was pale and drained, his face puffy, as if he had been crying, his body limp.
‘I want to see my dad.’
‘I’m afraid he can’t come today, Sean. He’s had to go away for a couple of days.’
‘Gone away?’ the boy repeated blankly. ‘While I’m going through all this, he’s gone away?’
‘Yes, but he’ll be back soon.’
‘Where the hell has he gone that’s so important just now?’
Dearing hesitated, frowning. Walls had ears, especially in police stations.
‘I can’t tell you that, but, believe me, he only has your welfare at heart.’
The boy’s face contorted viciously. ‘Oh, yeah, sure. He hasn’t scarpered because he doesn’t want to be mixed up with me now I’m up on a murder charge?’ He lay down on his front, on the cell bed and hid his face in the crook of his arm.
‘Buzz off if you can’t do nothing for me, you useless bastard,’ he muttered.
<
br /> Edward looked at the back of the boy’s head with dislike. That was all the thanks you got for slaving away all day on his behalf. It had been a long and difficult day, and Edward was very tired. He bit back the angry retort that had risen to his tongue, knocked on the inside of the cell door, and left without a word.
Left alone, Sean wept angrily.
Why was this happening to him? He had always thought of himself as lucky. His life had seemed a charmed one. Not any more. Everything was going wrong.
Miranda could not get back to sleep, so at first light she got up and put on her swimsuit, slipped into a towelling robe and sandals, to walk down to the beach, carrying a towel. A swim would help her face the day ahead. After that largely sleepless night she was overheated, weary, stupid with misery and fear.
As she walked along the winding paths through the gardens, she watched the sun coming up out of the sea, a bright orange, hot and glowing, as if made of fiery iron, streaking the sky with colour, pink and red, like blood seeping into the pale, pale blue, beginning to fill the world with light, showing her the way down to the beach. She heard the waves louder and louder, the cry of gulls, the tumbling waves crawling up the beach.
Only a short time ago she had come down here at this hour and found Alex in the sea. He had come up out of the water and grabbed her.
Her heart hurt as she remembered being in his arms that morning, felt his kiss on her mouth.
She ran a sweating hand over her face. She wouldn’t think about him. It was over now, she must begin to forget or she really would go mad.
She slowly took off her robe and laid it down with her towel on top of it, kicked off her sandals and placed them beside the robe, then began to walk down the beach. The water was chilly at this hour of the morning, before the sun warmed it up. She slid down into the sea, gasping, and struck out. A moment later she saw a boat round the high rocks guarding one side of the bay.
White sails billowed. There were two men on board, moving about, pulling on ropes, navigating.
Miranda began to swim, staying cautiously in the shallows. It was safe enough, on this beach, if you stayed close to shore, but she feared the sea. It was as unpredictable as a wild cat, striking at you when you least expected it. It had taken Tom. She had never got over that.
The boat came nearer. One of the men on board hailed her in Greek. She trod water, lifting her head to hear him.
‘Meea keereea . . .’ The other words were drowned by the sound of the waves sloshing about around the boat.
‘Leepa me,’ she said, after saying she was sorry, she didn’t know enough Greek to understand what he had said.
He leant over the side of the boat and she swam closer to hear him better.
He reached down his hands and caught hold of her shoulders.
‘What are you doing?’ Miranda breathlessly said in Greek, feeling herself being lifted, pulled up into the boat. ‘Let go of me!’
A second later she was over the side and slithering wetly down on to the boards in the bottom of the boat.
The man who had dragged her up into the boat bent and picked her up. Terrified, she struggled, screaming.
He carried her into a small cabin and dropped her on the bed. She tried to get off but was caught again and hauled back. As she yelled up at him to let her go he forced her down on the bed and tied a gag around her mouth, then tied her hands behind her back.
She kicked and wriggled, making stifled, angry noises. He ignored her and tied her ankles together.
A minute later he had left the cabin, locking the door behind him, and Miranda was alone, on the bed, unable to move.
Fear drove the blood from her heart. What were they going to do with her?
Chapter Fourteen
Terry was sitting in Alex’s office promptly at two o’clock. Alex arrived ten minutes later, flushed from hurrying.
‘Sorry, I sailed here and the weather was a bit rough. Did you have a good flight?’
‘Calm and trouble-free. I came last night, actually, and stayed in Athens overnight. Nice hotel in Syntagma Square. Excellent food and the rooms are very comfortable.’
He laid a large file bulging with papers on the table. Terry looked down at it.
‘Is that the details of the new navigational aid?’
Terry nodded. ‘I think you’re going to like this one. All you have to do is type in your destination and it plots your course for you. It even changes course if it receives information about storms in your path ahead. Any weather warnings are received automatically from your ship’s radio and it acts on them at once. You could almost leave it to captain the boat for you while you put your feet up.’
‘Sounds interesting. I could have done with it on my trip here.’
Terry gave him a casual, friendly glance. ‘Where were you coming from?’
‘Delephores.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. That’s an island, in the Cyclades, isn’t it? And you have a hotel there.’
‘Uh huh.’ Alex leaned back in his swivel chair, his long legs stretched out to the side, and tapped his fingertips on the leather top of his desk, frowning. ‘Did I tell you about it?’
‘Somebody did, maybe it was you. While I’m here I’d like to see it, could that be fixed? Does a ferry go there?’
‘Yes, once a day. But there really isn’t anything to see, just hills and beaches, little bays, with a few old churches. The sort of scenery you get on the mainland, and here there is so much to see. If you want to take a trip I’d advise you visit Mycenae – see the beehive tombs of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, the ancient tombs up in the acropolis of the city, the lion gate that leads into it. There are tours by coach every day, leaving Athens in the morning, stopping en route for lunch at a little taverna where you eat real Greek cooking and end up with eating fresh grapes picked from the vines you sit under. Very romantic. You’d love it.’
‘Sounds marvellous,’ agreed Terry. ‘Well, I’ll think about it. I was looking forward to seeing your little island, though. But, anyway, first of all, can we look at the specifications on the new navigational aid? It won’t come cheap, but then look at what it does . . .’
Neil Maddrell landed in Athens on the first flight of the day and took a taxi down to Piraeus. He walked along the rows of ships and boats studying the names. It took some time before he found the one he was looking for; his legs were aching and he was very hot. It had been raining in London when he left, the temperature had been low. He had worn a raincoat and carried an umbrella. Now he carried his coat over his arm and his face was red and perspiring as he walked up the gangplank.
A large Greek barred his way. ‘Keeree e?’
‘Sorry, I don’t speak Greek,’ Neil said. ‘I’m Neil Maddrell. I’m going to Delephores, to stay at the hotel.’
The weathered face broke into a smile. ‘Ne!’he shook his head.
Did that mean no? Neil hesitated uncertainly – was this the right boat or not? The Greek in the white t-shirt carrying a logo waved his hand along the boat to an open door.
‘Ne parakalo, keeree.’
Neil made his way along the boat and sat down on one of the padded sofas in the cabin indicated. A few moments later he heard the engines start, then the man who had welcomed him aboard appeared and bowed his head with great courtesy.
‘Please – you want drink?’
‘Beer?’ Neil hopefully enquired and the Greek nodded vehemently.
‘Greek beer. Very good.’
Neil hoped so. He had had no idea Greece made beer, but he was so hot he didn’t much care at the moment. He would have drunk anything. His throat was parched, his face burnt, he was so tired he could fall asleep sitting here.
The beer was icy and refreshing; he drank it almost without tasting it, needing the coolness it spread down his throat, throughout his body.
By then they had left Piraeus behind and were sailing steadily into the blue distance.
He did in fact doze briefly while they sailed; his head fallin
g back against the chair, his body slumped sideways. He was too tired to dream and when he woke up was flushed and still drowsy. Yawning, he sat upright and looked about. The windows were blurred with sea spray and the boat was bucking back and forth like a difficult horse.
He felt the boat slowing noticeably and went out on to the deck which was wet and slippery now. Ahead of them he saw the island, green and grey, with a few scattered houses to be seen.
The Greek seaman appeared. ‘Delephores,’ he told Neil, pointing a long, brown finger. ‘Delephores, sir.’
Neil nodded his understanding. The boat was heading for the harbour – they would probably land in twenty minutes or so, he calculated. He would see Miranda very soon.
The thought excited him. He had missed her badly, was worried about her; she was a very special person.
Now that the body had been discovered and Sean Finnigan charged with murder it wouldn’t be long before she came back to London. Not yet, though. It wouldn’t be safe until the actual trial when she would have to come back to give evidence, and even then, she would need a police guard until the trial was over.
He would be glad to do that, to take care of her, in his flat, make sure the Finnigans didn’t get a chance to hurt her or stop her giving evidence.
The boat had stopped moving. Miranda heard the cabin door open abruptly. She turned her head, lying very still, her heart banging inside her.
The two men came over to the bed and pulled her up off it, carried her between them out on to the deck. They wound a chain around her waist; from it hung something heavy – she couldn’t see what it was, but it clanked against the chain. They were weighting her body, she realised with a sinking of the heart. Walking to the rail of the boat they lifted her, swung her between them, faster and faster, then hurled her into the sea.
Her body sank instantly under the blue waves. Déjà vu. This had happened to her before, except that the last time she was flung into the sea she had had her hands and feet free.
The two men watched the upward splash of water. The girl did not resurface.
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