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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.
Who was she? Did her appearance at the hotel explain Pandora’s tear-stained face and distress just now? And what did Charles mean – there will be hell to pay? If he hears about it? Or had he said: if she hears about it?
‘He doesn’t scare me. This is a hotel. I’ve a perfect right to be here.’ The woman’s voice warmed, grew sensual. ‘How are you, Charles? You look wonderful. You haven’t given me a kiss yet.’
Miranda moved again, in shock in time to see the woman leaning closer, her slender arm going round Charles’ neck. There was the sound of a kiss; their mouths together.
