Chapter 4

“The next ‘plane to London is a scheduled flight and we have upgraded you to first class to help you forget your ordeal. It leaves in just over an hour. Please do not worry about your luggage. The airport head of security has agreed to make an exception to the rules and allowed your baggage to stay on the original flight. Our representative will collect it in London and keep it for you. Please ask at the baggage enquiry desk when you arrive.” The official checked his clipboard. “Ask for Fiona. She will have your case. Is there anything else we can do to help you?”

“No, no. Thank you. That’s all very kind of you,” said Susanna.

“The press and TV people are here, of course, but we haven’t released your name so you will have no problems.” The young airport official spoke near perfect English. She strongly suspected that his and his bosses’ concern was to get her on her way and out of theirs as soon as possible in case she should make some sort of official complaint or otherwise cause them more fuss and trouble. With the crisis over, the demands of the timetables of a busy airport were reasserting themselves in official minds. Her contact with the police had been similarly considerate and brief. A sergeant had typed her statement in English straight into his laptop computer, recording her home and mother’s addresses and telephone numbers almost as an afterthought. He allowed her to read the printed version, handed her a pen and smilingly accepted the signed version. Only when asked, did he produce a copy for her to keep, stressing anxiously that it was a confidential document and she must not give it to anyone else in case it affected the court case.

“Don’t you need me to appear? To give evidence?”

“Maybe, maybe, but it will not be for months yet. It is all pretty clear so maybe we will not need you in court.”

“What about the girls? What will happen to them?” Susannah had last seen them being led away by policemen, Natasha stony-faced, the other three sobbing with shock or fright or both.

“They must stay, of course. They entered Greece illegally and their documents are probably forged. They will be questioned to find out what they know about the traffickers. If they have committed no other crime, I expect they will be sent back to Albania.”

“Anna is from Macedonia,” said Susanna.

Between police interviews and official expressions of concern and getting on the ‘plane she had tried twice to ring George at the house in the island village, but the telephone had rung, unanswered. If he had caught the afternoon ferry he should be home by now. She hoped he was all right. She had tried to ring her mother too but was not surprised when there was no reply. Valerie would be on her way to the airport to meet her. The airport staff had had her paged over the public address system at Heathrow and Susanna had eventually heard her mother’s worried voice over the telephone. It was just as well. News of the hostage incident had been on the radio and Valerie was in a state of alarm escalating towards hysteria, accelerated by being paged and called to the information desk. Susanna thought it better to allow her mother to assume that she had missed her flight because of additional security checks and so on and was glad her name had been withheld for the time being. She could tell her mother the full story in due course when they were both more relaxed and she knew more about this lump and what it meant. She insisted her mother go home and wait. She would ring as soon as she landed and, no, she did not know what flight they would put her on. Yes, George was fine. No, he wasn’t with her. Yes, she had been given a meal because of the delay. Yes, she was fine. No, she was not tired. Yes, she had money to hire a car. Yes, she would come straight home however late it was. It already felt late even though it had only been two hours since Stanislav had shot himself in his ankle while trying to drag the pistol out of his jacket pocket to point at someone or something outside the office. The single shot had been deafening in the confined space and its echoes had mingled with his curses and cries of pain, the screams of the girls and the crash of shattering glass as two black-overalled figures had smashed through the office windows, yelling at them all to lie down, lie down. Susanna had heard her own screams continuing when the other sounds stopped and she regained control with another effort. In the anti-climax and the release of tension, she found herself giggling uncontrollably as she was led away by a young policewoman.

Dawn was breaking by the time Susanna turned on to the M23 and headed north. She could foresee that she would have to face the M25 in the rush hour and she put her foot down to try to cover as much distance as possible before hitting the heaviest of the morning traffic. The motorway was already busy with vans, lorries and company cars, all trying to beat the rush. The sluggish acceleration of her little car told her that she had made a false economy by hiring the smallest and cheapest vehicle the hire company had available and that being the car’s only passenger and not yet having any luggage did not compensate for the underpowered engine. She indicated and pulled into the middle lane to allow a tailgating white van to pass. Having chosen a car unsuitable for motorway driving added to her existing irritation and she cursed herself under her breath for her stupidity. In her exhausted and still faintly bewildered condition, she had not noticed that her flight was bound for Gatwick until she was seated, strapped in and the doors had been closed. The pilot had welcomed them on board the aircraft, wished them a pleasant flight and apologised for a slight delay in take-off, caused by technical difficulties with an earlier flight. He told them that the weather en route looked good and he would give them an update on the weather in the UK as they approached Gatwick. ‘Oh shit! My bloody bag will be at Heathrow,’ she had thought or, judging from the sideways glance from the elderly man in the seat next to her, she had muttered out loud. The solicitous young, airport official had escorted her to the aircraft steps. She was to have a pleasant journey and an enjoyable holiday… yes, of course, he hoped her mother would make a full recovery from her illness. They would be in touch with her when she returned. Thank you, thank you, and good-bye. An hour of telephoning from the baggage supervisor’s office at Gatwick had eventually located her suitcase in the custody of somebody called Phyllis at Terminal One at Heathrow. Would she like it sent back or delivered to Gatwick? Neither thank-you. She would collect it in person in a couple of hours. She had not mentioned the baggage problem or any of the other events on the telephone to her mother, confining herself to saying she was safely in the UK and would be home in time for lunch. She had toyed with the idea of getting George out of bed but had decided to punish him for her unanswered call the previous night by making him wait for news of her. The plodding, unresponsive little car and a lack of sleep made Susanna irritable. With a wrench, she turned on the radio and tuned it to a rock music station. ‘Stop crying your heart out,’ sang Oasis. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she thought. As she turned west and settled into the crawling jam of the southern section of the M25, the prospect of facing her mother and finding out whether or not the lump in her breast was malignant began to make her feel weary and depressed. Is it today, the doctor’s appointment? Hell! Yes, it is. God, she was tired. A couple of hours’ fitful sleep on the plane was not enough after yesterday’s events. She should have checked into an hotel and got some sleep but how could she have explained that to her mother? As far as Valerie knew, Susanna had travelled a bit later than expected and landed to face no more than an hour’s drive from Heathrow against the direction of the rush hour traffic. She fiddled with the switches and found the button to open the driver’s window and let in some fresh air as well as the deafening roar of the surrounding traffic. She turned up the radio and tried to concentrate on the early-morning banter of the two DJ-presenters.