Torn in Two Read online

  Mum is going out again tomorrow. I asked if I could go with her to see Angela, but she said no as it would be too late even after I explained that we’re on holiday. It’s not like I have to get up for anything other than to top up my tan. Maybe I’ll have a night in with Dad if he’s around. He’s been sneaking out for a drink without telling Mum. I won’t tell her. Dad works hard and it’s nice to have the villa to myself, even if it is only for a little while. Shh. Secret.

  “Reading young girls’ diaries now, are we, Frankie? I had you down as a man of morals.”

  The voice startled Frankie. He dropped his feet from the chair opposite and clicked his phone closed.

  “Are you going to offer a girl a seat? Or should I stand?”

  Pulling out the chair beside him, Frankie waved the waiter over and ordered two more gin and tonics.

  “What brings you here?”

  “You’re here.”

  “You’re following me?”

  “Protecting my interests. Besides, I like this place. The view is something else.”

  “It gets better as the night goes on it seems.”

  Charm had always come naturally to Frankie, but with Penelope, it was never an effort. She chose not to acknowledge his compliment.

  “You didn't say goodbye. Did you catch him? The boy, I mean.”

  “I’m getting old, Penelope. My days of giving chase are coming to an end, I think.”

  “You don’t always have to chase to get what you really want, Frankie.” Smiling, Penelope turned to admire the view. “Nice spot you’ve chosen. I’m surprised you’re not here with your new girlfriend. Or is she in the washroom? Am I cramping your style, Frankie Black?”

  “You know as well as I do, she’s not my girlfriend. No, you’re not cramping anything.”

  “So who is she?”

  A tray of drinks was set on the table and the waiter placed down two neat gins on ice along with two small bottles of tonic water and a plate of lemon slices. Always the gentleman, Frankie poured the tonic. Knowing that Penelope liked her drinks strong with plenty of lemon, he added two slices.

  “I was under the impression you know everybody in Varkiza,” he said.

  “Most. But some are more elusive than others.”

  “Sophia Saint.”

  “Ah, the daughter of Mr Saint. You do set your sights high, Frankie. I have to give it to you. You don’t mess around.”

  “I’ve always had impeccable taste, Penelope.”

  “Clearly. You make a pretty couple.”

  They toasted a silent toast and each took a sip of their drink.

  “She’s babysitting me. I told her I was going to investigate something. I needed some air.”

  “She’s babysitting you by order of Mr Saint himself, I imagine? He’s funding the search for Emma so he gets to choose who looks after you.”

  “Something like that. What do you know about him?”

  Considering her answer, Penelope shrugged. “Wealthy. He came from a poor childhood but made his own fortune. Now he owns several businesses and, on paper, is one of the most respectable men you’ll ever meet.”

  “Only on paper?”

  “I’ve never met the man, Frankie. But by all accounts he’s a humanitarian. The Robin Hood of Athens.”

  “And his daughter?”

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen her. I’ve heard of her, but I think her father keeps her busy. You can do worse than having those two on your side, I can assure you.”

  “That’s good to know. How’s your investigation going? The sex pest that was chased out of town?”

  “He wasn’t a sex pest. He was a downright offender, Frankie. The police won’t give up much on him. Not to me anyway. I’ve spoken to locals, most of whom choose not to remember the case. A few do, and they all say the same thing. Constantine ran the man out of town, trapped him in an old building, and burned him alive. It’s more akin to folklore than a police investigation.”

  “But the police didn’t press charges?”

  “What for? As far as they’re concerned Constantine did them a favour. The police here aren't always as straight as you’d like them to be.”

  “Same as anywhere in the world,” said Frankie.

  “That’s true.”

  “So why are you still pursuing the line of enquiry if he’s dead?”

  “Because no body was found.”

  “He burned. He’d be a pile of ash if the conditions were right. Dry with a nice breeze to keep the fire going.”

  “As of now, I have no other line of enquiry. Besides, there’s a story here even if it isn't Emma’s.”

  “A five-year-old story that the town chooses to forget?”

  “You’re great at finding people, Frankie, but you’d make a terrible journalist. People don’t care how old the story is. Right now, the British press is all about missing kids. So if you can’t find Emma, the best I can do is show them how bad the problem is.”

  “And how bad is the problem?”

  “Emma and countless others before her,” said Penelope. “Girls go missing all the time.”

  “In Varkiza?”

  “In Athens. Varkiza is only thirty minutes away.”

  “And are they ever found?”

  Taking a sip of his drink, Frankie was grateful for the encounter with Penelope and her research. He waved the waiter over and ordered two more drinks before Penelope could object.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk? Trying to loosen my tongue?”

  Smiling at the memory of Penelope’s tongue, Frankie sat back and stretched his legs out to the chair on the far side of the table.

  “Firstly, Penelope, I’ve known you long enough to know that two gin and tonics isn't enough to loosen your shoes let alone your tongue. Secondly, if I wanted to get you drunk, it wouldn't be to loosen your tongue.”

  “You have a way with words, Frankie.”

  “So are they ever found? The girls? Your ability to swerve a question is almost as good as your ability to handle your liquor.”

  “I’m a journalist, Frankie. We spend our careers chasing politicians and, as we both know, politicians are the world leaders in swerving questions. No. Rarely are the girls ever found.”

  “That’s what I thought. It just so happens that one was found today right where Emma disappeared. Coincidence, don't you think? I’m not a fan of coincidence myself.”

  “You think she washed up?” said Penelope. “Maybe she was dumped in the sea in Athens and floated down to Varkiza.”

  The statement tickled Frankie. Although Penelope could play any role well as part of her investigative journalism experience, he could see straight though her attempts at naivety.

  “The Mediterranean isn't capable of that, Penelope. Not at this time of year anyway. I’m sure you researched that already.”

  “Just making sure you had.”

  Adding two fresh slices of lemon to Penelope’s second drink, Frankie pursued the line of enquiry.

  “What else did you find out about the girl on the beach?”

  “Not a lot. I had my tech guys do some digging and nobody reported her missing. Not within the past few weeks anyway.”

  “So she wasn’t a tourist. Unless she was traveling alone.”

  “Doubtful. But there are plenty of people here hiding from the real world. That’s what happens when the economy hits rock bottom. People leave. Gaps open up.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Reaching for her bag, Penelope pulled out her phone. She searched a while then placed the phone on the table, turning it for Frankie to see a photo of a girl who looked remarkably like the girl on the beach.

  “Francesca Chapman. She went missing from Manchester three years ago.”

  “A runaway,” said Frankie. “That makes sense. She found a job in a bar here?”

  “Look closer, Sherlock.”

  Lifting her phone from the table, Frankie dropped his feet down and took a closer look at the phot
o.

  “She was a croupier?”

  “A hostess, I would imagine, judging by her attire. Or lack of it.”

  “She’s working a poker table.”

  “Wearing next to nothing. She’s there for two reasons. To get new punters through the door-”

  “And to keep them there. Do you know where this was taken?”

  Reaching for her drink, Penelope shook her head and checked the nearby tables to make sure nobody was listening to their morbid conversation.

  “Do you think it’s linked?” she asked. “If so, how?”

  “Both you and I know that the tide in the Med isn't strong enough to carry a body miles up the coast in a single day.”

  “Yes. We established that. Come on, Frankie. Get to the point.”

  “So if we know that then the locals would know that too.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “What if Francesca’s body was meant to be found? What if it was dumped to confuse an investigation, maybe?”

  “And who would have done a thing like that?”

  “Someone with a lot to lose,” said Frankie.

  “Constantine? Everyone tells me he’s not involved.”

  “And I don't think he is.”

  “You’ve changed your tune,” said Penelope. “Only this morning, he was your number one suspect.”

  Standing and downing the remainder of his drink, Frankie placed the glass on the table and slid it forward until it sat beside Penelope’s, the rims of their glasses kissing.

  “Enjoy your stay, Penelope.”

  “What do you know?”

  Refusing to look up at Frankie or to acknowledge his smug look, Penelope sat facing the view knowing he wouldn't leave until he’d reciprocated the sharing of research.

  Bending down until he was cheek to cheek with her, Frankie inhaled the familiar scent of her shampoo and lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “It isn’t Constantine.”

  “I told you it wasn’t,” she replied. “Tell me something I don't know.”

  Admiring how well Penelope played the game, Frankie savoured the moment of power as she nuzzled her cheek against his, still refusing to turn to face him.

  “It isn’t the boy either,” he said.

  Feeling her face tighten as her eyebrows raised, Frankie smiled. He had her on the hook.

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  “And how can you be so sure?”

  Stopping the flirtatious nuzzling, Frankie pulled away but kept his voice to a whisper. “Because I happen to know that Constantine and the boy’s father are running drugs. Now there’s a story for you.”

  Finishing with a gentle kiss on her cheek, Frankie slipped away, leaving Penelope to wonder how she had missed such a story, but with the glorious view across Athens to console her.

  Chapter Forty

  “You look beautiful, my darling. I’m sure your mother would be proud.”

  “Thank you. I feel like a new girl. I love how you covered my bruise with concealer. I just hope I’m enough for him. Do you know him? What’s he like?”

  “I do not know him. He’s a friend of a friend who is looking for someone just like you. He can help you escape Athens and I am told he has money. So you will be well looked after.”

  A touch of warmth found Emma’s stomach in place of the nausea that had plagued her for most of the day.

  “Well looked after,” repeated Emma. “And I’ll take care of him.”

  “You’ll need to.” With a final flick of her finger, the lady set Emma’s hair then stood back and admired her creation. “Your mother would be very proud.”

  The statement incited the burn behind Emma’s eyes. Feeling the rush of tears begin, she fanned herself and looked away.

  “Are you ready?” The lady held the door handle waiting for Emma to confirm, which she did with a nod.

  She couldn't refrain from hiding her anxious yet excited smile.

  Waiting for a few moments to allow Emma to calm herself, the lady pushed open the door then stepped back for Emma to enter before her.

  The adjoining room was more than twice the size of Emma’s with a separate lounge area containing two small couches, a TV, and a minibar. Through a small archway was a bed, which Emma imagined to have an en-suite bathroom off to one side.

  But in the centre of the room, far beyond what Emma had expected, were two other girls. Each of them wore dresses as fine as Emma’s but shorter to reveal their toned legs.

  Brushing off Emma’s questioning look, the lady positioned her to stand beside them. Then, with a firm hand, she straightened Emma’s legs, pushed on her stomach, and lifted her chin, pulling her head to face forward and not gaze at the two doll-like creatures beside her.

  “The three of you must wait here. Do not move and do not talk. I will be back in a moment.” Offering each of the girls in turn a hard look to support her instructions, the lady then left the room by another door.

  The silence was unbearable. At first, only Emma’s eyes moved, seeking a peek at the girls beside her and wondering if they too were also inquisitive. But the limited view offered Emma no clue as to who they were. She turned her head a fraction, hoping to see an expression, a smile, anything.

  But neither of the girls seemed interested.

  At the end of the line, the third girl’s face was hidden from sight by the second girl. But her bust protruded further than either Emma’s or number two’s, barely concealed in a black lace negligee that seemed barely appropriate for anything, even sleeping. Her ample charms may sway the favour of a gentleman, thought Emma, but the advantage was balanced with a few additional pounds across the girl’s waist.

  In contrast, number two had the chest of a child but the face of an angel. There was no additional skin on her skeletal frame, and beneath the simple sack-shaped dress she wore were the legs of a supermodel. They were far too thin for her to be of any practical value. It was as if she had been starved, thought Emma. Then in afterthought, she considered that she may have starved herself, as often young girls do.

  The silence remained unbearable.

  Thoughts of how the lady had treated Emma with what she had assumed to be unique adoration turned vile and bitter. Had she known all along that Emma would not be alone? That her chances of success with the unknown man would be reduced?

  “I’m Emma.”

  Although whispered, the statement sounded loud in the room. It failed to invoke a response from either girl one or girl two. They stared ahead as if either they were both unfortunate enough to be deaf or did not understand English.

  Opening her mouth to introduce herself a second time, Emma was stopped by the squeak of the door handle. As if the reaction had been ingrained into her, she stood tall, sucked in her stomach, pushed out her chest, and lifted her chin, staring straight ahead into the bedroom. All the while her mind desperately wanted her to turn to see who had entered.

  But it wasn't until the door had closed and the lady had started talking that the opportunity to investigate the newcomer arose. Emma was sorely disappointed. From the corner of her eye, she saw a fat man, balding and older than her father. Fearing that her curiosity would go against her, Emma averted her eyes, focusing on a small, framed, black-and-white photo of a man in a soldier’s uniform hanging on the wall.

  “Mr Francesco, I would like to introduce you to some friends of mine.”

  Leading the way and controlling the parade, the lady stopped in front of Emma. Then she took a single step back, opening a space for Mr Francesco to stand and peruse Emma.

  Not daring to look at him or to show her disappointed expression, Emma closed her eyes and listened to the introduction.

  “This is Emma, an English girl who was recently orphaned. Sadly, her parents were in trouble. They were killed and Athens is no longer safe for her.”

  An awkward nothing filled a long space in time. Emma fought to hold her eyes closed. She was extreme
ly aware of the smell of aniseed coming from the man.

  Saying nothing, the lady led Mr Francesco to number two, leaving Emma to exhale, long and silent, not daring to make a sound.

  “This is Anna. Anna is Russian and looking for a new start in life.”

  Emitting a single grunt, the man moved on to girl three, leaving a faint tang of aniseed in the air.

  “And finally, this is Duska. Although a year older than both Emma and Anna, Duska matches your requirements almost perfectly.”

  Spying from the corner of her eye, Emma saw the man step closer to Duska, ignoring the girl’s face entirely and focusing on her two most redeeming qualities.

  “Would you like a few minutes to decide, Mr Francesco?”

  Stunned to learn that the lady would leave the girls alone with the old man, Emma’s heart began to thump inside her chest as if she had been woken during a bad dream.

  “Yes. I would like to get to know each of them.”

  “As you wish. I’ll be back shortly. I think they all suit your requirements. So I am positive you will leave here a happy man, Mr Francesco.”

  The submissive tone of the lady was a stark contrast to the authoritative and commanding voice Emma had grown used to. Just the sound of the man’s creepy voice was enough to turn Emma’s stomach. His voice, mixed with the sickening smell of aniseed, made Emma fight to control her breathing and avoid vomiting.

  The distinctive scent of the lady’s perfume offered a brief reprise from the aniseed as she brushed past. But the man’s sickly scent returned as the door behind Emma closed and the key in the lock turned. Opening her eyes, Emma saw the man still leering at girl three, Duska. With Mr Francesco’s attention fixed on the girl, Emma dared to watch. It was a move that answered her curiosity but increased the turning of her stomach.