‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She laughed and then a shadow fell over her face.

‘Maria will be OK,’ Mavros said, ‘I’m sure of that.’

‘How can you be sure?’ Cara demanded. ‘You aren’t a fucking brain doctor.’

‘Em, no, I’m not,’ he replied, taken aback by her venom.

‘Oh, shit.’ She bent forward, resting her forehead on her upper arm, and started to sob.

Mavros put her refilled glass on the table. He considered comforting her by word or touch, but decided against it. She was, in effect, his client, and besides, there was something he didn’t fully trust about her — he couldn’t always clearly see the line between her acting persona and her real one.

Cara sat up after a few minutes and wiped her face with a tissue. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just. . I rely on Maria so much. I can’t function without her.’

‘Can I ask a personal question?’

She took a pull of her drink. ‘As long as the answer won’t appear in some showbiz rag.’

He smiled. ‘I take client confidentiality seriously.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Were there any problems between you and Maria before she left?’

Cara stared at him. ‘Problems? What do you mean?’

He was almost convinced, but he needed to be sure. ‘The young man who was killed by your car back in LA. You were driving, weren’t you?’

The surprise on the actress’s face was genuine, but was that because the question was out of the blue or because the accusation was well founded, Mavros wondered. For a time, it looked as if she was summoning up the strength to bawl him out, but then her shoulders slumped.

‘How did you know?’ she asked hoarsely.

‘I didn’t, till now.’ He sipped Wild Turkey. ‘But I had my suspicions when we spoke about it before.’

‘Like you say, client confidentiality. You can’t tell anyone.’

He nodded. ‘Wasn’t thinking of doing so. But I would like to get to the bottom of the case I was hired to handle. Was Maria kidnapped or did she go to Kornaria willingly? What happened to her when she was there? Why isn’t she talking, even to you?’

Cara stood up quickly. ‘I can’t answer any of those questions. Come on, I need some fresh air.’

‘The front in Chania is pollution-free.’

‘Screw that,’ she said, picking up a denim jacket from the chair opposite. ‘I’ve had enough of Luke and Rosie and the crowd. There’s a bar here down by the sea. Come with me?’

The look on her face was that of a little girl asking her father to accompany her. Mavros thought about their ages — she was twenty-four and he was forty-one. At a stretch, he could be her father.

He decided against holding her hand.

From The Descent of Icarus:

In the days that followed the slaughter at Galatsi, everything passed in a blur — perhaps because of my head wound, but more likely because my spirit, my soul, whatever you might call it, was trying to withdraw into a safer, more childlike world.

I must have collapsed, because I came round in what had been an enemy hospital encampment, the British flags in shreds and the swastika on its white and red background flapping in the strong wind.

Although my head was aching, I picked up information from the men around me. Some were silent — either in exhausted sleep or drug-induced oblivion — but others were chattering excitedly.

‘The Tommies are running,’ one wheezed, his chest completely covered in bloodstained bandages. ‘Our fly boys will pick them off on the road south.’

Another one spat noisily. ‘The New Zealanders fought well. I wouldn’t like to face those Maoris again.’

‘They did a lot of bayonet work,’ a loudmouth at the end of the open tent said. ‘But we did more with our MG34s. The crows are eating the black bastards now.’

‘And the peasants who cut our boys up,’ said the first man. ‘Savages! One of them stuck a fork in my friend Willi’s neck.’

‘I hope you executed him on the spot, Private.’

There was a brief silence as the men realized who had spoken. I recognized Captain Blatter’s voice immediately.

‘Yes, sir! Except it was an old woman, sir, and I took her head off with my MP40.’

‘Good man!’ Blatter moved down the passage between the camp beds. I tried to shrink into my bed, but it was no good. ‘Ah, Private Kersten. The hero of Galatsi.’ His tone was ironic in the extreme. ‘Men, let’s have a round of applause for the sole survivor of that disaster.’ He began to clap slowly and the wounded men who were able joined in, fully aware that I was being humiliated.

I saw the doctor standing at the end of the tent. His face was expressionless, but I felt his disapproval of Blatter.

‘So, my hero, are you ready for some more of Reichsmarshall Goring’s work?’ The captain leaned over me, inspecting my bandage with a curled lip. ‘You seem well enough.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Doctor, can I have this man?’

I saw the medic raise his shoulders. ‘If you feel it’s completely necessary, Captain.’

‘Indeed I do.’ Blatter seized my arm and pulled me up. ‘Boots on and outside in one minute, Private,’ he ordered, turning on his heel.

I fumbled with the laces of my jump boots and tugged on my jacket.

The captain was waiting for me outside, surrounded by a group of under-officers and sergeants. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this is Private Kersten, the heroic survivor of Galatsi. Fortunately, his head wound isn’t severe enough to have prevented him from volunteering for this afternoon’s mission.’

The others regarded me with contempt bordering on revulsion. It was clear that Blatter had told them I was a coward, who had inflicted the head wound on myself. None spoke as we marched out to a line of vehicles, the smaller of which must have been landed by the Luftwaffe. The absence of gunfire confirmed what I had heard in the hospital tent — the battle was over and the enemy absent from the area around Maleme.

I was told to climb up into a captured British lorry full of paratroopers. They were all armed with rifles or machine-pistols, while I didn’t even have my gravity knife. It must have been stolen when I was unconscious — or perhaps the doctor thought I might be suicidal. We drove for about half an hour, but it was impossible to see anything out of the uncovered rear because of the dust raised by the lorry’s large wheels.

‘Out!’ shouted a sergeant.

The men jumped down, brushing past me. Whatever the oper-ation was, they were avid for it. Most of them were wearing shorts — supplies of equipment and weapons were abundant now.

I climbed down slowly, my head spinning. When it cleared, I saw that we had pulled up in an olive grove outside a village. Paratroopers were already breaking down doors and pushing people out into the single unpaved street — old men, women in black, children.

‘Kersten!’ Blatter roared. ‘Over here, now!’

I went, a black curtain descending over my eyes as I tried to keep a regular pace. I blinked, but still could only see fleeting visions of my surroundings.

‘What’s the matter with you, man?’ the captain demanded. ‘Give him an MP40, sergeant.’

The weapon was shoved into my hands and ammunition clips stuffed into my pockets.

‘Follow me, at the double.’

By the time Blatter and I got to the three-sided square in the centre of the village, a large crowd had gathered. I saw wizened elderly faces and the smooth cheeks of boys. There were no young men — they would have been conscripted when the Italians invaded mainland Greece. But there were young women. And she was one of them.

I closed my eyes for a long moment, nausea flooding through me, and then opened them again. Her dark hair was matted and unwashed, and her black dress looked like it had been pulled through a thorn bush, but her eyes were as haughty as ever. She saw me and gave me a look of such untamed courage that I had to lower my eyes.

‘Every tenth man over there!’ Blatter ordered, pointing to the open field on the square’s fourth side. It was lined with eucalyptus trees, presumably watered by a stream to the rear.