by J. D. Weston
“A man. I don’t know. Please help me. Get the police.”
But the woman did not flinch at the sound of the police. She dabbed at Emma’s swollen eyes with a tissue then stopped as if for the first time taking in Emma’s face.
“You’re her, aren’t you? You’re the girl in the newspapers. The one everybody is talking about.”
“The newspapers?”
“Yes. You’ve been missing for a week. There’s a reward. The whole city was looking for you.”
She stopped as if she’d said too much or was fearful that the mention of the reward had somehow tainted her offer of help.
“A reward?”
“Who are you, dear? Is it you?”
“Who am I?”
It was a simple question. One that Emma had asked herself time and again in the preceding days. Was she the girl she had left behind? Or the confident woman that the lady had sculpted with lies and betrayal?
Emma looked up, her vision clearing enough to see scant detail as opposed to contrasting bright lights and dark shadows. A car engine accelerated down the short road behind the hotel, stopping a few feet from where Emma was sitting. She turned her attention back to the woman who now stroked her hand as the car door opened.
“What’s your name, dear?”
“Emma Fletcher.” A new voice, deep, bitter, and flavoured with Greek. “Her name is Emma Fletcher.”
The woman turned to face the voice, confused that it was not the voice of her friend. But her inquisitiveness was met with the sickening dull thud of a blow to her head. She fell to the pavement beside Emma, motionless.
Once more, the sun was blocked by the silhouette of somebody standing over her. But this time, all traces of hope had faded away.
“Basil?”
“Get in the van, Emma.” He opened the side door as if inviting her to climb inside by her own freewill.
“No. Please.”
“If you try to run, Emma, you will end up like your friend here.”
He reached into the dark cargo space of the van and flicked on the interior light to reveal pink tones of flesh and electric blue amidst a tangle of long, dark hair. Although Emma’s eyesight was blurred by the gas and the tears, the vague image needed no detail.
“Anna?”
“Get in the van, Emma.”
Two cold, dead eyes stared out of the gloom. They looked past Emma and through the thick, brick walls of the hotel as if contemplating the pain and fear that was etched on Emma’s face.
“She didn’t even fight.”
Laughing at the memory, Basil lit a cigarette, watching as Emma searched along the street for the police.
“They will not help you. Right now, you have two options. Get in the van and live to see another day.” He took a drag on his cigarette and tapped the ash into the gutter. “Or run and die. It is time for you to decide.”
Forced to step over Anna’s body, Emma’s trembling legs gave way and she crumpled to the van floor. She dragged herself to the rear corner furthest from the side door and away from Anna.
Hesitating for a moment to offer Emma a bitter look, Basil slammed the side door closed and opened the driver’s door. But as he climbed in and closed the door behind him, Emma heard a loud bang behind her. She peered through the grimy rear window, rubbing the dirt away with the palm of her hand to see the vague shape of a man who had burst through the fire escape doors. He looked left and right, not hearing or seeing Emma as she slammed the palm of her hand against the glass to get his attention. In an instant, Emma’s spirits lifted from the cold, dark abyss where they had fallen to new depths. A momentary taste of hope.
Raising the tempo of the drumming on the window, Emma hit harder, not caring if her hand should break through the glass.
But nobody heard.
Even as the van pulled out of its spot and Emma wiped away more of the grime to show her face…
Nobody turned to look her way.
With her freedom just metres away, Emma clawed at the glass and screamed as if somehow her pain could be heard or felt. But the van began to turn and Emma pressed her face against the glass in a last ditch effort to reach the man. More people ran from the hotel, too far away to make out, but all with the same anxious appearance as the man. They disappeared from view. Hope fell from its new found lofty heights back into the abyss as Emma’s last chance of freedom faded away.
Chapter Forty-Seven
As Frankie eased the Peugeot down the mountains into Varkiza, thick trees and rocky terrain filled the space either side of the road. Adrian’s BMW clung to the space behind like a shadow, matching his every turn, acceleration, and deceleration. The more powerful BMW could have passed him at any point but hung back under Frankie’s instruction.
The heads of a few bewildered tourists turned as Frankie sped through the sleepy town, disturbing the peace for which Varkiza was known. The screech of car tyres as Frankie slid the car into the Fletchers’ road caught the attention of the few who had yet to stop and turn to see the commotion.
Leaving the car on the road outside the villa, Frankie ran into the driveway, followed by Adrian’s BMW. Three of the car doors opened as Frankie ran past. As he shouldered his way through the front door, Sharon and Angela anxiously stood behind him and a sheepish looking Adrian followed.
But the scene Frankie found was far beyond what he had envisaged. In the centre of the living room, a dining chair stood precariously on top of the large dining table. Standing on the chair with a makeshift noose around his neck and fixed to the first-floor banister was Alan.
“Don't come any closer.”
“Alan, stop.”
Trying to gain control of the situation, Frankie raised his voice as Sharon burst in behind him.
“No, Alan,” she cried. “What are you doing?”
“Get back.”
Finding Sharon with bloodshot eyes, Alan and his wife shared a look that conveyed multiple emotions: treachery, sorrow, and above all else love. Unable to control herself, Sharon tried to run to his aid. But she was halted by Frankie’s arm, giving Alan the distance he’d requested.
“Stay back. It’s okay. Nothing is going to happen to him.”
“You can’t stop me. I’ve ruined it all. I’ve killed her.”
“Alan, we can talk this through. You don’t need to do anything. I know what happened.”
“You don't know anything. Get that bitch out of here.”
“Alan?”
Sharon made another move towards her husband, which caused him to flinch and lose balance. Holding her back, Frankie watched, ready to jump into action should Alan fall.
But Alan regained his balance. His breathing was audible and his eyes were red from what Frankie imagined had been hours of anguish.
“I know about Constantine, Alan. I know what happened,” said Frankie.
“She’s gone.” His cracked voice and tears offered Frankie an opportunity to edge closer, but his advance was noticed. “Get back. Get back or I’ll do it.” Tipping the chair with his feet, Alan readied himself to end his pain.
“Alan, why are you doing this?” Unable to control herself, Sharon’s screams conveyed her usual controlling manner as if belittling her husband’s actions.
But Frankie quietened her by raising his hand. Maintaining control of the situation was key. If he let Sharon talk, Alan would be sure to topple the chair. Then finding Emma would be impossible.
“I know about you. I know about you and him.” Spitting the words, Alan sneered at Adrian, who backed away. “That’s it, you coward, get out. Do you see what you’ve done?”
“Alan, look-”
But Adrian’s attempts at pacifying Alan were cut short.
“You’re the reason this happened. You’re the reason we came here. Do you think I don't know that?” He turned his attention to Sharon. “Do you think I didn't know that you came here to see him? Pretending to see her and shacking up with him. Did you think I couldn't smell him on you?”
“Alan, stop.”
“Your marital affairs can wait, Alan.” Quietening the room, Frankie looked around at them all with disgust. “I’m not here to talk about your marriage. I’m here to find Emma, and if you go through with this, we’ll never find her. Think about Emma, Alan. Think about your daughter. She’s out there and she’s alive. I know she is.”
Vocalising his daughter’s name brought on a wave of remorse from Alan.
Realising that Frankie had pieced together information that she was yet to comprehend, Sharon lowered her voice. She moved Frankie’s arm away and walked closer to Alan.
“Stay back,” he cried again. “I’ll do it.”
“What have you done, Alan?” asked Sharon.
“Get her away.”
“What have you done? What have you done to our daughter?”
“He hasn't done anything to her, Sharon,” said Frankie.
“Get her away.”
Pleading with Frankie to remove his wife, Alan once more tipped the chair with his feet so the corners of the chair legs slid on the polished surface of the table.
“Sharon.” Placing a gentle hand on Sharon’s shoulder, Frankie squeezed once to express his sincerity then pulled with as little force as he could until she stepped back and stood by his side. “Alan, we need to find her. Why don't you come down and we can talk it through? You’re not in any trouble.”
“She’s gone. I tried to get her back. Honest, I tried. But-”
“It’s Constantine, isn't it, Alan?” Alan’s head snapped up in reaction to the mention of the rogue’s name. “You owed him money, didn't you?”
Wide eyes stared back at Frankie as if questioning how he knew. Then they fell on Angela who stood sheepishly alongside her brother.
“It’s okay, Alan. All the secrets are out. Your wife was having an affair with Adrian so you felt it necessary to do the same. It’s not a crime, Alan. Emotions aren't a crime.”
“I tried to win it back.”
“At the Red Omega?” Knowing he was correct, Frankie fed information to loosen Alan’s tongue, a tactic that had worked during their initial interview, hoping that suicide would seem unnecessary once the secrets had been aired.
“Yes. It wasn't a lot at first. But the second time we went, I lost our holiday money. I had to call in some favours.”
“And from there it escalated?”
Nodding, shame written all over his wretched face, Alan blinked away his tears and stared at the floor below, fingering the noose around his neck like it offered him some kind of comfort.
“How much, Alan? How much do you owe him?”
But the nod turned into a shake as if Alan couldn't bring himself to speak the amount.
“Alan, it’s okay. We can get Emma back. But we need you. Without you, we have nothing to go on. How much did you owe him?”
“I couldn't help it.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
“Every time I went there, I left owing more.”
“How much, Alan?”
Looking up from the floor, Alan glanced at Frankie then stared at his wife.
“Thirty thousand euros.”
“What are you saying, Alan?” Sharon looked between the two men as if she’d somehow not understood what the conversation had meant. “What have you done to our daughter?”
“Your husband, Mrs Fletcher, knew about your affair with Adrian. He retaliated by sleeping with your old school friend and by doing the very thing you despised him for.”
He gestured at the pile of papers that Alan had shoved off the table onto the floor in preparation for his suicide. Frankie brought her attention to the well-thumbed copies of the Racing Post, a newspaper aimed at individuals who enjoyed a flutter on the horses or dogs.
“You gambled with our daughter’s life?”
“No, Sharon. He gambled to get back at you for the affair. But when Alan couldn't pay, even with your expensive wedding ring, Constantine took the only thing of value to a family with so few possessions on holiday.”
“Constantine took our daughter? For what?”
“To sell her. To recoup the money owed to him and to teach Alan a lesson. Nobody messes with Constantine. Not in Varkiza. Not anywhere.”
“But who did he sell her to? Who would buy a girl…” Even as she spoke the words, the reality of it all dawned on Sharon. “Oh God. Human traffickers? But how would Constantine know them?”
Ignoring Sharon’s questions, which he knew would not cease, Frankie returned his attention to bringing Alan down from the teetering chair.
“Alan, I need you to come down. I need you to help me find her.”
“No. It’s over for me. She’s gone and it’s all my fault.”
“She’s not gone yet, Alan. But if you do this, she’ll be gone forever. Who did Constantine sell her to?”
“I don't know. If I knew, I would have said something.”
“No, Alan. If you had said anything then Constantine would have taken your wife. I know how this works. Constantine is not a man who would take kindly to being investigated. That’s why you kept quiet. That’s why you didn't want me here. Now tell me where he’s taken her.”
“I don't know. I had until yesterday to find the money. But I couldn't. I called the bank but it’s all in Sharon's name, the house, the money, everything.”
“And then what, Alan?”
“He said that if I didn't find the money, I’d never see her again.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Stepping forward, Angela spoke for the first time. “I know Constantine, and he’s a bad, bad man. But he doesn't know people like that. He’s small time, a small town crook. That’s all. He wouldn't know human traffickers. He’s not that big.”
“No, you’re right, Angela.” Turning to face the woman who spoke with confidence and reason, Frankie nodded in agreement. “But he knows people who would have contacts.”
“Someone who might have a spare thirty thousand euros to buy the debt and who could sell Emma on for more?”
“Emma’s a beautiful, young girl. She’s intelligent, smart, and…” Catching Sharon’s eye, Frankie spoke his next word carefully. “Unsullied.”
“No. Stop.”
“A girl like Emma would be worth a lot more than thirty thousand euros to the right man with the right needs.”
Weakened by Frankie’s summary, Sharon dropped to her knees then fended off Angela’s attempts to help her with a bitter look of hate.
“Who? Who would know someone like this?” Sharon sobbed.
Taking in the faces in the room, Frankie finished on Alan. He stepped closer to the man and rested his hand on the chair, pushing it back onto its legs and meeting little resistance.
“I know who has your daughter, Alan. Come down. Help me get her back.”
Ignoring the people behind him, Frankie stared up at Alan, locking eyes and sharing a moment of fatherly understanding. Daring not to move until Alan had pulled the noose from around his neck, Frankie helped him from the table and hugged the man while the last of his tears ran free.
“It’s okay, Alan. I can get her back. But she needs you. She needs her father. I’ve read her diary and, to her, you are the most amazing man that walks the earth. I bet she’s out there right now thinking about you. Thinking about the times that it was just you and her. Or remembering the little things you would do like organise a boat trip while she relaxed on the beach with her mum. She loves you, Alan, and when all this is over, she’s going to need her father more than ever.”
Feeling the nod of Alan’s head against his shoulder, Frankie pushed him away to check he was okay. Then he made to leave the room. From the floor, Sharon looked up at Frankie, confused.
“Where are you going?”
Stopping at the door, Frankie considered his next words. Then he turned and spoke them with a confident defiance.
“I’m going to get Emma back before it’s too late.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
The ugly screec
h of seagulls was the first sound Emma heard when the van stilled and the engine shuddered to a stop. The second was a rumble of men’s voices. The third noise drowned the outside world in a drum-like heart beat that seemed to fill Emma’s ears like the passing of a thundering river.
A beam of light shone through the grimy rear windows, finding Emma’s hand prints and lighting Anna’s unmoving body as if the heavens above had seen her beauty and resolve, and were now calling her soul.
But the corner where Emma sat, frozen with terror, was shrouded in darkness.
The sharp click of the lock echoed off the metal walls and the door slid open to reveal the dark outlines of two men. Shielding her eyes against the bright light, Emma pushed herself against the side of the van, knowing that whatever came next would be far worse than the nightmares her imagination had proposed.
The gulls, louder now, squawked in a taunting chorus. Emma pictured the birds perched in a row and jostling for the best position to view her being removed, degraded, and banished from the world she knew. Sentenced to a life of the unknown.
The first man reached into the van without so much as a glance in Emma’s direction. Strong arms reached beneath Anna’s body, raising her up so that her head fell back and her long hair grazed the van’s dirty floor. The single beam of ethereal light brightened her face.
“She ran, sir. There was nothing I could do.”
It was Basil’s voice, cold and almost apologetic.
Almost.
“Put her in the sea before somebody sees her. The ship will leave before she washes ashore.”
But before Basil could manoeuvre Anna’s body from the rear of the van, the light that had graced her beautiful face faded. The heavens above had taken her soul and all that remained was the carcass of the girl who had shared Emma’s fear.
“Out.”
It was the second man’s voice. It was familiar, foreign and strong, but familiar nonetheless.
Emma remained still, gripped by fear.