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

by Rebecca McKinney

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘It started about five years ago, maybe?’ She stared out of the window, ghostly in the fading light. ‘I was in love with him. At one point I thought I might leave Quentin for him.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He’s a married man, and his loyalty to his wife won out. He broke it off in the end.’

  Harrison had been pondering the wisdom of disclosing what Nessa Walker had said about Lucy being in Greece. At this moment it would bring Elizabeth more pain, but even so, she was his client. She had not hired him to hide her daughter’s whereabouts.

  ‘Elizabeth, I believe Lucy may be in Greece with Kostas now.’

  Elizabeth’s shoulders stooped and her ramrod spine subsided into itself. Then she took a deep breath and straightened herself. ‘She may be in Greece, but she won’t be with him. She wouldn’t be. He’s older than I am.’

  ‘Do you really believe that would stop either one of them?’

  ‘No.’ Elizabeth swallowed the remainder of her whisky and closed her eyes. A shudder went through her body. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Lucy’s friend Tim Cartwright.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to Tim?’

  ‘No, but I’ve spoken to someone who heard from him recently. At the moment, we don’t know where Tim is either.’

  ‘Let me tell you about Tim. He’s a slimy, money-grubbing addict masquerading as a do-gooder. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was lying.’

  ‘You met him, then?’

  ‘Yes. The last time I saw her, she was with him. Goodness knows what she saw in him.’

  ‘And you picked all that up from one meeting?’

  ‘It was written all over him. I tried to tell her. Why does Tim think Lucy has gone to Greece?’

  ‘They went together, apparently, to work in a refugee project in Athens, but they split up a couple of months ago.’

  ‘But she’s still there?’

  ‘I can’t say absolutely, but I think so.’

  ‘Is she safe?’

  ‘I don’t know that either. Is there a reason she wouldn’t be safe with Kostas?’

  ‘I don’t believe Kostas would harm her, but do you even know for sure if she’s still with him?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  She gripped the edge of the worktop, her knuckles whitening. ‘Then bloody well go there and find out.’

  ‘You want me to go to Greece. On your bill.’

  ‘If that’s where Lucy is, then I want you to go there and bring her back for me.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t want to come?’

  ‘Then make her!’

  ‘I can’t do that, Elizabeth.’

  She glared at him, then turned away abruptly and began to cry. ‘I’m sorry, Harrison. I know you can’t. I don’t know what’s happened to my life.’

  He stood back and tried to defend himself against the waves of emotion coming from her. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  She mopped her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Another thing. I’d like you to get close to my husband and see if you can figure out what he knows about my dog, or anything else.’ She wrote an address on a sticky note. ‘This is his office. He often leaves there around six and walks to the Guildford Arms.’

  He took the note. ‘Okay.’

  She wouldn’t look at him. ‘I’d like you to go now, please.’

  ‘Keep yourself safe, Elizabeth.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of him anymore, you know,’ she said.

  She was lying.

  It had started to sleet by the time Harrison found his way to the office of Merriweather Holdings, a converted Georgian house on a cobbled New Town side-street. He waited across the road, out of the circles of orange light cast down by the lamps, watching a figure moving around an illuminated room on the second floor. At a quarter past six, the light went out. Harrison pulled his hat down over his ears and drove his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. He waited close to five minutes, wondering how long it took a person to come down the stairs, before the shiny black door opened and the man stepped out. He pulled the door hard behind him, tested it, tightened his scarf and set off to the right. Quentin Merriweather carried his excess weight like an emperor’s cloak, sweeping everyone out of his way as he stormed along the street.

  Harrison followed as closely as he dared for a few seconds, trying to catch Quentin’s vibe without attracting his attention. He felt the same writhing anger he’d perceived at Elizabeth’s house, and also the kind of worry that wakes you up at night and squeezes the breath out of your lungs.

  At the end of the block, he pulled a phone out of his pocket and stared at the little glowing screen as he stepped out into the traffic, ignoring the cars that beeped at him as they rushed down the hill. Harrison waited at the crossing light, wondering if Quentin was suicidal or just blindly audacious.

  The light changed and he hurried to catch up with the big man. The sleet, driven hard by the wind, stung his face, but for once he was grateful for the foul weather. Quentin was hell-bent on the pub and there was little chance of him lifting his eyes or slowing his pace in this evil blast. He walked quickly and his footsteps were heavy. The heels of his leather brogues made a watery scrape on the pavement.

  Quentin went into the Guildford Arms, an elegant old Edinburgh pub that retained its faded, worn-velvet Victorian grandeur. It drew a boisterous crowd of tourists, after-hours businessmen and hardened drinkers, the latter two often being one and the same. Harrison lingered outside, preparing himself for what would hit him the minute he went through the door.

  If he had to describe the blended colour of all these well-dressed people’s emotions, it was the shade of congealed blood: frustration and loneliness shot through with rage. It felt like the onslaught of a violent stomach flu, and knowing it was coming never made it any easier. He would have to glean what he could quickly and leave. He took a deep breath and focused on Quentin’s broad back, in front of him at the bar. Quentin was fixated only on shouldering other men out of the way so he could quench his thirst.

  Harrison waited behind him, allowing the crowd to press them closer together, until the damp black wool of his coat brushed the far more expensive camel wool that Quentin wore. It was risky and possibly dangerous getting this close to the man, but in here there was no other option.

  Where is Lucy, Harrison thought. He asked it over and over, aiming it like the muzzle of a gun at the back of Quentin’s head. Where is Lucy? What have you done to her? You know where she is. Think about her. Remember her. Remember your daughter.

  NINETEEN

  She was the most perfect peach in the orchard: a taut, warm film of skin just thick enough to contain all that perfect, honeyed sweetness. You wanted to pick her from the branch, taste her, let her juices drip down your chin and slowly consumer her. From a young age, she had just enough curve in all the right places, topped off by a glorious, shimmering tumble of blonde hair that could turn any man’s eye. At twelve, she was still a child, totally unaware of her sexuality. By fourteen, she had learned how to use it.

  So had he. On summer days, the North Berwick garden could be a paradise. It was the best place to broker the deals he most wanted, worth the investment of wine and meat. In winter, a fire-warmed drawing-room and brandy. Food and alcohol opened negotiations, but it was Lucy who clinched them. He brought her down to sing for directors, CEOs, provosts, heads of planning departments and government ministers, and when she sang, they were no better than sailors drawn onto the rocks. Fools of men. All men were fools when they put their balls in the driver’s seat, and all the fancy tailoring and private education in the world would never change that. Quentin Merriweather understood this absolutely.

  What he had failed to anticipate was where it would lead. There were things he never imagined he would do for money before he did them.

  It was a foul night and he’d had a bloody rotten day, most of it spent on the phone or Skype, trying to pin down people who he knew were avoiding him. Eliza
beth was clearly not going to play ball either. She could fight as dirty as he could, no doubt about that. Sometimes he had to remind himself not to underestimate her. Now was one of those times.

  He bought himself a large brandy and sat alone on a red velvet bench. Charlie Prescott and Gus Rutherford were usually here by six: brothers in arms, boisterous easy company. They could talk about cars and rugby and go home drunk enough to forget everything else. Going home sober wasn’t an option.

  Somehow, his life had become twisted, like a gold chain thrown into the bottom of a jewellery box. Every year, it got more difficult to distinguish legitimate business from dirty dealing. These days everything felt grubby, but he had to remind himself that this wasn’t his fault. The older he got, the better he understood that the whole damn show was rotten, and if you didn’t play the game, you would be chewed up and spat out. Investments had consequences he never reckoned on when he was young and starting out: bankrolling an engineering project could produce a weapon and that weapon could destroy a town. An oil pipeline could destroy an ecosystem. An outsourced factory was a sweatshop, the procurement of migrant labour was the slave trade by another name. His money, his deals, had led to all of these things. You could only pretend not to be aware for so long, and you either accepted it or you cut your losses and got out.

  Brandy on his tongue brought his mind back to Lucy. He missed her more than he cared to admit to himself, and in ways that shamed him deeply. He missed the smell of her, the glow of her skin. The name Lucy came from the Latin lux, for light. He missed the light she brought to his eyes. He missed the way he felt when she touched him. He missed her voice. That voice. She destroyed men when she sang, like the Sirens of ancient mythology.

  There were moments when he wished for her return, as any father would, and when he wished that he was any father. Secretly, with the brandy in him, he wished that many things had not happened.

  But they had, and it would be disastrous for him if Lucy ever did come back and open her mouth. That could not be allowed to happen. His insides twisted and pain spread from the centre of his chest out to his arms. You make your own destiny, he thought, and if this thing gave him a heart attack, maybe it was what he deserved. It might be better than the alternative.

  He stared into his glass and waited for peace that would never come. After a moment he looked up and searched the crowd for friends. He couldn’t see anybody he knew, which was strange because he knew a great many people in this city. But lately, friends had been thin on the ground. People had been avoiding him since his split from Elizabeth had become public. It wasn’t beyond possibility that the bitch was putting out malicious rumours so that she could blackmail him. Some of the darker gossip had whispered its pernicious way back to his ears. Toxic knowledge had leaked out, about the fights they had had and the things he had done in the heat of the moment. If she wanted to tell people he slapped her around, so be it. But if she thought she could hang him up by telling half-truths about Lucy, or about the nature of some of his business affairs, steps would have to be taken.

  Steps had been taken. The call had come around mid-morning to let him know that the job was done. The brute of a dog was dead, and it would put the fear of God into the bitch. Elizabeth knew enough to understand that silence was her only protection.

  He returned to the bar and shouted for another brandy. A hand landed on his back and a voice said in a strange, mid-Atlantic accent, ‘Hi Bobby.’

  Quentin turned abruptly to face a tall intellectual type with glasses and a beard. ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

  The stranger stood far closer than was necessary. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ He patted Quentin’s arm, but his hand stayed two or three seconds too long. His eye contact was intense. A strange electricity passed between them and Quentin took a step back. Damn poofs felt at liberty to come onto you wherever they liked now. Scotland had become too liberal for its own good.

  ‘You might be better off down Elm Row, mate. The bars are more your kind of scene down there, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip.’ The tall man drifted away without ordering a drink.

  Quentin paid for his brandy and drank it at the bar. There wasn’t any point in going back to the booth. It was looking like Charlie and Gus had stood him up again.

  TWENTY

  Amy squeezed into a little table in the back corner of her favourite café on Leith Walk, making sure there was no chance that anyone could peer over her shoulder at her screen. Nerves jigged in her stomach as she typed the name Kostas Gianopoulos into Google, as if a simple web-search could make her a target. Maybe it could, she thought, glancing up to check what was going on around her.

  The web presented her with several men bearing the name of Kostas Gianopoulos, and within a few clicks, it became obvious which one was her target. In between images of a twenty-something student and an overweight baldy with bad glasses, she found a man who looked like he was next in line for the role of James Bond. He had thick wavy hair, a shadow of stubble over a square jaw, and wore a tight designer suit that showed off a well-trained physique. Only a rich man could look that good in his fifties. Photographed at what looked like some high-brow social function, he stood hand in hand with an equally stunning black-haired woman. Following the links, she noted down everything that seemed important.

  He was, as Nessa Walker indicated, best known for building a string of hotels dotted around the resort areas of the Greek and Turkish Aegean. He was also a noted philanthropist, celebrated for donating significant quantities of his own money to a variety of causes, including the homeless, victims of sexual abuse and refugees. Amy underlined this twice.

  The woman beside him was his wife, Kaliope Maris, who turned out to be a journalist with an international reputation. As a young woman, she had covered fashion for the New York Times and then Paris Match before marrying Kostas and going freelance.

  There was nothing immediately sinister about Gianopoulos or his wife, and in fact, they seemed to be respected and admired wherever they went. She wondered about the wife’s part in all of this, how Kostas was keeping his affair with Lucy secret, and where Lucy was living if not with Kostas. Amy recognised the faint, high-pitched whine in her ears as her personal incoming alert. She sipped her coffee, thinking about where to look next. Rubbing sweaty palms on her jeans, she typed in Kostas Gianopoulos Edinburgh.

  LEITH HOTEL PLAN VICTIM OF BREXIT, announced a small article from the Edinburgh Evening News, dated from early August. Amy held her breath and read:

  Plans for a 50-room boutique hotel in Leith have been mothballed. The hotel, which was to have been part of the ongoing regeneration of the Western Harbour area, has been put on ice. Capital financier Quentin Merriweather and his partner, Greek hotel magnate Kostas Gianopoulos, have withdrawn their planning application, citing Brexit uncertainty. Merriweather, a significant shareholder in Gianopoulos’s Aegean Resort Group, denied a rumoured professional split between the two men. He said, ‘We have worked together seamlessly, across international boundaries, for a decade. This project would have delivered jobs and stimulated tourism in the area. It’s yet another example of how the Great British public have shot themselves in the foot with this idiotic referendum.’

  So Kostas and Quentin were still in touch with each other, or had been as recently as August. This meant either that Quentin knew Lucy was in Greece, or Kostas hadn’t told him. It might explain the suggestion of a split between them. Amy filled the page in her notebook with questions and turned over a fresh sheet.

  She searched Tim Cartwright Greece. Halfway down the page she found a tiny headline in the Coventry Telegraph: FEARS FOR LOCAL MAN MISSING IN GREECE.

  Local Mum, Louise Cartwright, 52, has asked for information to help trace her son Tim Cartwright, a promising young singer who was last known to be working in Athens. Louise, of Kingston Road, told our reporter that the twenty-five-year-old has not been in touch since September 12th. She said, ‘Tim seemed to be in a very low pla
ce last time I spoke to him. He had broken up with a girl he was seeing and didn’t know what he was going to do next. We don’t talk every week, but this is the longest he’s ever gone without being in touch. I worry that he’s done himself a mischief.’ Louise has been in touch with Greek authorities, but hopes anyone with information on Tim’s whereabouts will get in touch.

  ‘Christ,’ Amy muttered. It was a big step forward, although missing so much essential information. The article didn’t name Lucy, for a start. It didn’t mention a father and only hinted that Tim’s relationship with his mother was not as close as it might have been. There was also an indication that Tim might be capable of harming himself, which didn’t surprise Amy in the least. There was no mention of a response from the Greek police, but Amy guessed that this case would not top their list of priorities.

  She looked for Kingston Road, Coventry, and up popped an image of a red-brick terrace almost identical to the one she had grown up on in Belfast. So, a working-class boy without a fat wad of family cash to fall back on. He wouldn’t have the funds to travel indefinitely, without at least earning a little income in some way. Surely busking couldn’t cut it forever. Likewise, poor Louise wouldn’t necessarily be able to fly out to Greece to search for him.

  The distant klaxons were louder now, and goosebumps appeared along her arms. When she blinked, she got a fleeting impression of rippled, undulating water. She closed her eyes and placed her hands on the table, the way Harrison sometimes did, trying to tune out the café noise and listen to the things that were unspoken.

  For a minute, she could hear young voices around her, conversations about parties and jobs and relationships, but then something else came, very faintly, from somewhere far away. Footsteps running, slapping on wet tarmac, and laboured breathing. A sense of panic. Someone in pursuit, bearing down, shouting in a language Amy couldn’t understand. And then, the end of the road: the tarmac falling away into black water.