It is the height of the dry season and Maria imagines other nearby islands, bustling with tourists, as she walks the length of the beach the next morning. As she moves towards the jetty, she sees a boat; food supplies being unloaded by a couple of the workers who share the third villa. For a moment she pictures herself creeping aboard, convincing the boatman to take her somewhere far from here. At that moment one of the maids looks up at her, and Maria turns away.
David had woken first but he is not at his usual place on the porch of the second villa, where Jorgos and Hans are staying. She looks around, the windows of the connecting villa glistening down at her, the glass reflecting the sunlight so that she has no idea who is inside, and who’s looking out.
Maria’s phone is by her side in her linen tote bag, which is where she keeps it at all times, wary not just of David but of the workers who bustle in and out without a moment’s warning, their eyes everywhere. She reads a book on the beach for a while, turning the pages occasionally for the benefit of the cameras that lean in overhead. Who knows who is watching, and how close up they can move, whether they capture the wary movements of her eyes as they scan the page, willing a reply to the message she sent Harry from her phone, forwarding the picture of where in the ocean they are, in the dead of night.
There is no reply when Maria checks her phone the next day, or the one after that.
For all she knows, Harry might be dead.
A month on the island passes painfully slowly, her toes sinking further into the sand with every step. The rum cocktails that at first tasted sweet and reassuring become sharp and sit heavy in her gut.
Every day she checks her phone for a reply from Harry, and then one day it comes.
‘I’ve spoken to my woman, she needs more than this. Has David mentioned Anna?’
Frustrated at the lack of meaningful information, Maria inhales sharply as she types: ‘I’ll try to call in the next few days. Please answer.’
In the days leading up to Anna’s inquest, Maria hears David waking early, heading out and pacing the beach until either Jorgos or Hans come down to get him, leading him, childlike, back to the villa where they feed him coffee and then spirits, as the day progresses while they toil over papers.
‘I want to speak to my father before I make any kind of decision,’ she hears David tell them pleadingly one afternoon as she passes along the beach below.
‘It’s not possible,’ Jorgos says simply. ‘It’s not safe. Clive knows about this; he and Jeff have discussed—’
As if sensing they are being overheard, Jorgos lowers his voice and the conversation continues out of hearing range.
That afternoon, Maria takes a swim and when she returns to the house, David is sitting completely still at the breakfast bar with his iPad next to him. Moving behind him, Maria sees the whisky and then the article open on the screen, the headline reporting the inquest verdict.
Socialite hanging: Death by Suicide.
Maria expects David’s nerves to calm once the verdict is announced, but the moment they learn of the coroner’s conclusion, his restlessness turns to listlessness, as if rather than feeling he has got away with it, he has simply given up.
There is no sign of him when Maria awakes, a couple of days later. None of the men are to be found; presumably they have tucked themselves inside the other villa, wishing to discuss whatever it is that has been bothering David in a more private setting.
Taking the opportunity to check whether Harry has been back in touch, Maria turns on her phone, her mind going back to the day Felicity revealed herself, and MI6’s interest in TradeSmart: ‘Arms dealing, people trafficking, a child brothel frequented by older men at a very high price.’ The investigations had been going on for years, she said, but they were finally reaching a critical stage. An inside man, one of Clive’s closest colleagues, was helping to bring the whole thing down. But they needed more. They needed her.
Maria had questioned Felicity at once. ‘Inside man? Who, Jeff? Jorgos?’
It could have been either of them, or someone else entirely. None of them were to be trusted. Felicity’s face had given nothing away. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that.’
Maria slips the phone back into her washbag, which she returns to her tote, putting a towel and book on top, and leaves the bathroom holding the bag over her arm. When she opens the door and looks up, David is standing directly in front of her, his expression glass-like.
‘David! You scared me,’ she says and then takes a step forward, noticing the blotchy skin around his eyes. ‘What—’
‘It’s Dad,’ he says. ‘He’s dead.’