Her eyelids felt heavy when she was stirred back into full consciousness by the sound of tapping at the door. For a moment she thought she must have been dreaming, that the sound was the build-up to the earthquake she felt tearing about the house in her subconscious. But then it came again, more clearly this time.
The house was in darkness and when Artemis reached for the bedside lamp, it didn’t turn on. It wasn’t unusual for bursts of weather to bring down the power lines – they were so exposed up here – and Artemis kept a stash of candles and matches in the drawer.
She fumbled with the match before the room came partially into focus, the light of the flame soft at the edges. She moved slowly down the stairs, the storm gathering pace outside, her muscles tensing, as she thought of David outside, alone. And yet there was no way that would be the case. There had been talk of David going to see his little French friend, Alexander, in their rented house on the other side of the mountain, but Clive would never have left him to walk home alone after dark. There was no way it was Clive at the door, either. He could hardly bear to be in the house these days, as if the place served to remind him of something he’d rather forget. He would have gone to the bar to wait while David played, or perhaps he would have taken him for something to eat by now. She didn’t even know what time it was. All she knew was that she was alone, apart from the person who was knocking on the other side of the door.
‘Who is it?’ she asked, imagining Carolina or another neighbour coming to discuss the generator, but there was no answer. Pulling the door open a fraction, she felt a foot jam in the crack and the force of it, together with the wind, pushing it open. There in front of her was Jorgos.
Madeleine
London, present day
They sit in silence for a while, the motorway slowly giving way to a series of roundabouts and junctions as London appears on the horizon.
‘I wonder where the baby is,’ Madeleine says after a while.
‘It’s with her sister,’ Isobel replies, looking out the window. ‘She chose to separate while she is inside.’
Madeleine looks at Isobel sidelong. ‘I’m not going to even ask how you know that.’
Isobel shrugs, a small smile briefly on her lips, and then her forehead furrows again as she moves deeper into thought. ‘Did you mean that, about coming back to speak to her again? Do you really think you can get her out of prison?’
‘I don’t know about that. The next step from here is to refer Eva to the National Referral Mechanism as a potential victim of trafficking. It’s a different department at the NCA, but I’m entitled to assist her self-defence case, if she raises one. She still killed a man, regardless of the reason. But if we can prove she was traumatised and she didn’t mean to kill him, that she was defending herself against the person who had perpetually abused her, who had threatened to take her baby away unless she went back to sex-work, which is her official statement … And if she can help us find the men who trafficked her to the UK … I can’t say anything for sure, but I’m hopeful.’
Isobel says nothing and Madeleine watches her, the resolve coming off her in waves. Isobel’s eyes are fixed on the road but it is clear her mind is simultaneously working on something else.
‘Hey,’ Madeleine says. ‘You know when you found the article in that editor’s office?’
‘Mmm.’
‘You said you were there for a job interview.’
Isobel looks briefly back at her. ‘Yeah, I was.’
‘Did you get it?’
Isobel nods without any hint of celebration. ‘I don’t know if I’ll take it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not sure if it’s for me any more. Journalism, it’s … I don’t know. I guess I’m having some sort of early mid-life crisis.’
Madeleine whistles. ‘Pretty bloody early. What are you, fifteen?’
‘Not quite,’ Isobel laughs. ‘It’s been a weird time for me. A friend of mine died a year ago and I had a bit of a breakdown. I’m in Narcotics Anonymous at the moment. Coming off drugs and stopping drinking, all feels like I’m just starting to get my life together, and I guess I feel I’m at a crossroads.’ She makes a face. ‘I realise that sounds melodramatic, but … I don’t know. Journalism just feels so constrained – so tied up in agendas and advertising revenue, and bullshit and more bullshit. I just don’t know if it makes any difference. Any of it.’
Madeleine nods. ‘I know what you mean.’ She pauses, and then clears her throat. ‘If you were looking for a change, the NCA recruits from across a range of backgrounds. I mean, I can’t promise fewer constraints or agendas or less bullshit but … well, if you were looking for a change. We could do with proper investigators rather than more bloody pen-pushers.’
Isobel takes the turn off for Central London.
‘Don’t take me into town,’ Madeleine says. ‘I can make my own way back from yours.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course. You don’t want to get stuck in congestion—’
‘I mean about the job.’
Madeleine nods. ‘Abso-fucking-lutely. I happen to know there’s a recruitment drive. With no previous police experience you would likely go in as a basic investigator – a G5, as they’re known – after an initial training programme. You’d get a mentor. There would be a lot of acronyms to learn, lots of dull paperwork between the actual investigating, but the good news is there are plenty of numpties so you’re likely to soar once you’re in.’
She looks at Isobel. ‘Seriously, though, I couldn’t think of a better candidate – and that’s a bigger compliment than I’ve made it sound.’
Artemis
Greece, the Nineties
Jorgos’ words chased Artemis as she ran across the scrubland towards Athena’s house, rain lashing against her legs.
Aside from a bolt of lightning, the island was pitch-black and Artemis felt rather than saw her way, falling against the door as she reached it, banging with her fists as if her life depended on it. In that moment, she believed it did.
Athena’s face dropped when she saw her. ‘What the—’
Artemis pushed her way into the house, oblivious to Maria hovering in the doorway of the kitchen.
‘He’s going to kill me – Athena, you have to believe me …’
Artemis’ fists clenched convulsively, the image of Jorgos’ face up in hers. You need to be very careful. If you speak to anyone – and I mean anyone – I will kill you, and then I will kill your son.
She was desperate for Athena to comfort her, to tell her it would be all right. But Athena said nothing, simply staring silently back at her oldest friend as if she didn’t know her at all.
‘You have to believe me, Athena, I know too much! I can see it in his eyes when he looks at me. The way he talks about me as if I’m mad …’
She pictured Jorgos waiting for her on the way home from school, he and another boy throwing stones at her. Hissing at her. Treló korítsi. Crazy girl.
‘Please just promise me that if anything happens to me you will remember what I told you.’
The sound of a branch cracking on a tree outside caused the women to turn and spot Maria in the doorway, a toy rabbit hanging limply by her side.
Athena took a step towards her friend, reaching out a hand. ‘Artemis …’
But Artemis stepped back, away from the disbelieving gaze.
She turned as she spoke, more quietly now. ‘If you don’t believe me, what hope do I have?’
The house was still empty when she returned. The storm had begun to run out of breath, moonlight spilling through the window on the landing above as Artemis moved back up the stairs without removing her wet clothes.
When she blinked, she could see the house just as it was the day she first came here, the bed in the corner, neatly made, the copy of the business book Clive was reading placed on the pillow. She felt Clive’s eyes on her, then; the way she felt under the intensity of his gaze, the power he held over her even then; the
power she felt in the reflected glory of what he seemed to see in her.
She felt herself sit, drawing the bedsheet up to her chest, her fingers clutching the cotton so that it was ruched in front of her, a ghost not yet unfurled.
Her fingers worked their way along the hem of the sheet. Soon the material was taut between her hands, her wrists twisting in opposite directions so that she was now holding a rope. She felt a portentous energy glide over her as she held it against herself, noticing the malleability of the cotton as she touched it briefly to her neck, against the amethyst necklace Clive had given her, in another lifetime.
Briefly, she thought of her sister, how she must have felt that night, seconds before the house crumbled above her. And then her mind moved to David, his little face dappled in sun spots as he looked up at her, like a buttercup basking in the final glow of summer.
This time when she heard the knock, she didn’t move. She didn’t need to, the door was already open. She closed her eyes as Jorgos stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
Madeleine
London, present day
She doesn’t know what to expect as she waits in the room they have been allocated for the purposes of this interview. She has looked him up, obviously, after reading his file, trying to build as much of a picture as she can. Her interest in this particular suspect is more personal than it usually would be. She wants to see him from every angle, to understand as best she can why. But it’s useless. How can anyone fully understand what attracts one person to another, what compels a person to make decisions that defy logic?
Ivan Popov is in his fifties, she has discovered. He was born in Kybyshev – now Samara – the ninth-biggest city in Russia. His parents, both active members in the Communist party, were engineers who worked making parts for naval ships. Ivan’s first business was selling shoes. After making some money, according to the official story, he became interested in philanthropy and started working in charity. His association with Irena Vasiliev, although yet to be fully unveiled, would suggest a more circuitous path.
He moves between a townhouse in Richmond, South-West London, and a swanky Moscow apartment but is currently residing in an altogether different setting, courtesy of Her Majesty’s Prison Service, awaiting trial. How long he will be here is yet to be ascertained.
What neither the file nor Madeleine’s Google searches have mentioned is his demeanour: the way he moves through a room and owns it, even in a uniform prison-grey tracksuit, flanked by a guard.
He nods courteously as he sits in front of her, the power of his presence making her sit up straighter.
‘I’m Madeleine,’ she says.
‘Ivan, but you know that already.’ He pauses. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink.’
There is a hint of something she can’t quite read in his eyes as she takes in the empty room, the bare table between them. What is it: danger, amusement, pain? Sitting opposite him, she can understand, against her better judgement, what Gabriela might have seen in him.
‘I’m here about Gabriela and Layla,’ she continues without flinching, watching his jaw clench. She sees him brace, shifting his chair, a tiny slide away from her. She wonders for a moment if he might leave. This is not an official interview, not yet; he is not compelled to be here, certainly not without a lawyer present. If she’s honest with herself, she hadn’t even expected him to agree to meet her today. This meeting is for her, to help herself reset. After everything that has happened with Gabriela, she needs to see him face-to-face, to understand who this man is who took her friend’s life, and those of her children, and tore them to shreds. She wants to look him in the eye and try to understand something that she knows she never will.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Madeleine says quickly, watching his reaction carefully for traces of how much he knows. He looks down at his hands, twisting his fingers, and Madeleine’s forehead furrows.
His pain is real, that much she can be sure of – not that this means anything.
He moves forward, lowering his voice though the guard appears not to be listening.
‘I’m going to testify,’ he says. ‘Against Irena.’
Madeleine pauses, waiting for him to continue, but he sits back in his seat.
After a moment, she nods. ‘That’s good to know. We can offer protection—’
Popov laughs, looking away from her. ‘You think you can protect me? Even after what happened to Gabriela, you still believe that?’ His face twists. ‘You think Vasiliev can’t get to me, even from behind bars, if she wants to?’
What’s left of a contorted smile fades. ‘None of it matters, not now. I’ll tell you what you need to know. I’ll tell you everything. I want her to pay for what she did.’
He raises a hand to his chest, absent-mindedly, as if responding to a stab of pain, and his face hardens again. ‘I have nothing to lose.’
By the time Madeleine gets back to the office, it’s lunchtime. She has barely pulled the lid off her Tupperware, seated back at her desk, when her phone rings.
‘No!’ She slams her fist tragically on her desk. Not now, for the love of God, she is starving. The temptation of the lasagne in front of her is such that she is minded to ignore her phone, but when she looks down and sees the name, she smiles. Taking a mouthful and chewing quickly, she answers, her voice distorted by the food.
‘Isobel, how are you doing?’
‘Madeleine, can you talk?’ Isobel’s voice is urgent. Madeleine dabs her mouth with a tissue, sitting forward in her chair.
‘Of course, is everything OK?’
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Isobel says. ‘I’ve just had a call from a woman called Maria. I don’t know how else to say this – she says she’s in the Maldives, with David Witherall …’
PART FOUR
Maria
Greece, the Noughties
The funeral was small but too big to comprehend, and Maria watched David across the church, clinging to his father’s side in the same way he used to do with his mother when she was alive – the way he had done the last time Maria had seen him, two summers ago, just after her own papa, Panos, had left for good.
She felt a rush of guilt, a ball of moths rotating in her tummy, trying to imagine how she might have felt if it had been her own mother’s body nailed inside that box. She couldn’t imagine that she would have felt any worse than she did now if it had been Athena, rather than Artemis, about to be lowered into soil crawling with the insects she and David used to poke at with sticks.
The toes of her shoes don’t reach the floor and she stretches out her legs, trying to think of something else, but she can’t.
What would David say if he knew what she was thinking? She had tried to talk to him, to tell him what she had seen, but she didn’t know what to say or how to say it. He wasn’t the person to tell, and who else could she speak to? There was no way she could rely on her mother, and the whole thing had happened so quickly. The night of the storm felt increasingly like a dream, or a nightmare; when she tried to picture it now her memories tossed about like the branches of the trees that had lain scattered the following morning, once it had settled.
It all happened so quickly, and then Artemis was gone, and it wasn’t as though anyone had come to talk to her. No one had asked any questions at all, as far as she could tell. Sometimes she felt like she was the only person in the world who cared about getting answers. If her father was still here, she could have spoken to him. He was always the one to listen, encouraging her to read and to think and ask questions. But Panos wasn’t here, and he wasn’t coming back. Maria had no one.
She didn’t cry throughout the service, even while her mother, Athena, wept beside her. At one point she looked up and caught eyes with Clive, who was seated beside Jorgos his driver, and some other men she recognised from the house. She looked down again, her cheeks burning, the way they did when all her feelings came up at once. David was on the other side of his father. Even though he was a wh
ole two years older than Maria, he looked younger than he had the summer before, his whole body shrunken so that it was as though he wanted to follow his mother into the ground.
‘I’ll leave flowers at the grave for you, when you go back to England,’ she told him later as they sat under the shade of a tree, their parents engaged in conversation on the other side of the graveyard, perched at the edge of the cliff.
David said nothing and eventually when Maria was called away by her mother, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms briefly around her friend before walking away, ashamed, wishing she could say more. One day, she told herself, as she scuffed the toe of her shoe along the path. One day they would pay for what they did.
It was a Saturday, the summer after Artemis’ funeral, and Maria and her mother were gathering supplies at Carolina’s store at the top of the village when Carolina’s daughter, Sofia, who had taken over the family business, mentioned Clive’s return to the island. Maria had been idly fiddling with an elasticated bracelet she had been given for her recent ninth birthday, made up of pink and yellow plastic stars, when she heard David’s name.
‘Did Sofia say David is here?’ Maria asked, struggling to keep pace as Athena made her way out of the store, a bag of fruit weighing down her left arm.
‘She certainly did!’ Athena replied, her tone brighter than Maria had heard it in months as she guided them in the direction of the Witherall house.
Maria felt a shiver as they approached the path. ‘Should we not ring first?’ she said, her eyes casting around as if on the lookout for ghouls.
‘Oh, come on, Clive is never too busy for us, Maria. I told you, we are the closest thing they have to family now. Artemis and I, we were … She was like a sister to me.’
Clive must have been watching them through the camera pointed down at their heads, as he greeted Athena by name through the newly installed intercom before she even had a chance to ring the bell. Maria had to resist the temptation to burst into a run, picturing herself fleeing down the hill, away from the memories, as Clive’s voice crackled through the speaker. The new gate reminded her of a prison, though it was unclear to her whether the locks were designed to guard against people coming in or going out.
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