‘Sit tight and wait. Let me do things my way. I’ll keep in contact. As soon as I know what’s happening, you’ll hear from me.’

‘What if there’s a ransom demand? We’ve no money left. What will they do to her, if we can’t pay?’

Ben already knew there’d be no ransom demand. It was much too late for that. ‘Let’s just take this one step at a time, all right? You told me you trusted me.’

‘We do trust you,’ Bradbury said weakly.

When the call was over, Ben shut the phone and sighed. He’d needed to sound in control for Bradbury’s sake. He wished he was so confident in reality.

He looked around the square and took in the scene. His mouth felt dry. He walked to a nearby café-bar and drank a couple of double Scotch on the rocks. The atmosphere in the place was sombre, a mixture of gloom and rage as people watched news reports of the bombing on a TV in the corner. After half an hour or so, Ben left and hung around like a tourist for a while. He bought a kebab from a hot food vendor. Munching as he went, he headed towards the west corner of the square and strolled down an arcaded walkway, gazing in shop windows. Then he wandered over to another bar, where he sat outside on the terrace and drank a couple of chilled beers and ate a bowl of olives.

He spent a few hours like that, just wandering aimlessly around the town centre, thinking about Charlie and Zoë and all the things that were happening in his life. The sun was beginning to drop in the sky by the time he picked out a busy taxi rank and showed the driver the address on the key fob Spiro had given him.

Fifteen minutes later, he was stepping inside the Thanatos family beach house a few kilometres south of Corfu Town. It was small and simple but welcoming, with whitewashed walls and cool tiled floors. The couple must have been expecting him. There was a vase of flowers on the table, and half a dozen bottles of local white wine chilling in the fridge along with spicy cold meats, a dish of stuffed vine leaves, a mountain of fresh green olives and a bowl of fruit.

He grabbed one of the frosted wine bottles, pulled the cork and walked out onto the beach. The sound of music drifted towards him on the breeze, and he looked to see where it was coming from. About three hundred yards away across the white sand there was an open-air beach taverna shaded under a long canvas awning. He set out across the sand.

By the time he reached the taverna the bottle in his hand was empty. He showed it to the bartender. ‘Another of these,’ he said, and the guy nodded. Ben pulled up a stool at the bar and slumped in it. The bartender left him the fresh bottle and a glass and went back to his chores. Ben turned on his stool, sipping the wine, and looked out to sea. The sun was dipping over the horizon, casting a red glow across the water.

At the tables around him, a few people were drinking, talking, laughing. It looked as though mostly everyone was making an effort to forget the horror of the previous day. One or two faces were showing the strain. A little five-piece band were gamely plucking guitars and bouzoukis in the corner, churning out quick-time traditional dance music. Three or four couples were up on their feet, moving to the fast rhythm.

At another table were two pretty girls. One of them kept glancing at Ben. She leaned forward and whispered something in her friend’s ear, and they both smiled at him.

He ignored them and watched the spectacular sunset.

After a few minutes a woman entered the taverna. She joined him at the empty bar, and laid her handbag on the stool between them. She was in her late twenties or early thirties and wore a low-cut, cream-coloured linen dress. Her hair was lustrous and black, curls tumbling over her bare shoulders. She spoke English to the bartender, talking with a warm Spanish accent. He served her a glass of mineral water and she sat sipping it, looking preoccupied. Ben watched her for a moment and then went back to the sunset.

The woman’s phone rang. She tutted and fished it out of her bag. She answered it in Spanish. Ben knew the language well enough, and he couldn’t help overhearing. She was telling someone called Isabella that, no, she wasn’t having a good time and that no, she wasn’t staying here any longer. She was flying back to Madrid tomorrow.

The woman shut the phone and looked apologetically at Ben.

‘Happens to me all the time,’ he said. ‘People phoning when all you want to do is get away.’

She smiled. ‘You are English?’

‘Kind of.’

‘Tourist?’

‘Not really.’

She smiled again.

‘You’re from Spain?’ he said.

She nodded. ‘As you heard. I’m sorry. I hate people who talk on phones in public places. It was my sister. She’s concerned about me.’

‘You’re not having a good time here?’

She frowned. ‘How did you know? You understand Spanish?’

‘¿Qué vas a tomar?’ he said.

She laughed. ‘You speak it well. But I already have a drink, thank you.’

He pointed at her water. ‘That’s not a drink. Have some wine with me.’

She accepted, and he asked the bartender for another wine glass. She moved closer to him, lifting her handbag off the stool between them and taking its place. She laid the bag on the floor at her feet. ‘My name is Esmeralda,’ she said, offering her hand. He took it. It was soft and warm.

‘I’m Ben,’ he said. He pointed to an empty table in the corner overlooking the water’s edge. ‘Shall we sit over there?’

She nodded.

‘Don’t forget your bag.’ He picked it up and handed it to her.

They carried their drinks over to the table. He bumped into a chair, spilling some wine on the floor. ‘Whoops. Too much to drink.’

They sat facing each other and talked until the stars were out and the moon was shining on the sea.

‘Why do you want to leave here?’ he asked her. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘I’m freaked out by this bombing,’ she said. ‘So terrible. All those innocent people.’

He nodded. Said nothing.

‘And other reasons, too.’

‘Like what?’ he asked.

‘You really want to know? My fiancé left me for my best friend. My sister thought it would be a good idea for me to get away for a while. But it’s not working.’ She smiled weakly, then looked down.

‘I can’t imagine why he would leave you.’ Ben reached over and gently stroked her arm with his finger.

She flushed. ‘You are nice. So, Ben. What are you doing on Corfu? Vacation? Business?’

‘Getting drunk.’ He poured the last of the wine into his glass. The band had gone into a slow, melancholy set of traditional Greek songs, joined by a female singer.

‘What do you do for a living?’ Esmeralda asked.

‘I’m just a student.’

‘What happened to your neck?’

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

She smiled. ‘I would like to get to know you better, that’s all.’

He reached across for her hand. ‘Would you like to dance?’

She nodded. He led her over to the small dance floor. She glanced back at the handbag on the table. ‘It’ll be OK there,’ he said.

The dance was slow and sensual. Her bare arms were warm against his hands. The strap of her dress kept sliding down her shoulder. Her skin was the colour of honey, and the lights sparkled in her dark eyes. Ben drew her closer to him, felt her body crush up against him, and then the soft heat of her lips on his.

‘I have a place on the beach,’ he said. ‘It’s not far to walk. We could be alone there.’

She looked up at him. Her face was a little flushed and her breathing had quickened. She squeezed his hand. Nodded quickly. ‘Let’s go.’

They left the taverna and made their way back across the moonlit sand. The beach was empty, just the murmur of the surf and the music in the distance. She slipped off her high heels and walked barefoot. He circled his arm around her slim waist, feeling the litheness of her muscles as she walked. He stumbled again, and she laughed as she helped him to his feet. ‘You are ebrio’, she giggled.