“That’s a great idea, but will that be all right with your family? It may be for several weeks. I can pay any expenses, of course.”
“My family is not poor, George. Remember they paid for my education in America. If things were only a little different, this could have happened to me. My father knows this and will be very happy to help if he knows Natasha and the others are in trouble, in danger. Leave it to me. Now, when are we going to see them? We must not wait too long or we will find that they have left the police station and been sent back.”
“We? What do you mean ‘we’?”
“I shall come will you when you go. It will be good experience; my first case.”
“Your first case? But you’re not qualified!”
“I am better qualified to be their lawyer than you are to be an official from the EU, George. Don’t worry. I shall be a trainee from Bulgaria getting experience of European systems and procedures under your expert tuition!”
George watched the cat on top of the courtyard wall and the cat sat and watched George. From time to time it raised a paw and, eyes half closed, methodically licked its pad and claws a few times as if savouring the last taste of a recent meal or cleaning its tools in preparation for the next one. It was smoky grey with white socks and belly – one of the slender, long-legged, big-eared cats that always reminded George of the tomb paintings of the ancient Egyptians. He had dropped Deborah back at the taverna accepting her assurances that, now Andreas thought she was involved with another man, and a foreigner at that, he would almost certainly leave her alone to do her job. And if not, she would simply leave. Or he might sack her. She did not much care.
“Thank you for everything, George,” she had said as she got out of the car, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “Better to keep up appearances, eh?”
George was not sure what he was being thanked for and, although he was not adverse to an affectionate kiss, especially from a pretty girl, he was more worried about how things would appear to Susanna than about convincing Andreas of his proprietary rights over Deborah. With her departure, he had been able to return to the unbuttoned dress code he preferred when at home. Part of his interest in the cat was caused by a suspicion that, half-wild as it was, it might suddenly decide to leap into his lap. He considered sacrificing comfort for the greater security of putting on his shorts but decided against it. He had a pencil and a pad of paper in front of him and was trying to plan his next moves while munching a breakfast of figs. The objectives were clear: to achieve reconciliation with Susanna, and to complete the project of getting the girls to Britain. He was still wrestling with the probability that the reconciliation required a trip to the UK and was trying to assess the risk involved. He knew he was being fanciful but just because he had an exaggerated fear of a confrontation, it was not necessarily certain that there would not be one. Had he been exaggerating the risk of difficulties over the last few months to make himself feel more important than he really was? Perhaps. The chances of anything happening were small but the consequences might be severe so the risk needed to be considered and managed. If that was what he was going to do. Certainly there were people and places he should avoid and questions he would rather not answer. For that matter there were questions he would rather not ask himself, either because he did not know the answers or because he would prefer not to have to think about them. He could probably get away with it, but still…Or was he really at risk or was he giving in to a fear of paranoia? Arriving back where he had started, he put off making a decision. It could wait a couple of days. Anyway, he told himself, he would have problems getting flights and so on at this, the height of the holiday season. And, as it was the weekend, all the travel offices would be closed. Ipso facto Susanna would not expect him yet. For the time being he would find some other way to soothe her feelings and get back into her good books. The paper remained blank while his thoughts strayed to a youthful experience of travelling without being detected.
He had been in the Scouts – no, it was probably the Senior Scouts. It was a night orienteering exercise. Small groups had been dropped at different points in the countryside several miles from their home town and been required to memorise the map reference of their current location and the reference of a building they must reach as soon as possible. Each small group of three or four boys had about the same distance to travel. They were told that the first group to reach the objective would be the winner but that there were patrols searching for them and they must not be seen by these patrols. If spotted, they would be given a time penalty that would affect their final arrival time and hence their position in the competition. Fair enough. Quite good fun to be out at night, travelling quickly across country, avoiding being seen and evading patrols. George had sat his team on the grass verge at the crossroads where they had been dropped and carefully plotted a route. Their objective was on the far side of town so a circuitous approach was needed. It took them across fields, around farms, down country lanes and brought them to the objective from the far side of town. At all costs, they must avoid being seen and stopped by the opposing forces who were out looking for them. As well as following a careful and secret route, they would take cover if any vehicle approached. They would assume that every person out there was the enemy and must be avoided. They reached their objective just as the first pink of dawn was showing in the sky. They were certain that nobody had caught even the merest glimpse of them. At the approach of cars or, in a couple of cases, bicycles, they had hurled themselves into ditches or behind bushes. They had suffered from one false alarm caused by a herd of curious bullocks and another from an approaching light that turned out to be the rising moon seen through a small copse. But here they were, muddied by ploughed fields, scratched by brambles and stung by nettles but happy and proud and last. Everyone else had been there for hours and most were snoring in their sleeping bags. Everyone else had simply taken the most direct route straight through the town, confident of their assumption that the searching patrols had consisted of one assistant scoutmaster in his Morris Traveller, and in any case, he had would have spent most of the evening in the pub. The winning team had even stopped in town for fish and chips.
“You know what, George?” their leader had told him with a broad grin, “there’s a guy works down the chip shop thinks he’s Elvis!”
Chapter 12
Susanna’s Saturday visit to her mother had been reassuring. Valerie had more colour in her cheeks and was sitting up swapping family history and medical experiences with the woman in the next bed. Susanna’s main objective had been to discuss and agree what to do about contacting her younger sister currently on a gap year world tour and last heard of a month ago in Dar es Salaam. The younger generation all seemed immune from day-to-day practical constraints and were mostly self-sufficient these days. The involvement of her mother’s neighbour made it difficult to discuss family matters and she felt she might be intruding so she only stayed long enough to make sure her mother had everything she needed and was content that her daughter had shown sufficient dutiful concern. Prominent at the hospital exit there was a large sign, clearly displayed every Saturday, informing her that ‘On Sundays, relatives and friends are kindly requested to confine their visits to the after-lunch period unless special arrangements have been made in advance with the senior nursing officer in the relevant ward.’ Her mild irritation at being bossed about was quickly replaced by relief when she realised she would be able to have a lie-in, read the Sunday papers, wash her hair, trim her nails and generally pass a self-pampering morning without feeling guilty about not visiting her mother.
Her hair was till wet when she heard the unmistakable ‘plop’ of a thick, Sunday paper landing on the tiles in the porch. Apparently her mother was content with the sort of letterbox that would accommodate nothing bigger than a postcard or an electricity bill. Curiosity about which Sunday paper her mother read and whether it was the one containing her hostage story overcame discretion and, pulling the unsuitable,
apple-green robe more closely about her, she opened the front door. The newspaper was no longer on the step but was being proffered by a smiling, smartly dressed young man. Hell, thought Susanna, bloody Jehovah’s Witnesses!
“Miss Parson. Susanna? Hi! I’m from your local radio station. Could you spare a few minutes?”
Susanna glimpsed several other people and cameras between him and the front gate before she was half blinded by a flash. A neighbour’s face peered around the edge of the porch. She stepped back and slammed the door closed. She tore it open again, snatched the paper from the reporter’s hand and shut the door firmly again in his face. Safely on the inside, she leaned against the door, half way between sniggering and sobbing, clutching the paper to her breast. Apparently the size of the letterbox did not prevent all communication.
“Susanna? Susie? Just a few words, please!” Those words, called through the open slot, were addressed directly, and at zero range, to her bottom. As she jumped aside in alarm the sniggers got the upper hand. And it was the wrong paper. It was hard to believe that her mother carefully picked her way through anything more than the colour supplement of this monster. In a flash of insight, it dawned that the tiny letterbox and the massive, broadsheet Sunday paper were connected. The paper would stay in the porch long enough to impress the neighbours, even if it barely received a glance in the afternoon. Crafty old Mum!
This was silly, all this fuss and attention over a minor incident in an obscure, foreign airport. Peeping through the curtains, Susanna could see there five or six cameramen and reporters hanging around just inside the garden gate or on the pavement immediately outside. They must be short of news and as she thought it, it dawned that this was exactly the reason she was getting so much attention. It was August with no Parliament sitting, ministers making mobile calls from sun beds at sedate and security-checked hotels and villas in middle of the road, foreign resorts, only splashing from the pool in flabby obedience to wifely summonses about cocktails with the Wilsons. No news to fill the pages and TV news slots except non-news about the indiscretions of minor sports personalities and inconsequential hostage-taking at holiday airports. That helped. She felt better realising that maybe it was not such a big deal after all. Still, that did not help with the problem of not being able to leave her own… well, her mother’s house through her own front door. Surely this was not allowed! This was harassment! She rang the police station, peering through the curtains at the media people trampling around in the little front garden and overflowing through the gate on to the pavement outside.
“You’re quite right, madam. They have no right to be on your property unless you want them there. We’ll get someone down there to sort it out.” The intervening fifty minutes gave Susanna time to get soberly dressed and to nearly finish drying her hair. She could see from the bedroom window that a young policeman and an even younger female officer were quietly shepherding the small crowd away from the front door and on to the pavement beyond the wrought iron gate. Their body armour and heavy belts hung with the paraphernalia of their work looked hot and bulky for August, even in England. They seemed tired and dispirited when she opened the door to allow them in. A camera flashed from behind the privet hedge, provoking an over the shoulder scowl from the female officer.
Sitting in the front room, both officers accepted the coffee Susanna had offered. Both took white with one sugar.
“Right, Miss Parson. They should stay outside the gate now. If they don’t, call us again. Now, are you the householder here? No? Oh, I see. How is your mother? Good, good. Well, it’s probably none of our business but would you mind telling us exactly why the papers and TV are so interested in you? Yes, there is one TV camera out there. Oh, I see, trafficking, hostage for an hour or so, yes, well, I haven’t had time to look at the papers yet today. Now, it’s not my job, but my advice would be to give them an interview or make a statement or something. And let them take a couple of pictures. They’ll lose interest after that and the story might not even get printed. Something more exciting may come up like a local armed robbery or something, eh Liz? Well, of course that’s up to you, your call entirely. Is there anyone we could contact for you? A friend? Your solicitor perhaps? No? Okay, well we’ll be on our way. Thanks for the coffee.”
Most of Susanna’s relief came from finding that there was someone else who thought that being taken hostage by people smugglers at a Greek airport was the sort of thing that could happen to anyone. The matter-of-fact attitude of the police was an anchor to normality. They probably came across more interesting things most days in the local shopping centre. She would behave, as far as possible, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Dark glasses, that was what she needed. With a pair of dark glasses she could just go out without saying anything to any of them. She could just walk straight through them. The only pair Susanna could find had thick, white frames that would not have looked out of place as face-furniture on Dame Edna Everidge. Her mother might have had them since before Susanna was born. She looked like a 1960’s film star and toyed briefly with the idea of an headscarf, tied under her chin and around the back of her neck but it would not look right without the voluminous, calf-length skirt. Melodramatic or not, she hurried, head down through the small crowd of reporters and cameramen ignoring their calls and requests for ‘a few words’ or ‘just one picture’. She failed to find the car door lock with her key at the first attempt and had to remove the sunglasses to see it clearly. The plan had been to drive briskly away with a little roar, or at least a determined purr, from the exhaust but, flustered by not being able to open the door at the first attempt, she stalled the engine, which then exercised its right to refuse to start until she had tried three times, cursing it under her breath. Her escape was undignified and she was close to tears again. She should have had the sense to call a taxi or to leave by the back door. Why had she not thought of that? And she had made no plans about where to go after driving away. It was too early for the hospital. Tapping her fingers on the steering wheel while she waited at the lights, she tried to decide where to go… pub… supermarket…park? Park! She turned left without signalling, drawing an irritated toot from the car behind.
The only other visitor to that part of the park was a man playing football with a small child. The man was playing with noticeably greater enthusiasm than the child who gave the impression of only taking part to please the adult. A father exercising his rights of access by taking the child to its weekly visit to the park she decided. Poor bloke. Poor kid. The ball, hotly pursued by the breathless father, rolled in front of her and came to rest on the grassy edge of the tarmac path.
“Hi!”
“Hi.”
“I don’t suppose you are any good at football, are you?”
“Well, not really,” realising she had time to kill before she could visit her mother. “But I could help out for a while, if you’d like. You seem a bit outgunned there.”
“Outgunned and outnumbered. Thanks. Actually I could do with a bit of help.”
He is not bad looking, Susanna decided. A bit chubby, perhaps, and a bit more puffed than he should be from playing football with a toddler. “What’s his name?”
“Her name. It’s Cleo, short for Cleopatra. I’m Victor.”
Susanna did not think he look much like a victor. “Well, Cleo. I think it’s ice cream time, don’t you?”
On the bench next to the ice cream van, Victor told Susanna his life story. It took almost ten minutes. He had been born, gone to school, got a job in the council offices, met a girl, got married, had a baby and got divorced. Susanna could sympathise with his wife. Apparently she had run off with someone she had met at good-parenting evening classes. Cleo had been staring at her for some time before Susanna realised she was still wearing the 1960’s sunglasses. The toddler was wide-eyed over the top of her slowly melting ice cream, stunned at the vision before her.
“Do you like them?” Cleo nodded vigorously, dripping ice cream as she di
d so. “There you go then. You can have them.” She wondered what Cleopatra’s mother would make of the news that they belonged to a lady that Daddy met in the park. The day seemed brighter without the glasses. ‘I can see clearly now,’ she thought. ‘Victor has spots and is running to fat. He should eat more fresh food. Never mind. All the nice ones always seemed to be taken and, anyway, there is George.’ Thank God it was nearly time for the hospital.
Chapter 13
Holiday Hostage Horror!
Gunpoint Terror on Holiday Isle
‘Shocks over lax security at a holiday airport thronged with thousands of sun-seeking Brits have stunned travellers. At the height of the holiday season a young Briton was held at gunpoint and may need months of counselling to overcome the trauma of her holiday nightmare. She could have died. Suzanne Parson, a 26 year old secretary from Swindon was snatched by prostitution racketeers and held in terror, miraculously escaping injury in a hail of gunshots. The weapons were seized by the criminals from a careless local policeman who made no attempt to protect the hostages or the hordes of innocent holidaymakers in fear of the lives.
“This would never have happened if proper security checks had been made,” says English rose, Suzanne. “These people-smugglers almost made it to the departure lounge with their Eastern-European sex workers in tow.” She was then horrified when the authorities bundled her on to the next UK-bound flight in the hope of hushing up the incident. The only promise made to her by the local police was that she could be prosecuted if she failed to return when required to give evidence in court.
“They just wanted to get me out of the way as fast as they could,” said the young hostage, speaking in the safety of her mother’s suburban sitting room in southwest England. Her mother, Valerie (54) is in hospital recovering from the shock of her daughter’s ordeal.
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