Page 19 of Deep Blue Lies

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Don’t make me laugh.

It’s luxury apartments. Which, if you know Alythos, means overpriced ghost homes for rich Athenians and foreign investors. Built quick and sold quicker, empty nine months of the year.

But let’s talk about what no one else will: why the ADR really closed in the first place.

The official story is the tragic murder-suicide in 2001. Resort manager Jason Wright killed his girlfriend, Mandy Paul, then turned his gun on himself, leaving their little baby alive. Case closed.

Except, as almost everyone who was there back then knows, it probably isn’t the whole story.

Because – what about the drugs flooding the island at the time? Were they connected? Where did Jason get the gun? And what about all the ADR staff, flown home right after the deaths, instead of giving their stories to the police?

The investigation was never done properly, and now we’ll never get the truth because the whole place is about to be bulldozed into silence.

I don’t really know what this means, or at least, there’s a lot of it I don’t understand. But I am starting to understand one point. Whatever happened all those years ago to the resort manager –whether he went crazy and killed his girlfriend, or even if someone set it up to look like that but really he was murdered too – it’s nothing to do with whyI’mhere. I’m just here to find out where I came from. Who I am. Maybe even who my dad is. So whatever happened back then at the ADR – it doesn’t matter now. It has nothing to do with me.

And I feel a lot better when I work that out. Like I can concentrate on my issues. And not worry about other people’s problems buried in the past.

TWELVE

The next day I head out for breakfast, armed with the photograph I stole of Mum and Imogen standing by the sign for the old Aegean Dream Resort. I pick a cafe with a terrace and sun umbrellas giving just enough shade, order a croissant and coffee, and try to get my head in the right place.

I still feel confident. But I’m nervous too – not about what I might find, but about actually doing it. Walking up to strangers and asking about something that happened twenty years ago. It’s the sort of thing that looks easy on TV, but the thought of actually doing it feels weird. What if they ask why I’m asking? What do I say to that?

There’s something else too. A deeper feeling. I think it’s because I’ve spent my whole life being told – or just understanding – that I’m not supposed to know about this part of Mum’s past. That it’s off-limits. Not my business. Even though it’s literally all about me.

But this is what I came here to do. So I skip the idea of a second coffee and make myself stand up. I walk to the bar to pay, and the waiter who served me follows. When I tap my phone on the reader and the payment goes through, he smiles politely – like we’re done.

But we’re not.

“Um, excuse me,” I say. “Can I ask you something?”

His eyebrows go up. I realise I have no idea if he speaks any English beyond “coffee” and “croissant”.

“Yes?”

I slide the photograph onto the bar, holding my breath. It looks strange sitting there, on the old chestnut wood.

“This is a picture of my mum. She worked here, twenty-two years ago. I wondered if you might remember her? Or know anything about her?”

He looks at me like I’m stupid, and immediately I feel like I must be. This guy’s only about ten years older than I am. He’d be, what, ten years old when Mum was here? Of course he’s not going to remember her. But even so he leans in for a better look. And he looks for a long time. After a moment I can sense what he’s thinking. Like I said before, both Mum and Imogen look stunning in the picture. I wait, growing impatient as the waiter continues to peer down at the photograph, but eventually he looks up.

“No, sorry, I don’t know.”

I nod and thank him, moving to pick the photograph up, but he stops me.

“This one is your mother, no?” he says, stabbing a finger at the photograph.

“Yes.” I smile awkwardly, then correct myself when I see where he’s pointing. “No, the other one. This one.” I point at Mum.

“Very beautiful,” the waiter says. “Very beautiful girl.”

“Thank you,” I say, picking the photo up this time, and feeling my cheeks flush as I do so.

So, that was a good start then.

But I don’t give up. Holding the photograph facing towards me, I walk hesitantly along the seafront area, looking for more targets. There’s a few people around, some who look like tourists, and others who I take for locals – or at least people who are living andworking here on the island. I try to find some older people, because at least they will have been old enough to remember Mum when she was here. I spot an older man, maybe in his sixties? He’s walking towards me with a tracksuit on, fast walking, like he’s training for something. Again I tell myself to be brave and just do this.

“Excuse me.” I hold out the photograph in front of him, forcing him to slow and stop. “I was wondering if you might recognise the people in this photograph?”