Siren Song (Harrison Jones and Amy Bell Mystery Book 1)

by Rebecca McKinney

  Harrison handed across a card. ‘If you hear anything or think of anything else, I’d appreciate it if you could let me know.'

  ‘Aye, sure.’

  ‘Thank you so much. We appreciate you taking the time to speak to us.’

  ‘No bother. Good luck, eh? I don’t think Lucy and Tim had any idea what they might have been getting themselves into. I’d hate to think something awful’s happened to either of them.’

  ‘We’ll find them, I promise,’ Amy said.

  Harrison stood up, anger jolting through him like a shot of adrenaline. Of all the things she could have said, this was the worst. ‘Let’s go, Amy.’

  ‘What did I do?’ she asked as soon as they were back on the street. He was striding away from her, embarrassed by his display of irrational anger and afraid of hurting her with it.

  ‘Nothing. It’s fine, come on.’ He unlocked the car, slid in and pulled his door shut.

  Amy got in beside him. ‘It doesn’t take a psychic to see you’re pissed off. Tell me what I did wrong.’

  Harrison put the key into the ignition, started the engine and sat for a moment. Then he turned it off again and took a deep breath. She might have a natural instinct for this, but she had much to learn. ‘So this is the most important rule. Never promise anybody we’ll find a person. Never do that.’

  ‘Oh.’ She closed her eyes as the understanding came.

  ‘We might find her dead. We might not find her at all. This thing has all of a sudden got a lot bigger. She might be at the bottom of the Mediterranean for all we know.’

  Amy tilted her head back and pressed her palms into her eyes. ‘Surely not.’

  ‘Are you predicting the future right now, Amy? I sincerely hope you are.’

  She let out a wobbly breath. ‘No.’

  ‘No. Please just ... don’t make promises we may not be able to keep.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She touched the sleeve of his coat and he knew she was sorry for more than just the thing she’d said to Nessa. A bone-crushing weight pinned him to the seat. He closed his eyes and gripped the steering wheel. Sorrow was always the most painful emotion.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He couldn’t begin to put it into words. He started the engine and drove back toward town. Amy sat silently beside him, and he could feel her humiliation. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You did well in there.’

  She glanced at him. ‘That’s coming from personal experience, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.’

  Amy nodded. ‘I’ll know better the next time.’ Silence fell between them and she faced away from him, watching the passing lights. After a time, she said, ‘I’m working nights the rest of the week, so might be out of touch.’

  Harrison thought it was probably best to have a break from each other. ‘Okay.’

  ‘What about this Kostas Gianopoulos, then? It sounds like she might be in Greece with him.’

  ‘Sounds like it. He was a friend of her parents, and she’s sleeping with him in Greece and they have no idea? What does that say to you?’

  ‘That she likes older men and she’s ashamed to tell her folks?’

  ‘That’s one interpretation.’ Harrison could think of many others. He sighed and drummed his fingers on the wheel as the traffic around the Cameron Toll ground to a standstill. ‘Greece. Great.’

  ‘That might complicate things a wee bit.’

  ‘Just a wee bit.’

  FIFTEEN

  The dress they laid out for her that night was black lace, figure-hugging and off the shoulders. Lucy tried it on and looked at herself in the mirror, holding her hair up off her neck. It was a perfect fit. They always were. She spread her hands over her belly, closed her eyes and thought about Kostas. For a few minutes, she pretended that she had Kostas’s baby growing inside her. That would have changed everything.

  Kaliope couldn’t give him a baby, but Lucy could. She could have, if they’d had a little more time, and surely then he’d have let Kaliope go. Their marriage was a sham anyway. It was all about the money. Lucy knew what that looked like. She’d grown up with it.

  Maybe it could still happen, if she could go back home with him.

  Who was she kidding? It wasn’t her home. It was Kaliope and Kostas’s home. Still, Kostas said he would let Kaliope go for her. He promised, and she still believed him.

  She’d have to finish here first, but Victor had asked her to extend her contract for another month. She had agreed because it was the easiest money she’d ever made. She sang for an hour every evening, and other than that, all she had to do was lie around in the sun, read books and drink wine. The sea was pure turquoise. This was more like an all-expenses-paid holiday.

  If she was honest with herself, she was a bit bored. Apart from Agata, the older woman who looked after her, there wasn’t anybody to talk to.

  She wished she hadn’t agreed to stay on here. Kostas consumed her. She entertained herself with memories of the life she had tasted. It had been a perfect life, even if it had only lasted a few months. When she and Tim first went with Kostas to his country villa, she thought they had arrived in heaven. She loved every aspect of the estate: the whitewashed walls, the arbours shaded by pale green vine leaves and magenta bougainvillaea, the blue-tiled swimming pool, the orange and lemon orchards, the olive groves stretching far across the undulating hillside, the scent of bay leaves, the view sweeping down over the sea.

  The first night Kostas asked her and Tim to play, the reception was so enthusiastic that Lucy dared to believe that they might be on the brink of a breakthrough. Kostas knew many record producers, and not just Greek ones. He had contacts in London, New York, Austin, Los Angeles.

  Kostas’s people brought out wine, champagne, gin, whisky, ouzo and as much food as you could eat. When the company filtered down to those with the most commitment and endurance, he brought out proper Turkish hookahs and the best green she’d ever smoked. There was harder stuff on offer, whatever you wanted, but Lucy didn’t bother with it. Kostas never partook, and she was high enough. In fact, she was flying.

  Sometimes Tim went off somewhere and she wouldn’t see him the rest of the night. His jealousy made him so downright mean that Lucy stopped caring what he swallowed or snorted or shot into his arm. If he wanted to waste himself, she was tempted to seize whatever opportunity she could for herself and leave him in the dust. She was the one with the voice. Guitarists were a dime a dozen.

  Tim wasn’t ignorant, even when he was wasted. He saw that she was falling for Kostas, as vehemently as she denied it.

  Kostas was more than twice her age. He was also a married man, although Kaliope spent most of her time travelling and he indicated that they both preferred it that way. Lucy asked if there were any children. ‘God has not seen fit to bless my wife with fertility,’ Kostas said.

  But God had most certainly blessed him in other ways. He could speak five languages fluently and argue a point so well you couldn’t imagine disagreeing with him. He had the physique of a classical statue. His curling light brown hair was almost exactly the same colour as his skin, and his eyes were emerald green when the light hit them. When Kostas spoke to her, when he flashed a smile across a crowded room, it felt like the sun glowing right down inside the core of her body. By comparison, Tim was scruffy, inarticulate and embarrassingly English.

  Weeks passed in a giddy whirl of voices and tastes and passions. At first, it was hard to believe that she had a place among these people, but the more she sang for them, the more confident she became. They gathered around her, gushed about her voice, took selfies with her, brought her flowers and gifts. She floated in a golden haze while Tim got more jealous and miserable by the day.

  When Tim walked out, she called Kostas and asked him to come get her. He arrived in his big black Range Rover and took her home. They were alone together at his house for the first time, and he made love to her under the grape arbour.

  T
here was a single knock on the door and Agata entered in her usual brusque fashion. ‘He has asked to see you before you sing tonight. You must come.’

  ‘I’m almost ready,’ Lucy said, applying her lipstick. ‘Do I look good?’ She’d swallowed one of the pills that eased the nerves, and washed it down with wine. It had made her head giddy and her legs soft, but everything was easier that way: the singing, the broken conversation, and accepting the wandering hands of the old men.

  ‘You are like the sunshine itself,’ said Agata. ‘He will be pleased.’

  Agata led her upstairs to Victor’s stateroom, where he welcomed her with kisses on each cheek. ‘My dear. Please, sit.’ He slid over a silver bowl containing caviar. ‘I have something for you to taste.’

  ‘I’m not a fan,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I believe you’ll like this,’ he said, scooping the glistening black beads onto a spoon and bringing it toward her mouth. ‘Try.’

  When his voice took on a certain tone, you couldn’t refuse him. She opened her mouth and accepted the spoonful, trying to let the gelatinous, salty mass slide down before she could taste it.

  ‘Divine, isn’t it?’

  She pressed her fingers over her lips and nodded. ‘The best I’ve ever had. Victor, my phone is out of credit, so I can’t reach anyone. Is there any way for me to top it up?’

  ‘Of course, we will do that for you. Remind me in the morning. Lucy, there is something I wish to discuss.’ He paused and closed his eyes, as though a pain had crossed his chest. ‘I am led to believe that you have, on occasion, been willing to perform in ways other than singing.’

  ‘Oh, I ...’ Her face grew hot. How could he have known about that? ‘It was a long time ago, and I needed the money. I know it’s a horrible thing to do.’

  ‘Shh, my beauty,’ he whispered. His fingertips brushed her cheek. ‘Never be ashamed of what you are. You misunderstand me. I bring this up because tonight I have some very special friends coming and I would like their visit to be memorable. I would like to propose adding this extra service into your contract of employment, Lucy.’

  ‘You want me to sleep with people?’ She could hear herself saying the words, but the scene felt unreal, as if she was only acting in a play she’d been in before. The lines were so familiar, they had become part of her, and as hard as she might try, she would never forget them. But she had sworn never to act this role again.

  She tried to shake some clarity back into her head. ‘That’s not what I signed up for.’

  His hand closed around her wrist. ‘Nevertheless, my dear, that is what you will do.’

  SIXTEEN

  Death didn’t require war, terror or other sinister forces. Some people brought it on themselves without any help. An obese diabetic in a house full of beer cans and takeaway boxes. A teenage girl with a bottle of pills and a razor blade. A cyclist with no light and no helmet. Some nights were like that. Amy washed her hands for a final time, splashed water on her face and wondered what forces were responsible for deciding who made it and who didn’t. You could blame yourself if you wanted to, but most things were out of your control. The damage was done before you got there. Heavy traffic delayed you a minute too long. A person’s card had been drawn. Fate had fingered them. Maybe it was natural selection: the ill, the weak and the reckless were weeded out for the good of the species.

  Except that couldn’t be right. She didn’t consider herself ill, weak or reckless. Yet, little over a week ago, she’d been standing on the bridge. She still didn’t know what had taken her onto the bridge that night or where those desperate thoughts of surrender had come from. What Amy did know was that if she hadn’t had those thoughts at that moment in time, she wouldn’t have met Harrison Jones.

  Maybe it was true that everything happened for a reason. That’s what her mother always told her. Amy had always railed against her mother’s fatalistic acceptance of everything bad. Ulster was the way it was for a reason. Her brother died for a reason. Yeah sure, Amy would shout back, but whose reason? Her mum said it was God’s.

  Amy couldn’t believe in God, but now at least she could believe in herself. She could believe in the feelings that came into her, the feathery vibrations that tickled her skin and made her pulse race. And she could believe, with one hundred per-cent certainty, that Ricky would be waiting outside her door when she got home. She slowed her gait and curled her fingers.

  Turning the corner, she released her fists. Ricky was sitting on the pavement with his back against the dirty tenement wall, huddled down there with the dog piss and old juice bottles, looking for all intents and purposes like a rough sleeper. It was still early morning, and people on their way to work veered around him, seeing him as little more than an obstruction in the road. He was half asleep and didn’t notice Amy coming. Whatever menace he had carried with him when he’d come here had leaked away into the gutter.

  ‘What the fuck, Ricky?’

  His eyes opened and he looked up blearily. He was shaking with the cold. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Work. Where do you think?’

  He shrugged, like he had to ask the question but didn’t care about the answer.

  ‘You look like a homeless tramp.’

  ‘Why do you have to be so nasty?’

  ‘It’s not nasty, it’s just the truth, and you shouldn’t be here. You aren’t part of my life anymore, Ricky. I don’t owe you anything.’

  ‘You used to love me, doesn’t that count for anything?’

  ‘It might have, if you hadn’t been an abusive, bullying bastard.’

  ‘Abusive?’ He managed a shuddering laugh. ‘You’re the one who practically kneecapped me the other day.’

  ‘You were following me. That is not okay. Go and get up off your arse and quit being so pathetic. What is it you want, exactly?’

  He struggled to his feet, face creased with pain, and stood there looking like a beaten dog. The seat of his jeans was soaking. ‘I just want someone to treat me like a human being. I fought for this country, I almost lost my leg for this country and now it tosses me out like a piece of shite.’

  Amy sighed. Just when you were working yourself up to turn your back on him, he came out with the sob story and made you feel sorry for him. Always his favourite trick.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve nae cash left. Nothing in the bank, and a few coppers in my pocket. They’ve sent me to the fucking food bank so I can eat, like. You telling me that’s a decent way to treat someone who put his life on the line for this country?’

  ‘It’s not a decent way to treat anybody. What happened to your dole?’

  ‘A job came up, some crappy thing in an office up the West End. I went to the interview and honest to God, the boy that interviewed me was a wee soft faggot in a suit and tie. He smelled of fucking ladies’ perfume. I thought, there’s no chance in hell I’m going to survive working for him, so I walked out on the interview. What does the arse do? He phones the Jobcentre and tells them. So that’s me punished. Cut off. It’s a fucking disgrace. I should be signed off. I’m disabled.’

  ‘You could do an office job. You could do a lot of jobs. And the other weekend, you were out on the razzle. You apparently had plenty of money then.’

  ‘Final blow out, eh? Before the starvation rations kicked in. I don’t want an office job.’ He shivered and rubbed his hands up the arms of his inadequate jacket. ‘I’m bloody freezing, hen, can I just come up for a wee bit and get warm.’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  He took a step toward her and extended a hand. ‘You’re a cold-hearted bitch.’

  Amy stepped out of his reach. ‘Sure, I might be that, but just to prove to you that the entire world isn’t out to get you, I’m going to buy you breakfast. Come on.’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Don’t be an arse. Come before I change my mind.’

  He followed her meekly to the café around the corner and consumed a fried breakfast like he’d been lost in the w
ilderness for a week. Amy drank tea and tried to remember the man she had once agreed to marry. It was hard to bring him back now; the spectre in front of her was barely recognisable as the same person. It was even harder to bring back any feeling for him except a kind of annoyed pity.

  ‘You need to get help,’ she said. ‘You’re not coping.’

  Ricky jabbed a finger toward her. ‘And whose fault is that?’

  ‘You tell me.’ He stuck the last bite of sausage into his mouth and glared at her.

  ‘Don’t you dare try to blame me for the state you’re in.’

  ‘Maybe we could ... you know ... try again.’

  She dragged her hand down her face. ‘Oh Ricky, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I love you, Amy.’

  ‘Grow a pair and get over it.’

  ‘That’s nice. Really fucking pleasant, you, eh? What happened to Do No Harm, Doc? You mind that one?’ His volume rose and a couple of people turned their heads.

  She let a moment pass before saying quietly, ‘I’ve met someone.’

  This caused some guilt because it wasn’t like that with Harrison. It wasn’t going to be like that with Harrison either, but Ricky didn’t have to know that.

  ‘Oh aye, who?’

  ‘A nice person, that’s who.’

  ‘How long has this been going on? Did you not think to tell me?’

  ‘Long enough, and why should I have thought to tell you?’

  ‘Because you and me belong together.’

  ‘Get some help, Ricky.’ She took out her purse and dropped thirty pounds onto the table. ‘Keep the change. Buy yourself some rations.’

  ‘I don’t want your charity, Amy.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have come begging. See you later.’

  ‘Can I have your new number?’

  ‘No.’ She left him sitting there and went home to get changed.

  To avoid another potential encounter with Ricky, she changed the route of her run. She wound her way around the back of the stadium, through the housing estates and eventually to Portobello. Amy pushed herself faster as she ran along the promenade, trying not to let anything enter her mind except the music from her headphones. Toward the far end, she dropped to a walk, her lungs squeezing like bellows, and cut down onto the beach. It was a decent morning, pink clouds stretching across a pale blue sky, and milder than usual for the time of year. The water looked like an undulating aluminium surface.