Torn in Two Page 8

  The words trailed off. Their eyes locked; hers unmoving, Frankie’s blank and unemotional.

  “It must be very tough. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

  “Hell.”

  A new approach was required.

  “You’re right. I’m being paid to do a job. My methods might not be as documented as the local police. I might not have the bedside manners that they can offer. But let me tell you something, Mrs Fletcher. I do feel for you. I'm a parent myself. And right now I'm four days behind the guy in the lead so forgive me if I'm abrupt. I'm trying to do my job.” He sat back in his seat and crossed his legs. “How’s that for sympathy?”

  “Better.” Taken aback by Frankie’s direct approach, Mrs Fletcher stiffened and pulled at the hem of her dress to cover her bare legs.

  “Good. Now tell me about this friend of yours.”

  “Friend?”

  “Alan mentioned you have a friend who lives locally that you visited. In fact, you’ve visited her three times since your arrival. She must be a good friend.”

  “Her name is Angela. We met in London when we were young.”

  “How young?”

  “I don't know. We were at school. Twenty-five years ago. A little younger than Emma is now.”

  Frankie scrawled a few notes and, without looking up, maintained his line of questioning while she was talking, keeping the flow of information coming.

  “What’s her full name?”

  “Angela Simmons.”

  “Maiden name?”

  “As far as I know. She never married. She moved out here with a man about ten years ago. They split up, but she loved it so much she decided to stay.”

  “And why not?” said Frankie. “What more could anybody ask for?”

  “A pension and friends, to name a couple.”

  Her ability to cut a line of conversation dead in its tracks was uncanny.

  “Where can I find her?”

  No response came.

  Looking up from his pad, Frankie found Mrs Fletcher’s resilient stare.

  It was a tactic Frankie had seen on numerous occasions. He could wait it out. The wait began with him resting his pen on his pad and re-crossing his legs. He then folded his hands across his lap, interlocked his fingers, and peered out of the window at the blue sky outside.

  “I’m not letting you get her involved, Mr Black. She’s been questioned hard enough by the police. They didn't see any reason to pursue her so I don't see why you should.”

  Thin, wispy clouds rolled in from the ocean then spread as if there was too much sky to cover. The thought was enough to occupy Frankie while Mrs Fletcher learned her first lesson: Frankie’s questions never go unanswered.

  “She’s not in Greece right now anyway.”

  “Is she on holiday?”

  “Travelling. On business, I think.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a large firm. She runs the Greece office. She works in beauty. It’s a makeup company, I think.”

  “I’m going to need a little more information than that. Where did you meet up with her the night Emma was taken? In a bar? A restaurant?”

  “I went to hers. We had some wine and just caught up.”

  “It was the third time you’d seen her in the holiday. How much catching up did you have to do?”

  The comment woke a pang of fury in Sharon’s eyes. It was the reaction that Frankie had been seeking, and she spoke as if to convey that the line of questioning was at its end.

  “Lots.”

  “In Athens?”

  Sighing at Frankie’s persistence, Sharon relented. She crossed her legs and folded her arms, defensive to the fullest.

  “In Kolanaki. It’s a district of Athens.”

  “Very nice. That’s a wealthy area.”

  “She does okay. She always did. She’s a confident woman.”

  “And what time did you get back here? I’m presuming you got a taxi?”

  “A taxi?”

  “You said you had some wine. So can I assume you got a cab there and back?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “So I can check with the taxi firm to make sure?”

  “I told you, the police cleared both myself and my husband. Sadly, by the time they finished with us, it was too late for them to look anywhere else.”

  Again, Frankie waited, saying nothing and letting the silence do the talking.

  “Two a.m. The taxi dropped me outside at two a.m.”

  “And you came straight home? And by that, I mean you went to Angela’s house, had some wine, probably some dinner, and then you came straight back here?”

  “Yes. We talked for longer than I anticipated. But it was good, you know, to catch up with an old friend.”

  “And when you got home, Mrs Fletcher-”

  “Please, just call me Sharon.”

  “When you got home, Sharon, was Alan still up?”

  “No. He was out cold. I didn’t see him until the morning.”

  “And that was when you realised Emma was missing?”

  The question struck a chord. Once again, a simple reminder of the details had broken through Sharon's defences.

  “It was eight in the morning. I made some coffee. I thought she was in her room still sleeping in, you know. It’s a holiday. But then Alan burst in through the front door.”

  “He’d been out?”

  “I thought he was still asleep too. But he burst in like he’d been running. I’ll never forget the look on his face.”

  “Tell me one word that describes how he looked.”

  She pondered on the question, relaxing in her seat and lowering her defensive posture. Her eyes flicked to the right as if she was sifting through a ream of possible descriptions.

  “Broken.”

  It was a good choice of word given the circumstances.

  “He looked as though he’d been running. He was out of breath.”

  Allowing the memory to refresh itself in Sharon's mind, Frankie let the silence hang. She would continue. The flow was there now. The barriers were down.

  “Then he hugged me.”

  “He’s your husband. Is that unusual?”

  “No, I mean he hugged me like he’d never hugged me before. I kept asking him what was wrong. But he couldn't speak. I felt his tears before I heard him mutter a single word.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He just apologised, over and over, as if he’d failed me. Failed us. It was only when I pushed him away so I could see his face that I knew. I ran into Emma's room. It was empty.”

  “And you called the police?”

  “No. We searched the grounds. We searched the beach. We searched everywhere. I even asked a local man who was on the road. But he hadn't seen anything. I kept thinking that maybe she’d run away. Maybe she’d gotten up early to go for a swim. But she couldn't have. Not in her pyjamas.”

  “Is that definitely what she was wearing?”

  “It’s the only clothing that’s missing. If she’d run away, she’d have taken clothes. She would have taken her passport, money, jewellery. She hasn’t even taken a bag. I had these visions of someone finding her pyjamas washed up on the shore as if she had drowned.”

  “And now? What do you think happened to her, Sharon? Do you still think she drowned? Do you still think it’s a possibility? Is that the image you still think about?”

  “Now? I’m her mother, Mr Black. Now I have visions of her drowned, run over, kidnapped…” She stopped before she said too much, but Frankie knew where she was going.

  “The newspapers said there was no sign of a struggle. Is this correct?”

  “Yes. That’s why they thought she’d run away. But they don’t know her. How could they? She would never run away. She wasn’t like that.”

  “Was anything missing, Sharon? Did they take anything? A purse, money, passports maybe?”

  Lowering her voice to a hush to ensure they c
ouldn’t be overheard, Sharon leaned in, the hem of her dress riding up her legs as she did.

  “My wedding ring. I left it on the bedside table with my bracelet. I didn’t notice until this morning when you arrived. I had other things on my mind.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Please don't mention it. It’s Alan, he’ll be upset. We’re under enough pressure as it is.”

  “Is that all? Nothing else was taken?”

  “No.” The bitterness and defence had gone from Sharon’s eyes. They widened, pleading with him. “You promise me you won’t say anything?”

  “What about Emma’s frame of mind?” Moving past the threat of empty promises, Frankie made the relevant notes on his pad. “I imagine she’s a happy girl, but you knew her better than anyone else. Was she happy, Sharon? When you last saw her?”

  “She was. She was always smiling.”

  “And she has plenty of friends?”

  “Not many. But I never have to worry. Not usually. She would never go out and get drunk. Never stays out late. That’s why this is so out of character.”

  “Did she make any friends here during the holiday?”

  “There was one.” A memory stirred. Her eyes wandered to the right as she recalled it, but she chose not to voice it aloud. “But the police checked him out and, honestly, I’ve met him. He’s such a nice boy. We were actually going to invite him to dinner, you know, to give Emma some company her own age.”

  “Could I have his name?”

  “The police checked him out, Mr Black.”

  “I won’t press him. I know these things can effect a community, especially if the police have been heavy. But I would like to ask him some questions.”

  “Right now, we need all the allies we can get. So don't push him too hard. I think he’s as fragile as Emma.”

  “Honestly, I won’t.”

  “His name is Christos. I don't know his last name, but his family live in one of the local houses at the far end of the bay.”

  “And where did Emma meet Christos?”

  “Our first day here on the beach. Alan bought a little Frisbee from a local shop and the two of them were throwing it to each other. Emma threw it a little too hard and it landed beside Christos while he was swimming. He swam back with it and they all exchanged a few pleasantries. I was lying too far away to hear what they said, but I could tell he liked her and I could see the change in Emma.”

  “The change?”

  “It’s a woman thing, Mr Black.” The phrase caught Frankie’s attention. It was a blanket term that Jacqui used to use to describe female intuition. He set aside the memory of her and focused on Sharon who had continued, oblivious to Frankie’s brief distraction. “He looked at her and she looked back at him. Plus the smile on her face and glances over her shoulder. I didn't need a degree in human behaviour to understand. I was young once too.”

  It was with a keen interest that Frankie watched Sharon smile at the memory, imagining that her daughter was just doing the things that she did herself once a long time ago.

  “I’m guessing she saw him again after that?”

  “Yes. Twice. It was the same day but in the evening. We went for a walk and were buying some ice creams when he came running out of nowhere shouting in Greek. He surprised us all and scared away a young boy who was apparently going to steal my husband’s wallet.”

  “A pickpocket?”

  “Yes. It was lucky Christos was there. The boy would have taken all our euros. I offered to give Christos some money as a thank you but he wouldn't take it. He’s a good kid. Please don't press him too hard.”

  “And the other time they met?”

  “Alan rented a boat for us to see the islands. It was a day trip and, I think, one of Emma’s favourite days.”

  “And Christos was on the trip?”

  “His father owned the boat. They’re a nice family, Mr Black.”

  “And you said you were going to invite him to dinner?”

  “Yes. Emma and I went to the beach. Alan had some work to do, so we had a girls’ day. It was lovely. Mr Black, this is hard for me to say, but I know we might never find her. I know we may never see Emma again. I’ll not embrace the thought but I’ve come to terms with it. I have to or the shock will kill me.”

  “I understand.”

  “But if that’s the last thought I have of her, I couldn't ask for a nicer memory. Just the two of us lying side by side on beach towels and chatting. She was a friend not just a daughter.”

  The flow was running, the information coming thick and fast, and Frankie made notes where he thought pertinent. At times, when Sharon was reminiscing, Frankie would continue making notes in case him stopping stemmed the flow.

  “A shadow fell over us and we both sat up to see what it was. We turned and I nearly melted, Frankie. It was Christos. He was standing over us. He was holding a single flower for Emma and smiling like he’d just struck gold.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The sight struck her like a cold blow to the chest. It sent shivers across Emma’s skin and formed a smile on her face as if a blanket of dark clouds had parted to allow a slice of sunlight to warm her skin. Unable to find reason in the riot of emotions that flooded her mind, she could speak only two words.

  “It’s perfect.”

  Peering into the mirror at her reflection and seeing the work of the lady for the first time, Emma withheld a tear and swallowed to remove the lump in her throat. The red heels that the lady had produced complimented both the pleated dress and Emma’s long legs. Her wavy hair rested on her shoulders and now had a bounce in it that Emma had never been able to create, despite countless online tutorials.

  She bent to look at her face in the mirror.

  “How did you do this?” She took a fleeting glimpse at the lady, begging to know how she’d worked such magic, but was drawn back to the mirror before the lady could answer. “I look like a doll.”

  “I will show you. It is nothing.”

  Twirling, full to the brim with happiness, Emma sent the dress into a wave and watched her hair bounce once more. She examined every part of her appearance with childlike fascination, then stopped as her subconscious recalled a command.

  She straightened.

  She lifted her chin.

  And she stared at her new self with admiration.

  “Good,” said the lady, stepping into the corridor. It was a silent command for Emma to follow. “Let’s see how you walk in those heels.”

  Taking one more glance in the mirror, Emma winked at herself and strode out behind the lady with her head up, chest out, and eyes fixed on her new idol.

  “Don't look at me. Look at where you are walking. You walk like a newborn lamb.”

  The scorn knocked Emma’s confidence a little. It was enough to put her stride out of kilter and she stumbled in the heels, twisting her ankle.

  “Again.” The lady’s command filled the corridor, but she offered no help. “Do not stop to tend your wound. Walk it off.”

  Emma hobbled back to her room to restart the walk, but this time the mirror offered no view of glamour. Just a child in adult clothes. A child playing at grown-ups. Until the lady’s voice once more pulled her away.

  “Let’s go. Let’s do this.”

  Emma began her second pass on the makeshift catwalk.

  “Good. Head up. Chest out. Back straight. Stop looking at me, Emma.”

  Again, the raised voice took the wind out of Emma’s sails. She stopped, fearful of another slip, and faced the lady.

  “You aren’t showing me your power, Emma. You’re looking for my power. You are looking at me like you want me. You don't want me. You don't want anyone. It’s them out there that want you, and that’s what you need to remember. That’s your power. You will be anywhere in the world, in any city, Rome or Paris maybe, and you will feel the burn of their eyes. You will bathe in the glory of admiration. And your power will grow. But as soon as you look at somebody, as soon as you seek adm
iration, that power is gone. Feel it, Emma. Enjoy it. It is a rare power. But it is yours so long as you can wield it.”

  Nodding, and trying to comprehend everything the lady had said, Emma strode back to the room, this time with her head held higher. The pain in her ankle was passing and the mirror offered her a glance at somebody new. She stared down at the glass but held her head high, finding her reflection along the length of her nose. She straightened her back to make her beautiful dress seem as though it had been starched as hard as a board. Then, with a confident familiarity in her own body, she flicked her hair to one shoulder, a silent opposition to the manner in which the lady had pulled it across both shoulders. But it was the way Emma liked it.

  It was the way she wanted it.

  And the power was hers, after all.

  She turned on her feet, the way the lady had done earlier, with grace and style, offering the onlooker a glimpse of the underside of her shoe and showing the strength in her body.

  “Right. Now, imagine this…” The lady set the scene, her voice loud and clear in the empty corridor. “You have stepped out of the limousine. The driver has closed the door behind you. Heads turn to find such beauty in their presence, Emma. But you embrace their stares, feeding off them, feeding your power. And you walk. You meet no eyes, offer no smiles. It’s just you. Now walk.”

  Finding a confident swagger that rolled her hips from side to side, Emma stepped from the room into the corridor where she turned and directed her eyes to the far end. The lady looked on and although Emma didn't see it, she could feel her smile with pride.

  “Keep walking. Now you own the room. You have the power and anything you want, anything you see, can be yours. How does it feel?”

  Emma stopped, allowing herself two extra steps to savour the moment and to avoid another stumble. She turned, hand on hip, just like she had seen dozens of models do on the catwalks of fashion shows.

  “It feels natural.” It was true. The more Emma relaxed, the easier it became. “It’s like I always knew what to do but had never put it into practice.”