‘More like a candidate for Rotary.’
He’s teasing me. I can’t find the energy to smile.
Darcy asks after Emma. She’s gone. My parents have taken her to Wales, along with Imogen. My mother burst into tears when she saw Charlie’s room and didn’t stop sobbing until my father gave her an oversized box of tissues and told her to wait in the car. Then God’s-personal-physician-in-waiting gave me his stiff upper lip speech, which sounded like something Michael Caine delivered in Zulu.
Everyone means well. I’ve had calls from three of my sisters, who each told me I was being stoic and they were saying prayers. Unfortunately, I’m not interested in hearing cliches or comforting words. I want to be kicking open doors and shaking trees until I get my Charlie back.
Ruiz tells Darcy to go upstairs and run a bath. She obeys immediately. Then he leans close.
‘Remember what I told you about staying sane, Professor? Don’t you go dying of the disease.’ He’s sucking a boiled sweet which rattles against his teeth. ‘I know about tragedy. One of the things it teaches you is that you have to keep moving. And that’s exactly what you’re going to do. You’re going to wash, get changed and we’re going to find your daughter.’
‘How?’
‘We’ll think about that when you come back downstairs. But I’m going to make you a promise. I’m going to find this bastard. I don’t care how long it takes. And when that happens I’m going to paint the walls with his blood. Every last drop of it.’
Ruiz walks behind me as I climb the stairs. Darcy has found a fresh towel. She watches us from the door of Charlie’s room.
‘Thank you,’ I tell Ruiz.
‘Wait till I’ve done something to deserve it. When you’re finished come downstairs. I’ve got something to show you.’
59
Ruiz unfolds a page and smooths it on the coffee table.
‘This was faxed through this afternoon,’ he says. ‘It came from the Maritime Rescue and Coordination Centre in Piraeus.’
The facsimile is of a photograph- a woman with short dark hair and a round face, who looks to be in her mid to late thirties. Her details are typed in small print in the bottom corner.
Helen Tyler (nee Chambers)
DOB: June 6, 1971
British National
Passport No: E754769
Description: white Caucasian, 175 cms tall, slim build, brown hair, brown eyes.
‘I called to make sure there hadn’t been a mistake,’ he says. ‘This is the photograph they were working off when they were looking for Tyler’s wife.’
I stare at the image as if expecting it to suddenly become more familiar. Although roughly the right age, the woman depicted looks nothing the one in the passport photograph Bryan Chambers gave me. She has shorter hair, a higher forehead and different shaped eyes. It can’t be the same person.
‘What about Chloe?’
Ruiz opens his notebook and pulls out a Polaroid snapshot. ‘They used this one. It was taken by a guest at the hotel they were staying in.’
This time I recognise the girl. Her blonde hair is like a beacon. She is sitting on a swing. The building in the background has whitewashed walls and wild roses on a trellis.
I go back to the faxed photograph, which is still displayed on the coffee table.
Ruiz has poured himself a scotch. He sits opposite me.
‘Who provided the Greeks with this photograph?’ I ask.
‘It came through the Foreign Office and the British Embassy.’
‘And where did the Foreign Office get it?’
‘Her family.’
The authorities were searching for Helen and Chloe; they needed to identify bodies in the morgue and survivors in the hospitals. The wrong photograph could have been sent by mistake but surely someone would have picked it up before now. The only other explanation reeks of cover-up.
Three people gave evidence that placed Helen and Chloe on board the ferry: the navy diver, the Canadian student and the hotel manager. Why would they lie? Money is the obvious answer. Bryan Chambers has enough to make it happen.
It had to be organised quickly. The ferry accident was an opportunity for Helen and Chloe to disappear. Luggage had to be tossed into the sea. Mother and daughter were reported missing. Bryan Chambers flew to Greece four days after the sinking, which means that Helen must have done most of the groundwork using her father’s money to cement the deception.
Surely someone on the island must have seen them. Where would they hide?
I take Helen’s photograph from my wallet- the one Bryan Chambers gave me at his lawyer’s office. The picture was taken for a new passport- one in her maiden name- according to Chambers.
From the moment she fled from Germany in May, Helen avoided using credit cards or making phone calls home or sending emails or letters. She did everything she could to hide her whereabouts from her husband, yet surely one of the first things she should have done was to ditch her married name. Instead she waited until mid-July to apply for a new passport.
I stare at the faxed photograph sent from Greece.
‘What if nobody on Patmos knew what Helen and Choe Tyler really looked like?’ I ask.
‘What do you mean?’ asks Ruiz.
‘What if mother and daughter were already travelling under different names?’
Ruiz shakes his head. ‘I’m still not with you.’
‘Helen and Chloe arrived on the island in early June. They booked into a hotel, kept a low profile, paid for everything in cash. They didn’t use their real names. They called themselves something different because they knew Gideon was looking for them. Then, through a terrible twist of fate, a ferry sinks on a stormy afternoon. Helen sees a way of disappearing. She throws their luggage into the sea and reports the disappearance of Helen and Chloe Tyler. She bribes a backpacker and a navy diver to lie to the police.’
Ruiz picks up the thread. ‘And this backpacker suddenly has the money to keep travelling when his parents expect him home.’
‘And a disgraced Navy diver facing a misconduct tribunal might be in need of money.’
‘What about the German woman,’ he asks, ‘what does she have to gain?’
I flick through the statements and pull hers to the top of the pile. Yelena Schafer, born 1971. I look at the date of birth and feel the flush of recognition.
‘How long did Helen spend in Germany?’
‘Six years.’
‘Long enough to speak the language fluently.’
‘You think…?’
‘Yelena is a variation of Helen.’
Ruiz leans over his knees, his hands hanging between them, looking like an ancient bewildered statue. His eyes close for a second, trying to see the details as I do.
‘So you’re saying the hotel manager- the German woman- is Helen Chambers?’
‘The hotel manager was the most credible witness the police had. What reason did she have to lie about an English mother and daughter who were staying at the hotel? It was a perfect cover. Helen could speak German. She could pretend to be Yelena Schafer and announce the death of her former self.’
Ruiz opens his eyes. ‘The caretaker sounded nervous when I talked to him. He said Yelena Schafer had gone
