Maybe murder.

There were light footsteps on the stairs. He stood up as Fiona came in carrying a bone-china cup and saucer, patterned prettily with pink roses. ‘Tea,’ she said with a tight smile, placing it on the desk.

‘Thanks, Mrs Maguire.’ As she turned to go, he added: ‘This must be so hard on you. And the kids.’

Fiona stared at him. She had a chilly face, very still, almost fending off attention. But her eyes softened at his words. ‘It is. Alison and Michael – our children – they keep asking where Daddy’s gone. And I don’t know what to say to them.’

‘That’s them, yeah? In the photo?’ Farmer indicated one of the pics on the sill.

‘Yes. That’s them.’

‘They’re beautiful kids. You must be very proud.’

‘I am. But I just wish I knew . . .’ Her eyes filled with tears and she choked to a halt.

‘And these other pictures. Who are these people, Mrs Maguire?’ he asked, to stop the flow of emotion, get her mind off that track.

‘Oh, those?’ She gulped and blinked, moved closer to the desk. ‘That’s Donny’s mum and dad, together there. And that one, that’s his brother William. Wills, Donny always called him. He died years ago.’

‘He’s a good-looking young fella,’ said Farmer, looking at the picture of William. ‘What’s the story about him?’

Fiona gave a dry laugh. It was almost a sob. ‘Oh, there’s no story. It was all very tragic, really.’

‘Tragic in what way?’

‘Well – he killed himself.’

110

Lenny took Angel shopping for clothes and souvenirs in Paphos, ‘the birthplace of Aphrodite’.

‘This is the Old Town,’ he told her, leading her by the hand as the sun seared down upon them. ‘Palaepaphos, it’s called. The New Town is Kato Paphos.’

Over two long blissful weeks they sunbathed and slept and chatted. She asked about the clubs he ran.

‘A club,’ said Lenny.

‘And other things?’ she asked.

‘I import and export some stuff. Electrics. That sort of thing. And I run a bureau de change.’

They looked in the big square castle on the quay, went up to Kykkos monastery and visited the House of Dionysius, and sunbathed and slept some more. Slowly, Angel’s skin turned from pale ivory to a glowing honey bronze.

‘But you need plenty of lotion on you,’ said Lenny as they lay on their sunbeds in the scorching heat of the day. He was already dark brown, his hair bleached almost white.

‘Can you do my back?’ she asked him, and lay face-down on the sunbed. ‘I can’t reach it.’

Which was a bit of a lie, really. Well, an exaggeration. The truth was, she wanted him to touch her. They were staying for three weeks, and in two of those he hadn’t once put a foot wrong. He’d heard the whole story about her abuse at the hands of the despicable Donny Maguire, and seemed sad and furious over it.

Angel undid her bikini top and after a pause she felt Lenny start to rub Hawaiian Tropic lotion into her back. For a while all was quiet, just the whisper of the waves and the song of the birds and his hands gliding silkily over her sun-heated skin. Then his hands were abruptly gone and Lenny said in a half-strangled voice: ‘Angel, I really want to sleep with you.’