Germans, Italians, Australians and local Greeks.
The eighteen-year-old ferry sank just after 2130 (1830 GMT) only fifteen minutes after leaving the port of Patmos. According to survivors it was swamped by the huge seas and sank so quickly that many had no time to don lifejackets before they jumped from the side.
The heavy seas and high winds have hampered the search for more survivors. Throughout the night Greek aircraft dropped flares in the sea and a helicopter from the Royal Navy’s HMS Invincible assisted with the search.
Turning the pages, I follow the story as it unfolds. The ferry sank on 24 July during a storm that caused widespread destruction across the Aegean. A container ship ran aground on the island of Skiros and further south a Maltese tanker broke in two and sank in the Sea of Crete.
Survivors of the ferry tragedy told their stories to reporters. In the final moments before the Argo Hellas sank, passengers were hanging from the railings and jumping overboard. Some were trapped inside as the ferry went down.
Forty-one people survived the tragedy and seventeen were confirmed dead. After two days a change in the weather allowed Greek naval divers to recover three more bodies from the wreck but six people were still missing including an American, an elderly French woman, two Greeks and a British mother and daughter. This must have been Helen and Chloe, but their names aren’t mentioned for several more days.
A follow up story in the Western Daily Press reported that Bryan Chambers was flying to Greece to look for his daughter and granddaughter. Describing him as a Wiltshire businessman, it said he was ‘praying for a miracle’ and preparing to mount his own search, if the official one failed to find Helen and Chloe.
A further story on Tuesday July 31 said that Mr Chambers had hired a light plane and was combing the beaches and rocky coves of the islands and Turkish coast. The story included a photograph of mother and daughter, who were travelling under Helen’s married name. The holiday snap shows them sitting on a rock wall with fishing boats in the background. Helen is wearing a sarong and Jackie O sunglasses while Chloe is dressed in white shorts, sandals and a pink top with shoestring straps.
A week after the sinking, the search for survivors was officially called off and Helen and Chloe were labelled as missing presumed dead. The newspapers took increasingly less interest in the story. The only other reference to mother and daughter concerned a prayer vigil held at a NATO base in Germany where they’d been living. The maritime investigation took evidence from survivors, but the findings could be years away.
My mobile is vibrating silently. No phones are allowed in the library. I step outside the main doors. Press green.
Bruno Kaufman booms in my ear: ‘Listen, old boy, I know you’re happily married and chief cheerleader for the institution but did you really have to tell my ex-wife she should move in with me?’
‘It’s just for a few days, Bruno.’
‘Yes, but it will seem like much longer.’
‘Maureen is lovely. Why did you let her go?’
‘She drove me away. Well, to be more precise she drove at me. I had to jump out of the way. She was behind the wheel of a Range Rover.’
‘Why did she do that?’
‘She caught me with one of my researchers.’
‘A student?’
‘A post grad student,’ he corrects me, as if resenting the suggestion that he would cheat on his wife with anything less.
‘I didn’t know you had a son.’
‘Yes. Jackson. His mother spoils him. I bribe him. We’re your average dysfunctional family. Do you really think Maureen is in danger?’
‘It’s a precaution.’
‘I’ve never seen her this scared.’
‘Look after her.’
‘Don’t worry, old boy. She’ll be safe with me.’
The call ends. The mobile vibrates again. This time it’s Ruiz. He has something he wants to show me. We arrange to meet at the Fox amp; Badger. I’m to buy him lunch because it’s my turn. I don’t know when it became ‘my turn’ but I’m pleased he’s here.
Dropping the car at home, I walk up the hill to the pub. Ruiz has taken a table in the corner, where the ceiling seems to sag. Horse tackle is festooned from the exposed beams.
‘It’s your shout,’ he says, handing me an empty pint glass.
I go to the bar, where half a dozen flushed and lumpy regulars fill the stools, including Nigel the dwarf, whose feet swing back and forth, two feet above the floor.
I nod. They nod back. This passes as a long conversation in this part of Somerset.
Hector the publican pulls a pint of Guinness, letting it rest while he gets me a lemon squash. I set down the fresh pint in front of Ruiz. He watches the bubbles rise, perhaps saying a small prayer to the God of fermentation.
‘Here’s to drinkin’ with bow-legged women.’ He raises his glass and half a pint disappears.
‘You ever considered the possibility that you might be an alcoholic?’
‘Nope. Alcoholics go to meetings,’ he replies. ‘I don’t go to meetings.’ He sets down his glass and looks at my squash. ‘You’re just jealous because you have to drink that lolly water.’
He opens his notebook. It’s the same battered marbled collection of curling pages that he always carries, held together with a rubber band.
‘I decided to do a little research into Bryan Chambers. Mate in the DTI- Department of Trade and Industry- ran his name through the computer. Chambers came up clean: no fines, no lawsuits, no dodgy contracts: the man’s clean…’
He sounds disappointed.
‘So I decided to run his name through the Police National Computer through a friend of a friend…’
‘Who shall remain nameless?’
‘Exactly. He’s called Nameless. Well, Nameless came back to me this morning. Six months ago Chambers took out a protection order against Gideon Tyler.’
‘His son-in-law?’
‘Yep. Tyler isn’t allowed to go within half a mile of the house or Chambers’ office. He can’t phone, email, text or drive past the front gate.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s the next thing.’ He pulls out a fresh page. ‘I ran a check on Gideon Tyler. I mean, we know nothing about this guy except his name- which must have got him kicked from one end of the schoolyard to the other, by the way.’
‘We know he’s military.’
‘Right. So I called the MOD- Ministry of Defence. I talked to the personnel department but as soon as I mentioned Gideon Tyler’s name they clammed up tighter than a virgin on a prison visit.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Either they’re protecting him or embarrassed by him.’
‘Or both.’
Ruiz leans back in his chair and arches his back, stretching his arms behind his head. I can hear his vertebrae separating.
‘Then I had Nameless run a check on Gideon Tyler.’ He has a manila folder on the chair next to him. He opens it and produces several pages. I recognise the top one as a police incident report. It’s dated May 22, 2007. Attached is a summary of facts.
I scan the details. Gideon Tyler was named in a complaint, accused of harassment and of making threatening phone calls to Bryan and Claudia Chambers. Among the list of allegations is a claim that Tyler broke into Stonebridge Manor and searched the house while they slept. He rifled filing cabinets, bureaus and took copies of telephone records, bank statements and emails. It was also alleged that he somehow unlocked a reinforced gun- safe and took a shotgun. Mr and Mrs Chambers woke the next morning and found the loaded weapon lying on the
