Page 47 of Deep Blue Lies

FORTY-SIX

It takes me ages to figure out what to write.

Because what is this guy going to say? But in the end – and with Sophia sitting there telling me to just do it – I do.

I tell him who I am, that I’m in Greece and I’m trying to find out about my parents.

And I ask if it would be OK to speak to him.

I figure there’s a one percent chance he’s even going to answer is, but I hit send and the email flies away.

After that, Sophia invites me to stay for dinner, but I’ve been here long enough, and I’m not really hungry, just shattered, emotionally but physically too.

So she gives me a lift back on her moped, and when I get inside my apartment I lock the door behind me, lie down on my bed, and fall straight asleep.

I check my phone when I wake up, not expecting anything, but I can’t believe it.

There’s a reply from Simon Walker-Denzil.

As I open it I anticipate a refusal – a polite brush-off maybe, or something saying he’s moved on, they’re now in the Caribbean, or somewhere else where I can’t get to.

But instead he sounds…friendly. Cautious though.

He says he doesn’t know how much help he’ll be. But he’s still here, and happy to try .

I phone Sophia at once. She’s on her way to work, but there’s no doubting what she thinks I should do.

I tell her I need to work too, but she scolds me.

What is it I’m doing here? Working for Hans or finding out who my parents are?

She tells me that Bar Sunset has survived for years without me, and it’ll cope for a day or so more.

So before I can think too much about it, I email Simon back, asking when he can meet.

He comes back five minutes later saying that today works, if I can get to him.

So then I find myself at the bus station, booking a seat on the eleven o’clock to Athens.

Klaus did say the location of my place was handy.

The journey is the same one I took to get here, only in reverse.

The local bus from Skalio to Kastria. Change to the busier service to Panachoria, which takes me off the island on the ferry, then change again for the main service to Athens.

It’s only half-full, and it has air con which helps because it’s a hot day.

I’m even a little cold as I look out on the dry, rocky valleys and mountain slopes of olive groves.

As we get closer to Athens though it becomes more industrial.

It’s not so different to England, except there’s a dusty griminess to the surroundings instead of the dampness of home.

As I disembark in Athens bus station I’m assaulted by the noises, smells and heat of the capital.

But not for long. Simon told me to text him as I was arriving, saying he’d send a car to pick me up.

I told him there was no need, but he emailed back again saying it was the only way I’d make it through security.

So I look around, not knowing exactly what to expect.

But then – parked in the space where a bus is supposed to go – there’s a huge black BMW, a man standing outside, young and smartly dressed.

He’s leaning casually on the front, watching me, as if he’s not yet sure if I’m who he’s come to collect, but he suspects that I am.

In a way I’m even more unsure. I have to force myself to approach him, and I don’t know what I’m going to say, especially if I’ve got this wrong and he’s nothing to do with me. But he speaks before I get the chance.

“Ava Whitaker?” He looks at me a little too long. Up close I notice his strength, firm muscles under his shirt and around his neck. Like he’s half-chauffeur, half-bodyguard .

“Um, that’s right.”

He pushes himself off the car and pulls open the back door.

“Take a seat.” I don’t know where he’s from, his accent is hard to place, maybe Eastern European, maybe something completely different.

I hesitate just a moment, wondering if this is a bad idea, but I don’t have much choice.

I climb inside, onto the cool leather seats.

The man presses the door softly shut behind me.

The traffic is bad but he’s skilful, sliding the big car in and out of gaps, and using its presence to force other cars out of his way.

He also makes liberal use of a bus lane at one point.

Athens is a shipping city. Through gaps between the buildings I catch glimpses of the stunning blue sea, but also of shipyards and long rows of gleaming white yachts.

As I look about I notice the driver’s eyes watching me sometimes in the rear-view mirror, but he doesn’t speak again.

We pull off from the busy streets onto a motorway, and then take the next exit straight off again.

This takes us to a part of the city that feels much quieter.

We slow at a gate that divides a long and high security fence.

Two men in uniforms, batons hanging from their belts, approach the car.

As they stand there talking to the driver, I notice they both have handguns too, in leather pouches on their belts.

It all seems fairly relaxed though, even when one of the guards pulls out a device that looks like a mirror on a trolley, which he wheels under the car.

“Looking for bombs,” the driver’s voice suddenly explains, making me jump.

The second guard raps on my window, telling me to open it, then looks in at me and the cabin of the car but seems satisfied I’m not much of a threat. They wave us through.

I can see the yachts now, not just one but dozens, maybe thirty in all. Some look almost modest, while others are enormous, hundreds of feet long. Mostly they’re moored with their sterns towards the pier, and there are cars parked up behind – all expensive, Range Rovers, Mercedes.

“ Celestial is that one.” The driver points now, watching my reaction as I see where we’re going.

“She’s the third biggest here, which is why we have to moor alongside.

” I don’t know what this means at first, but I figure it out, because just a few of the very largest boats are moored more like ships, side-on to the dock.

We pull level with it, and I see just how huge it is, towering over the dock.

The driver stops the car about midway along the ship.

I wait, unsure if I’m supposed to open my own door, or what’s supposed to happen next. The driver gets out, opens it for me.

“Simon’s waiting for you up top.” He holds out his hand, indicating a gangway that leads from the harbourside to a door in the side of the yacht.

I look around before I step onto the gangway.

It’s odd – although I’m surrounded by more luxury and money than I’ve ever seen in my whole life – this part of the marina feels somehow normal.

There’s an old red Fiat parked a little further on.

There’s a garbage bin, next to it a bench that someone has left a newspaper on along with an empty take-away coffee cup.

Something makes me want to stay here a moment longer, in the real world.

But the driver keeps his hand held out, ushering me onto the Celestial .

The gangway shifts beneath me as I put my weight on it, and my feet clang on the metal.

It’s mesh with holes through it, and I can see the water beneath, not quite still but moving lazily.

A broad-backed fish glides past, a couple of smaller ones in its wake.

I reach the end of the gangway and step into a narrow, recessed platform just inside the yacht’s hull.

The air feels different here – cooler, quieter, contained.

The outside world, the sun, the sounds of the city – it’s all instantly left behind.

An older man in a crisp white uniform is waiting for me.

He nods with a polite good morning and introduces himself as John.

He doesn’t ask my name, and there’s something in his manner that tells me he’s used to dealing with the very rich.

He closes the door behind me then gestures down the corridor.

“This way, Miss Whitaker.”

I follow him. There are no windows here, the walls are lined with soft leather panels and discreet, recessed lighting.

There’s no sound except the hushed hum of air conditioning.

Our feet sink into soft carpet. The passage is flawlessly clean, not a single scuff mark. There’s a smell, like furniture polish.

We take a turn, then another. I start to realise just how big this yacht really is. I already couldn’t easily find my way back.

John stops finally at a heavy automated door, presses a button, and it slides open without a sound. I realise it’s an elevator. We get in, and the doors close. There don’t appear to be any controls, but I feel my weight pushed down as we rise up.

The elevator hums to a stop. For a moment, nothing happens. I glance at John, but he’s as motionless as before. Then, without a sound, the doors slide open.

“Here we are, miss. The captain is waiting for you outside.”

I blink at the man, expecting to follow him, but he gestures again, a simple move of the hand that tells me he won’t be getting out, so I step through alone.

The contrast is immediate and startling.

Suddenly I’m in blazing sunlight, the glare bouncing off cream-coloured teak decks and gleaming chrome railings.

Around me, below me, I see the squat concrete pier where we parked, and beyond it the sprawl of Athens with its hills. I squint, adjusting. Then I see him.

Simon Walker-Denzil is sitting at a table, reading some papers. He’s wearing a loose cotton shirt, open at the neck, with chinos and deck shoes. No socks. He’s tanned, slim, unshaven. Better looking than I expected, but somehow, also exactly as I imagined him.

He looks up and smiles, everything about him relaxed. He puts the papers down and stands.

“Ava, you made it.”

“Yeah.” I can’t stop myself from holding out my hands in a “ta-da!” moment, which I instantly regret. He smiles at it though, and I try to cover it up.

“Thank you for seeing me. For coming to get me.”

There’s a flicker of something in his face, amusement I guess. I must look so na?ve, so out of place .

“Let’s see if you still think that by the time we’re done,” he says, with a smile I don’t quite get.

He nods towards the lounge area, white leather sofas shaded by a sleek overhang that’s more spaceship than sailing boat.

“Let’s talk.”