A Breeze Across The Aegean Page 3

  Once out of the bay and with the ferry headed into the lowering sun, Nicholas, his disappointment growing, searched the ferry, scanning the faces of passengers, only to confirm that Alessandra was not sitting in the cabin below or anywhere else on board. He realised then that they had not even exchanged phone numbers.

  After a journey that seemed far longer than that going out, the ferry eventually docked in Skala Kamirou. On the hour-and-a-half drive back to his villa in Pylona, Nicholas felt more alone than when he had left the house that morning.

  Over the next few days he relived the trip to Halki. He could not get Alessandra out of his mind. He had felt real disappointment that she had not been on the return trip to Rhodes, but knew it was important to see her again. He spent most of his time at the villa. He had received some urgent emails from the office that he needed to catch up on. One day he took himself to Lindos and made the long, dusty trek to the opposite promontory to visit the tomb of Cleobulus. The warm October weather had continued through into the new week.

  Nicholas had found a much-read copy of Laurence Durrell’s “Reflections on a Marine Venus” in the villa’s well-stocked bookcase. Sitting beside the gently lapping water of the swimming pool, he read of the author’s time on Rhodes as a British civil servant after the end of the Second World War. He was intrigued to read Durrell’s words that “In Rhodes the days drop softly as fruit from trees. Some belong to the dazzling ages of Cleobulus and the tyrants, some to the gloomy Tiberius, some to the Crusaders.” He put the book down and gazed across to the dusty hills behind. He was starting to get a feel for the contradictions so intrinsic to the character of this ancient landscape.

  That evening he went to one of the many rooftop restaurants that provide a panoramic view over Lindos town and the bay. As the sun slowly dipped below the buildings, he found himself going over his meeting with Alessandra once more. He tried to work out why he had felt such a strong connection. The surfacing of such feelings surprised him. Undoubtedly, he found her attractive and appealing. She was also refreshing and exciting. But there was so much more. He had felt a bond, a recognition. Perhaps it was simply that, not having known him previously, she was able to respond to him as she found him. He had learnt to keep his emotions well hidden. He was not a great believer in luck, but this felt right. He was sure Alessandra had also felt something. Alone on the rooftop, watching the other diners, he realised how solitary he had become, but was he ready for a new relationship? There was still guilt. Had he healed sufficiently? It had been two years, after all.

  A few days later, Nicholas drove into Rhodes town to the museum. He had waited until the Wednesday, so as not to appear too eager. Dressing with more care than usual he was wearing a blue jacket and carefully ironed shirt. He gave himself enough time to park outside the old walls and locate the building. He had spent the past few days waiting to see Alessandra again and wanted to make sure he would get to the museum well before it closed.

  At the ticket office inside the airy medieval entrance he asked for Miss Bianchi and was referred to an information counter, inside the cool of the museum.

  “Alessandra has not been in to work so far this week. Perhaps she’s not well,” the efficient middle-aged woman behind the counter told him.

  “Has she called you?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

  “Did she by any chance leave any message for me? My name is Nicholas Adams and I was due to meet her here.”

  There was no message. The woman suggested he try later in the week. Nicholas asked if he might leave a message for Alessandra, with his mobile phone number. In the note he asked Alessandra to contact him and reminded her he was leaving Rhodes on Friday.

  He left, puzzled, and with an unsettling sense of regret and disappointment. He had been so sure that the attraction was mutual. He had had even allowed himself to think that they might have had a future. He had obviously misread the signals from the ferry trip. How had he got it so wrong? He thought he was getting better. He shook his head. He had even had some feelings of guilt that he had such emotions. After eight years of marriage, he was clearly still not ready. Alessandra was colourful and vibrant, with the world ahead of her. So unlike him. What was he thinking?

  He did not hear from her again.

  Chapter Four

  England

  The red and green neon reindeer leapt across the front lawn. Fairy lights danced along bare branches on each side of the street. Nicholas turned into his road. He felt weary. It had been a day of many meetings, and not much action. The roads had been clogged with pre-Christmas traffic crawling through the dank evening fog. He reached his driveway, parked and turned the key to the front door. In the hallway, he checked the mail – mainly flyers offering carpets, blinds and pizza deliveries.

  It felt as cold inside as it was outside. Little had remained to remind him of his wife. He had not been able to bear being among her personal things or those that they had bought together. Her clothing had been the first to go. During the early months the constant reminders of their shared life and dreams had been given away or taken to his local charity shop. Looking around at the sparse and impersonal furnishings, he hardly recognised the house now. He regretted some of his hasty decisions, but he had not been himself. Nicholas looked around the cheerless living room and thought once again of selling up.

  It was the same in the kitchen. All Lynda’s recipe books and other gadgets had long gone, leaving a utilitarian space. Perhaps a few changes were now needed. He searched the fridge for a ready-meal to microwave.

  In the living room he caught his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. He looked tired. There was a hint of grey at the temples of his thick, unruly dark hair. When had that happened? The collar of his shirt had started to fray. He looked washed-out and distracted. Nicholas took off his tie and turned on the imitation-flame gas fire. Lynda had wanted to replace it with a woodburner, but he had argued for practicality. He poured himself a cognac – he would have preferred a gin and tonic, but had forgotten to buy the mixer.

  Nicholas slumped onto the sofa and turned on the television. More of the same from the White House. He flicked through the newspaper in front of him, sipping his drink with a slight grimace. The local news came on. There was an item about stores already holding pre-Christmas sales. The next story suddenly caught his attention. A picture of a laughing, dark-haired woman flashed up on the screen. His breath caught. It looked just like Alessandra. He leaned forward, gripping his glass and turned up the volume. The newsreader reported that the search for a local woman, missing on the island of Rhodes, had been called off after Greek police had failed to find any leads. A representative from the British Consulate said that, despite an intensive search, they had no more information on the disappearance of a British subject, Alessandra Bianchi, who had been living on Rhodes but had previously lived in Balham, South London. The report continued with a clip of a frightened and uncomfortable-looking couple in their sixties – her parents – sitting in the living room of their home in Amersham, Buckinghamshire. A local reporter was interviewing them.

  “We can’t imagine what has happened to our daughter,” said the father. “She always seemed so happy living and working in Rhodes.”

  “Alessandra had always been an independent person and made her own decisions,” said her mother, looking overwhelmed by the presence of the reporter. “But when she hadn’t returned our calls for a few weeks we became very worried,” she glanced towards her husband as if she needed his confirmation of their concerns. Nicholas thought they looked a couple ill at ease with each other.

  “We contacted the museum where she worked.” Her voice shaky, Mrs Bianchi said that the museum told them that Alessandra had sent them a text message some weeks before, saying she was unwell and would contact them when she was ready to return to work. “We have not spoken to her since. When we told them that she hadn’t answered her phone, w
e were told a work colleague had gone round to her flat, but there was no response. It’s very worrying.” Mrs Bianchi looked down and fell silent. She was distraught, but the reporter encouraged her to continue.

  “We contacted the Consulate and told them it was very unlike Alessandra to make no contact. They alerted the local police, but they had also found no sign of her at the flat.

  The reporter said neighbours in the apartment block had not seen her over the past couple of months.

  “We think they assumed that she had returned to the UK for a visit,” said Mrs Bianchi, her voice was breaking down.

  The report ended. The national weather forecast came on. Nicholas turned off the television. He felt shaken and confused. He had thought of Alessandra often over the past months, imagining her going about her work at the museum in Rhodes. He wondered whether she had gone missing on Rhodes, or whether she had disappeared from Halki. He had been so startled he couldn’t remember what the report had actually said. Had they mentioned when she had disappeared? A thought flashed through his mind that her failure to board the return ferry might be connected. There was relief that perhaps she had not deliberately stood him up after all. Maybe she had not even received the message that he had left at the museum? He felt embarrassed that he was even thinking this and then concern for her kicked in. He remembered the museum assistant telling him at the time that Alessandra may have been off sick. What had happened? Where could she be? She had seemed so positive, so full of life, on the ferry.

  Nicholas spent a restless night methodically turning things over and over in his mind. He wanted to help and felt he should. The last thing he wanted to do, though, was to inflict more pain on this poor family. The television interview had been difficult to watch.

  Next morning he went to Windsor police station to make a statement. He was not sure whether he could add anything to what was already known on Rhodes but felt he had to try. The police were polite and understanding. He told them about his chance meeting with Alessandra on the ferry. He could even tell them the date and time that he had last seen Alessandra that October day. He said she had told him that she was meeting an old friend on the island and that she was booked to return to Rhodes later that day. He was surprised she was not on the ferry. He also said they had agreed to meet the following week for a drink and told them of his fruitless trip to the museum. They took a full statement and his contact details and said they would pass them on to the consulate and the Rhodes police.

  Nicholas asked if there was anything else that they could do but was told that the matter would now be dealt with by the Rhodes police. These cases were relatively common and most resolved themselves naturally with the reappearance of the subject, they said.

  Nicholas left feeling frustrated and powerless. The Greek police had already closed the case. Was the additional information he had provided sufficient for them to reopen the investigation? Would they consider the Halki connection and interview Alessandra’s friend there? There was nothing more he could do.

  Driving to work that morning, though, he could not keep Alessandra from his mind. What if something had happened to her and she needed help. He might have been the last person to see her before she disappeared. He had no confidence that the police would pursue it. It was clearly not a priority for them.

  For the rest of the morning he kept on turning Alessandra’s disappearance over in his mind. He thought back to the museum in Rhodes and his initial feeling that she had let him down. How easy it had been to rationalise her failure to contact him or meet him. If something had happened to her would he now be letting her down by not doing anything more? It had been only one day and one ferry trip, but he had felt a strong connection with her. More importantly it was still possible that their meeting back in October had meant something to her.

  Nicholas thought over his own life. He had lived on the periphery, avoiding engagement with everything around him, for too long now. He suddenly felt his choices narrow.

  BT Online provided him with the home phone number for a Bianchi in Amersham. He was lucky there was only one listing for that name in the area. He agonised over whether he was doing the right thing, but he dialed the number.

  “Hello,” said the hesitant voice Nicholas recognised as that of Alessandra’s mother from the TV the night before.

  “Hello, Mrs Bianchi. My name’s Nicholas Adams and I’m phoning because I saw you on television last night and think I may have some information on your daughter for you.”

  “Oh,” Mrs Bianchi’s voice was hesitant. She said her husband wouldn’t be back from work until that evening.

  “I’m really sorry to intrude, but I think I may have some information that will help the search for Alessandra. I met her just before she disappeared.” Nicholas wanted to reassure the frightened-sounding woman on the other end of line.

  “I can’t talk about this. I will need to speak to my husband.”

  “Perhaps I can meet with both of you and I can tell you what I know. I thought your daughter was a lovely woman. We got along very well.”

  Mrs Bianchi’s tone softened. She said perhaps they could meet the next evening at their local pub, the Plough and Shears, on the outskirts of Amersham at 8.15pm. She took his number and said she would let him know if it was not OK.

  Nicholas would not have been surprised if the Bianchis had phoned him the next day to cancel. Hearing nothing, he turned up at the pub, a mock-Tudor building with a car park in need of resurfacing, just after eight o’clock. Outside it was cold and drizzling. Inside, the place, which was festooned haphazardly with tired Christmas decorations, was almost deserted, despite the hour. Alessandra’s parents were sitting near the open fire.

  “How do you do?” Nicholas extended his hand towards Mr Bianchi. He was thin, even frail-looking, with glasses and thinning grey hair. As he stood, a slight stoop became visible. He was a good two or three inches shorter than Nicholas. Dressed in comfortable brown cords and a baggy fawn-coloured jersey that accentuated his slightness, he looked the part of the college professor. He introduced his wife, speaking with a slight Italian accent.

  Both seemed nervous. Looking at Mrs Bianchi, Nicholas could see where Alessandra had got her striking looks. She was slim and elegant, her graying, medium-length auburn hair was tied back revealing a handsome and only slightly lined face. She smoothed the front of her grey shift dress and sat down.

  “I’m sorry. This is of course very difficult for us,” said Mrs Bianchi, glancing towards her husband, who sat with his arms folded, a guarded expression on his worried face. “We were both,” another glance at her husband, “reluctant to meet you.” Nicholas noticed Mrs Bianchi’s red-rimmed, puffy eyes. “Mr Adams. We are not sure how you can help in any way. Also we do not know you.”

  “Please call me Nicholas. Yes, it must seem strange, but, as I said, I saw your interview on the local news a couple of days ago. You see, I might have been one of the last people to see your daughter before she went missing.”

  The news bulletin was the first he knew of Alessandra’s disappearance, he told them. He recounted the details of that Friday on board the ferry to Halki.

  “We immediately got on and chatted the whole way over. I was on holiday in Rhodes and had decided to visit Halki for the day. Alessandra was going to visit a friend. It was her day-off from work. She told me all about her job at the museum and how important it was for her. Her enthusiasm for what she was working on was so apparent. She told me that she had decided to study further. Clearly, she was very happy living and working on Rhodes. I did get a slight sense, however, that there was something worrying her. I do remember that she kept on glancing towards the stairs whenever someone came up onto our deck. I got the impression she was half-expecting to see someone.”

  Nicholas recalled the moment when he had last seen her. “She was heading off up into the backstreets of the village to meet up with an old friend who liv
ed on Halki.

  “I’m fairly sure it was a woman that your daughter was meeting. I had the impression they had a lot to catch up on. But, the thing is, we agreed to meet up on the return ferry that evening and she didn’t turn up. I was sure Alessandra had said she was going back to Rhodes that day, as she had to go to work the next. I was surprised she wasn’t on the ferry.” He didn’t tell them how disappointed he had been. The Bianchis didn’t comment. Nicholas noticed that the husband had not made eye contact with him. He had removed his glasses and preferred to examine them throughout the account. He looked uninterested, as if he did not want to be there.

  Nicholas continued: “We had made plans to meet up at the museum the following week. Alessandra was going to show me around before we went on for a drink. The woman at the information counter in the museum said that possibly she was sick. They had heard nothing from her. No message had been left for me. I left, thinking it was likely that I would never see Alessandra again.”

  The Bianchis were silent, so Nicholas said he hoped that, if any of this was new information and provided clues to Alessandra’s whereabouts, it might be sufficient to allow the police on Rhodes to continue their investigation.

  “As I told you yesterday I immediately went to my local police station to make a statement. They said that they would pass on the information to the police in Rhodes.”

  Her voice soft, Mrs Bianchi said: “We were taken by surprise by the interest from the press. Mr Adams, please understand we are just normal, quiet people.”

  “I’d like to be able to help, if there’s anything I can do. It must be awful for you. Do you know of anything that may have prompted or be associated with her disappearance?”