The Greek Escape

by Karen Swan

  ‘No.’

  ‘Even though you had arranged the flight over?’

  ‘Yes. He had wanted to leave immediately on the way out. It was all very last-minute.’

  ‘Didn’t you think that was odd?’

  ‘Not really. He believes the greatest gift of money is spontaneity.’

  Sergeant Mahoney’s eyebrow shot up, unimpressed, and she imagined he could think of its many other gifts that might be considered greater than that. ‘Why was he in such a rush?’

  She suppressed a sigh. ‘Because he said he didn’t want to lose the summer. He wanted to get on and buy somewhere.’

  ‘But August is a sneeze away. He left it a bit late for looking for a holiday home in the middle of July, didn’t he? These things take months to go through.’

  ‘Which is why he came through us rather than an agent. I sorted out a shortlist for him in under a week.’

  ‘But the paperwork? And the money?’

  ‘I wasn’t involved in that. He said he had business interests there – he said the money was already in place.’

  He took a deep breath, his eyes narrowed to slits as he watched her closely. ‘Miss Marston, were you aware that he paid the owners for the property in cash? That he gave them a huge bung to hand over the deeds immediately?’

  Bung? She went still. ‘No. I didn’t know that. I had assumed it would be a bank transfer.’

  ‘Why do you think he would have paid three million euros, cash, for a property that’s worth less than half that?’

  That was what he’d spent? She was taken aback. ‘Well, many of our clients will spend whatever they see fit to secure what they want,’ she said slowly. ‘At a certain level, money ceases to become as important as time.’

  ‘Lucky them,’ he said sarcastically and she could only shrug in response; it wasn’t like she was one of them. ‘And so you booked a second plane on the . . .’ He checked his notes. ‘On Wednesday night, coming to the island from the South of France?’

  ‘Yes. Montpelier. He had furniture in storage that he wanted to be brought over for the house; it landed mid-morning on Thursday.’

  ‘That’s an efficient service you provide.’

  ‘That’s the point of our service,’ she said shortly.

  He tapped his pen against the top of his notepad, thinking deeply, watching her. ‘It all seems very strange to me – the urgency; the cash. And the house itself doesn’t seem like the kind of thing a man with his presumed level of wealth would want. There are bigger, fancier places available for sure. Why fly all the way out there on a private jet, only to buy a ramshackle farmhouse?’

  ‘Actually, it was rather charming.’

  ‘But the journey alone would have cost almost as much as the property.’

  She shrugged. ‘Horses for courses, I suppose. I was personally rather gratified by his choice. It gets tiresome only ever dealing with clients who want trophy houses and phallic jets.’

  The police officer openly studied her. ‘It sounds like you liked him.’

  She swallowed. ‘It’s in my best interest to like my clients, Sergeant, given how closely I have to work with them.’

  ‘It was nothing more than that?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I found him a little intriguing. He’s not like most of our clients.’

  ‘No? How would you describe him?’

  She thought for a moment, remembering how he’d leapt across the balcony, arms outstretched, eyes ablaze, coming to claim her – in that moment, she had never felt more beautiful, more desirable, more wanted, all the things Tom had made her doubt. He had been free and wild, spontaneous, sexy as hell . . . ‘I guess I would say he was personable, intelligent, understated. But he could also be brusque at times. Distracted. Impatient too.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why he targeted you?’

  ‘He didn’t target me,’ she protested. The very suggestion gave her the chills.

  ‘No? But you said earlier there was no record of his alleged appointment with Miss Langham in her diary; that he just turned up at the office the very first workday morning after her accident. Don’t you think that timing was a little strange?’

  ‘Not really,’ she mumbled, but even as she said it, she remembered Poppy’s message on the board. No Joe. What if it wasn’t amnesia? Had she been trying to tell her she didn’t know him? That there had never been any appointment arranged between them?

  The sergeant must have seen her sudden doubts because he leaned in, pressing harder now. ‘And then of course, he turned up on Monday night insisting you accompanied him to Greece – not giving you a moment to think, to tell anyone even.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’d put it quite like that,’ she mumbled. But she wasn’t so sure now. Had it been that way, really, and she’d just been too drunk to sense a sinister undercurrent?

  ‘Did you tell anyone?’

  ‘Well, no, but—’

  ‘Tell me, when you were in his company – did you ever feel intimidated by him? Frightened?’

  She remembered the phone call; the way he had watched her pretend to sleep as he’d climbed back into bed, as though knowing she was faking. She could still remember the feel of her own rapidly beating heart against the mattress springs. She had been scared that he knew she’d overheard him, that he had done the very thing he didn’t want and aroused her suspicions. So, yes, she’d been scared. As well as humiliated and ashamed. Take your pick.

  ‘Miss Marston?’ Sergeant Mahoney was watching her closely, seeing how she had begun to wring her hands. ‘If you saw or heard anything at all, even if it doesn’t seem particularly important to you, you need to share it with us; let us decide what is and isn’t relevant.’

  She swallowed. It wasn’t like she owed Joe anything; he had used her, lied to her. He wasn’t what he’d said he was: thirty-four, from Vermont, engineering firm . . . had anything he’d said been true? ‘I heard him on the phone this morning.’

  He looked interested, her hesitation pricking his curiosity. ‘Okay. What time?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly. Dawn, whenever that is out there.’

  He arched an eyebrow. ‘That’s very early.’

  ‘He was jet-lagged, we both were; we kept waking and sleeping at odd times. My room was next to his and my doors were open; I heard him on the balcony.’ It was technically true.

  ‘And who was he talking to?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it was a woman, I think.’

  ‘You think? How could you tell?’

  She shrugged, looking down at her hands. ‘It was just the tone he used, I guess.’

  He inhaled deeply, considering this; her. ‘And what did he say to this woman?’

  ‘Just that he hadn’t been able to get away and it was difficult to talk . . . And then he said something about not wanting to arouse suspicion.’

  The police officer leaned forward again, like a hound scenting blood. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, that was it. My door creaked and he stopped talking; he went back into his room after that. I couldn’t hear the rest of it.’

  A look of annoyance rippled across his face. ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘No. And besides, it wasn’t like I was trying to overhear; I don’t make a habit of eavesdropping on people, Sergeant.’ Although perhaps she should, she wondered.

  ‘Even after what you’d heard?’

  ‘I didn’t know what I’d heard, what it meant.’

  ‘So you didn’t bring it up with him?’

  ‘Of course not. It was none of my business and I was leaving that morning anyway.’

  ‘So you just . . . went your separate ways? You flew back here and he went to France?’

  ‘Exactly. I had done what I was required to do, there was no further reason to remain there.’

  ‘You weren’t tempted to stay on?’

  ‘He was my client,’ she said firmly.

  ‘No, he’s not that, Miss Marston. At the very least, he’s a conman.’ He snapped his notebook shut
and looked her straight in the eye. ‘And at most, he’s something much, much worse.’

  Mediterranean Sea, off the coast of Provence

  She stood on the teak deck and looked out to the dark horizon, her back turned to the sparkling lights of the Côte d’Azur; they held no appeal for her any more. She didn’t care about the parties in the beautiful villas, the gowns on the beautiful hostesses, the men in silk jackets with promises in their eyes. There was one such event going on right now, populated with faces she knew, the night sky colouring red, purple and green as fireworks exploded on and on in a lavish display. She wasn’t sorry to be missing it; she had lived in that world and found nothing below the surface – nothing to nourish or sustain her, no real friendships, no reasons to keep her there.

  Now it was the blank space that lured her, the dark horizon she felt pulling her away from here. She wanted silence. Peace. Oblivion. She couldn’t go on another day. Everything was a lie. She knew this was her only way out.

  Behind her, she heard the slow, heavy tread of one of the security guards patrolling the deck, a gun in his waistband. If it was supposed to make her feel safe, it didn’t.

  She fussed with the skirt of her billowing gown as he passed; it was sea-green silk, suitably – a voluminous to-the-floor sundress that could almost have doubled as a parachute – but it wasn’t from the sky that she would fall.

  She waited for his footsteps to recede, watching as his shadow disappeared around the curve of the stern. She would only have a few minutes now. She didn’t want him to stop her, to save her. It would be no mercy. He might think he saw her life from the inside, but he had no idea of what happened behind those closed doors, just a few feet away from where he walked.

  Glancing round to make sure no one else was near, or watching, she climbed over the rail. The ledge was narrow and she turned inwards, facing the deck to get a better grip – to have one final look.

  Overhead the sky split gold, fountains of colour raining down as thunderclaps rattled the stars, ready to camouflage a splash. With a deep breath, she looked over to the dining area where her wine glass still sat, where she had undertaken the private ritual of her final meal, all alone.

  And then she closed her eyes – and let go.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  New York

  Chloe looked up at the ceiling, a helium balloon bumping against her shoulder as they all squeezed in to make room for a man in a wheelchair being pushed by a nurse. Her shoes squeaked slightly when she walked.

  Chloe watched the numbers rise agonizingly slowly, having to suppress a sigh every time the doors opened – more people getting out, others coming in – at almost every floor. When finally they got to the eighth, she had to stop herself from sprinting down the corridor to the nurses’ station.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, almost breathless, seeing that the same nurse was on duty as a few hours earlier. How much had changed since then. ‘I’ve come back to see my cousin, Poppy Langham.’

  The nurse looked at her, blankly for a second, before recognizing her. She got to her feet. ‘Her cousin, you say?’

  ‘Yes, I came in earlier but I could only stay for five minutes.’

  Folding her arms over her ample chest, the nurse squared up. ‘Turns out that was five minutes too long.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I told you, family only.’ The nurse stared at her coldly, daring Chloe to lie to her face again.

  Chloe swallowed and said nothing, her eyes sliding down the corridor towards Room 822. The police officer was still sitting in his chair outside; he looked incredibly bored.

  ‘Her parents weren’t too happy when I said Poppy’s cousin had dropped in,’ the nurse said, her expression and tone becoming more frosty by the second. ‘They knew your name – you work with her. They don’t like that you lied and neither do I.’

  ‘I’m so sorry; I didn’t want to, but—’

  ‘What do you think this is? A zoo? You get to come in and ogle the animals behind the glass?’

  ‘Of course not—’

  ‘Don’t you understand how serious this situation is? You think that cop’s sitting there for fun?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t—’

  ‘I could have lost my job.’ The nurse’s dark eyes shone angrily.

  ‘I’m so sorry, but that’s the thing: it’s so important that I see her. I have to ask—’

  ‘Oh, you won’t be doing anything of the sort. You’re leaving.’

  ‘But if I could just—’

  ‘Now. Or do I need to call security?’

  Chloe took a step back. She desperately needed to get clarification on whether Poppy had ever met Joe and arranged for him to come to the office. She was the only one who could prove whether everything he’d ever said to her was a lie, whether he was what the police were saying. Tom and Jack had proof he wasn’t Joe Lincoln – of DCS Engineering anyway – but only Poppy knew if he had truly been lined up as a client. Because if he hadn’t, then what had he been up to? And did it mean he had targeted her specifically, as Sergeant Mahoney seemed to think?

  An idea came to her and she grabbed a pen and piece of paper from the jotter on the desk. ‘Okay, fine. I’m going. But can I ask you to please get this to her? Show it to her parents first, it’s fine.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything of the sort. You’ve caused quite enough trouble. You need to leave.’

  Chloe quickly scribbled the message and handed it over regardless. The nurse stared at her, not moving to take the note from her outstretched hand.

  ‘Please. It’s incredibly important. It’s to do with the case.’

  ‘I can’t have her getting upset.’

  ‘I promise, it won’t upset her; she doesn’t know the context. All I need is a yes or no answer from her.’ She proffered the note another inch closer. ‘Please.’

  With a worn-down sigh, the nurse’s gaze fell to the note and she read the message. Did you ever meet a man called Joe Lincoln?

  Clearly it seemed innocuous enough. ‘I’ll give it to her parents when they come out,’ she said finally, taking it from her. ‘They can decide whether to show it to her.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you,’ Chloe said gratefully.

  ‘Don’t thank me. I’m not doing it for you.’ The nurse arched an eyebrow. ‘Now go. And do not come back.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ Chloe said, moving away, back in the direction she’d come. ‘Thank you.’

  She walked over to the elevators again and waited, her mind racing, trying to make connections. Poppy had been deliberately hurt and now the police thought Chloe herself had been targeted too. Possibly by the same man. Joe Lincoln.

  She still couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to. And yet hadn’t she felt unnerved by him at times – how he switched from being oblique and diffident to charming and open, as though he was two different people? A lover and a fighter? She had felt that sense of menace when he’d climbed back into bed. Had she really slept with the enemy?

  The doors opened and she stepped in, dodging a man carrying a giant teddy bear almost as big as himself. She sank back against the wall and waited for the floors to count back down again. She was spent; this afternoon had not been what she’d been expecting, what with two hospital visits and a police interview. She needed some time out, to be with someone she could really trust. A few drinks in a quiet bar somewhere with Elle, perhaps a takeaway, and everything would feel better. It was all just a storm in a teacup, as her mother would say – a string of unfortunate coincidences and it would blow over soon enough. Whatever had been going on, she knew she was through the worst of it.

  ‘Make it stop.’ The voice was muffled, coming from deep beneath the duvet.

  ‘Huh?’ Chloe shifted position, rolling onto her stomach, squeezing her eyes tighter shut.

  The groan came again. ‘No.’

  Chloe lifted her head from the pillow, her hair falling over one eye as she tried to compute. Where was she? What had she done? Why was s
he feeling so bad?

  She saw cherry-pink toenails, a long, gleaming ebony leg emerging at one end of the duvet, an Afro at the other. An empty bottle of tequila was lying on its side on the floor beside the bed, a half-empty bag of nachos sprinkling paprika dust on the ivory sheepskin rug, a pale upside-down leg stiff and straight just behind her.

  Oh. She realized it was her own and pulled it back in under the turquoise fringed silk shawl that appeared to have doubled as her sheet. Slowly, even her eyeballs moving at half-tempo, she saw she was on the sofa, not in bed at all, her shorts and blouse crumpled into a heap beneath her cheek and seemingly used as her pillow.

  With another groan, she sat up. Her body was stiff from lying awkwardly and she tried a stretch, abandoning it halfway through. Elle was all but obscured under the duvet and showing no signs of waking up.

  Not quite sure why she was awake herself, Chloe got up tentatively and made her way to the bathroom. Her brain seemed to knock against the inside of her head as she walked and she spent a good five minutes staring at her reflection in the mirror – mussed-up bed hair (in the bad way), wearing a two-day-old bra and knickers, bags under her eyes that could double as hand luggage and breath that could kill a dog.

  She looked away with a weary sigh; as in life, so on her face – the chaos was there, writ large for all to see. Tom. Joe. Poppy. The three of them chugged through her mind one after the other. All interconnected, disrupting her life in their own, individual ways.

  She staggered into the kitchen – as Elle optimistically called it – and boiled the small kettle, steam rolling around the tiny space; it was like cooking in a cupboard but she somehow put a coffee together and pushed up the kitchen window, climbing out onto the rear fire escape.

  She didn’t know what time it was but it must have been late morning, judging by the position of the sun, the roar of the traffic and the already intense heat. The iron stairs felt cool against her skin and she lay back, allowing the sunlight to warm her stiff muscles and soothe her battered body. Thank God it was the weekend. A red-brick tower block looked down upon the alley, anyone could be watching, but she didn’t care. So what if she was in her underwear? It was no different to being in a bikini. That was what Joe had said anyway.