Angel of Death

‘They will. These days they’ve got all sorts of ways of proving identity. They can take a hair from her hair brush and get her DNA. And they’re like death and taxes, they never let go. They’ll prove it, somehow, and God help you when they do.’

‘Even if they can tell it’s her,

they can’t prove I did anything.’

‘With Miranda’s evidence they can.’

Sean swore hoarsely. ‘That bitch! We’ve got to shut her mouth. With her out of the picture the police won’t be able to make a case.’

Terry sighed. Sean was right. ‘Bernie says that detective, what’s his name . . . the one who’s dealing with the case, has gone to Greece. I wonder if that’s where Miranda’s been hiding?’

A car rolled up the drive, wheels grating on gravel, and Terry frowned. ‘Now who the hell is that? Not them, already?’ He looked at his son almost despairingly. ‘Get up, get dressed, come downstairs.’ Then he ran down the stairs two at a time and pulled open the front door, staring at the couple confronting him.

‘Sandra? I thought you were on some cruise.’

‘We just got back.’ She swayed past him on very high, glossy black heels. Jack followed her like a dog, keeping close to her, as if afraid Terry might hit him.

The idea did occur, but Terry decided not to indulge himself. He had enough problems without getting into a punch-up with Jack, or quarrelling with his ex-wife. ‘Coffee?’ he offered, walking into the dining room. ‘This is still hot.’ He lifted the steel vacuum jug and waved it.

Sandra sat down, crossed her legs, her black dress sliding upwards to reveal supple, tanned thighs.

‘Lovely. I fancy some toast, as well, please.’

Terry slid two slices of bread into the toaster on the sideboard.

‘Where’s Seany?’ Sandra cooed, pouring black coffee for herself and Jack, who was jingling his gold bracelets in a sleepy way.

‘Getting up. You going back to Spain right away, or staying on over here for a while?’

‘We’re flying to Spain day after tomorrow.’

Sean appeared in the doorway, his hair still damp from a shower, wearing a sleek casual outfit: pale biscuit slacks, a chocolate brown shirt, a cashmere beige cardigan over it.

‘Sean baby, you look great – you’ve got real style, I love the gear,’ his mother said, extending her arms, and he reluctantly allowed himself to be engulfed in them and kissed.

‘You look pale,’ Sandra said, leaning her head back to look closely at him, then turned accusing eyes on Terry. ‘The boy looks pale – what have you been doing to him?’

‘What have I been doing to him? Sandra, he’s been lying about on sofas watching videos, or sleeping late, while I’ve been running around like a blue-arsed fly, trying to save his bacon.’

‘No need for language like that! He’s not well, poor boy. But never mind. Sean, I’ve found that girl for you. What’s her name – this PR girl you’ve been looking for.’

‘Mum!’ Sean burst out, ‘You aren’t kidding me, are you? Where is she?’

‘Greece,’ she said, stroking his hair. ‘Seany, you ought to blow-dry this hair right away. You don’t want to catch a cold, it’s dangerous to go around with wet hair.’

‘I’m OK, Mum,’ he wriggled, pulling out of her arms.

‘What d’you mean, Greece?’ Terry grated, looking at her with dislike, taking the brown toast from the toaster and dropping it on a plate which he pushed in front of her.

She pulled the marmalade dish over and began spreading. ‘You know – that country on the other side of Italy. Greece. We went there on our Mediterranean cruise and we saw Miranda.’

A rush of angry colour flowed up Terry’s face. ‘Don’t be such a drama queen, Sandra. Stop pussyfooting around and tell us the facts. Where exactly did you see her, and when?’

‘The cruise ship stopped at this little island called Delos. We all went ashore in little boats. While we were queuing up to go back to the ship, after . . . and, God, it was boring. Just a lot of grass and broken bits of statues. Anyway, I saw that girl landing in another boat – and guess who she was with? That Greek chap you do business with. Alex something. It was his boat.’

‘Alex?’ Terry sat down, breathing thickly. ‘Are you sure it was him?’

‘Certain.’