Chapter 47
VICTORIA
Barney waits until we’re out of earshot of the monosyllabic Sergeant Griva before he begins his character assassination.
‘Not exactly Cheerful Charlie, is he?’ He jerks his head back down the hill towards Villa Olympus.
I shrug. ‘He doesn’t have to be, does he? I don’t suppose currying favour with the tourists is high on his list of priorities.’
‘Nevertheless, a bit of respect wouldn’t go amiss.’ Barney scowls. ‘Different standards, I suppose. Or he’s enjoying the power trip.’
I find myself wondering, as he chunters on about the vagaries of the Greek justice system, what Greek prisons are like. Because if Felix’s death wasn’t an accident, if he didn’t stumble and fall after one drink too many, it can only mean one thing. Someone meant him harm.
The villa looks exactly as it did when we left to go down to the jetty.
Bougainvillea races up the white walls, sprinklers create tiny rainbows above the emerald lawn and the pool sparkles in the sun.
But it feels like a facsimile or a picture in a travel brochure without Felix’s trademark booming voice and bonhomie.
Dominic and Amber are waiting for us on the terrace. Dominic jumps up from the rattan sofa the moment he sees us.
‘Well?’ he says. ‘What did they say?’
‘Not much,’ I admit. ‘We left them cordoning off the site like it was a bloody crime scene. They said they would come up and speak to us all later.’
Maria has cleared away the breakfast things and set jugs of coffee and iced water in their place.
Barney makes a beeline for the table, helping himself to a black coffee and adding two spoonfuls of sugar.
I pour myself a glass of water. The last thing I need is caffeine.
I’m jittery enough as it is, and that’s not something I want the others, let alone Sergeant Griva, to pick up on.
‘Where are Simone and Willow?’ I ask.
‘Simone’s gone for a lie-down and Willow’s on the phone to her mum.’ Dominic runs a hand through his hair. ‘She’s planning to fly out Tuesday morning. If we’re lucky, they can catch the same flight home as us that night.’
‘I keep forgetting we’re going home on Tuesday,’ Amber says, almost to herself.
Barney raises an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t count your chickens.’
My grip on my glass tightens. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Think about it. The Greek police aren’t going to let us leave until they’ve established how Felix died, are they?’
‘That’s ridiculous. They’ll have to.’
‘Don’t look at me like that, Vic. I’m just telling it how it is. Unless Felix dropped dead of a heart attack, which I suppose is a possibility, knowing how much the old bastard liked his fine food and wine, there’ll be a post-mortem, won’t there?’
Barney’s words land like a blow. Post-mortem. As if the arrival of Sergeant Griva and his sidekick wasn’t bad enough.
Christ.
I realise Barney’s still talking.
‘—afraid we’re not going anywhere for the time being.’
My head jerks up. ‘You have got to be joking.’
‘I wish I was.’ He cradles his cup of coffee in his palm. ‘But my gut says we’re here for the long haul.’
‘But what about the children?’ I cry. ‘Mummy’s not going to want to have them any longer.
You know she’s just been elected lady captain of the golf club.
What with that and Inner Wheel, she’s got her hands full.
And what about me? I’m supposed to be chairing the annual trustees’ meeting on Wednesday. ’
Standing in front of a roomful of our dyed-in-the-wool, conservative-with-a-small-c, humourless trustees is bad enough at the best of times.
Their obsession with optics, the forensic scrutiny of our budget and the endless questions about safeguarding and whether we’re remaining true to our core values is enough to test the patience of a saint.
But with the spectre of Owen Evans hanging over me, the prospect makes me want to turn tail and run for the hills.
Barney sighs. ‘Your mother will just have to work around the kids, and as for work, they’ll have to manage without you, won’t they?’
I sink down onto the nearest chair, suddenly exhausted.
I need to be in London to deal with the fallout of Owen Evans’s death, not here in Greece answering questions about bloody Felix, who probably fell over and banged his head when he was pissed anyway.
Resentment bubbles in my chest. We should never have come.
A week in Cornwall would have been so much less stressful.
My phone bleeps in my pocket and I check the screen. It’s another text from Dee. My heart leaps into my mouth and I fight the urge to panic. The message is short and to the point, with none of Dee’s usual inane chatter. Just three stark words. Three words that signal the beginning of the end.
Call me, please.