Alice Quincy sat opposite him at the front of the plane, while Jannet had the rear to himself. As soon as the door was closed and they had belted up, she handed him a red plastic folder.

‘That contains everything you should need to acquaint yourself with the movie and the people you’ll need to talk to.’

Mavros concentrated on extracting his blue worry beads from the back pocket of his jeans. He had given up smoking several years ago and found the komboloia helpful distraction at times of stress. A couple of red beads among the blue ones were supposed to guarantee good health, while a silver hand pointed to good fortune. Not that they had always been a huge help.

He looked up as the plane began to taxi towards the runway, surprised by how little noise the engines made. The seat was plush leather and there was no shortage of legroom. Glancing at Alice Quincy, he saw that she was looking at his left eye. Most women did.

‘David Bowie,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Almost — except it’s the size of his irises that’s different, not the colour.’

‘Uh-huh. It’s some sort of genetic defect. My father’s eyes were dark-blue, but some of my mother’s brown got into one of them.’

Alice smiled. ‘Weird.’

‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’

She pursed her lips. ‘No, I mean your father, the Greek, having blue eyes and your Scottish mother having brown.’

‘Scots are more Mediterranean than the natives.’

That seemed to be beyond her. ‘You’d better start reading,’ she said. ‘The flight’s only half an hour.’

So he read. Fortunately he was quick at taking in facts and, even more fortunately, the Learjet flew like a dream. In fifteen minutes, after drinking a cup of coffee that could have come from the Ritz, he had mastered the file, at least with regards to what would be of significance in tracing the missing woman.

Maria Kondos was a third generation Greek-American, but the photo showed she could have passed for a Greek of the dark-haired and rings-beneath-the-eyes variety — presumably the family had made sure her father married a woman of Greek heritage. She was thirty-five, born in Queens, New York, but had moved to Los Angeles after college. She’d worked her way up the ladder as a personal assistant with actresses — most of whom Mavros had never heard of — until striking lucky with Cara Parks. She had been with her since Spring Surpriseand was an integral part of her team.

‘OK,’ Mavros said, leaning towards Alice Quincy. ‘Tell me what isn’t in the file.’

She pressed herself back in her seat. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, come on, Alice. You’re the director’s number one girl. You know what goes on behind the scenes, so to speak.’

Spots of red appeared on her cheeks. ‘Well, it would be fair to say that Ms Kondos isn’t the most popular person in the crew.’

She stopped, making Mavros give her an encouraging smile.

‘Her job is to look after Ms Parks and she does it very effectively — but sometimes with a distinct lack of diplomacy.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘She can be very blunt, even to Mr Jannet and the producers. And there are rumours that she provides certain special services for Ms Parks.’

Mavros raised an eyebrow. ‘What are we talking about here? Middle of the night omelettes? Drugs? Sexual favours?’

Alice Quincy looked queasy. ‘I wouldn’t know about the first and second, but perhaps the third. I repeat, these are rumours.’

‘Any particular quarrels that might have driven someone on the crew to get violent with her?’

The American woman’s doe eyes widened. ‘Good Lord, that’s ridiculous. Film shoots are full of clashing egos.’

Mavros wondered how Alice survived in such an atmosphere — there must have been steel beneath the soft exterior.

‘Have the local police been involved?’

She nodded. ‘An Inspector Margaritis came to the shoot hotel and expressed concern, but Mr Jannet thought he was just going through the motions.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘Which is where you come in.’

‘Hey, Al!’ Jannet’s voice sounded from the rear of the plane.

‘Excuse me,’ Alice said, adapting into slave mode, though Mavros noticed she wasn’t keen on that form of her name.

He looked out of the window and saw a lengthy mass of rock topped by snow. The White Mountains were as striking as ever. He remembered staying with Anna and Nondas one summer and snow-covered areas still being visible. As the Learjet lost height on its way to the private airport at Maleme, a conversation he’d had with Nondas came back to him.

‘The Germans should never have been allowed to capture the airfield,’ his brother-in-law said. ‘The Allies made so many mistakes. As it was, the invaders only made it by the skin of their Nazi teeth.’

They had been looking around the battlefield sites and memorials. Thousands of paratroopers had been killed in the first days of the assault, Nondas had told him, but still they came. If Freyburg, the Allied commander, had armed the gendarmerie or taken on the locals as irregulars, the result could have been very different.

The model/hostess checked that he had his safety belt on with a stunningly fake smile. Alice Quincy did not return, presumably now nailed to a seat opposite her boss. As the plane slowed, three things struck Mavros. The first was that he was out of his comfort zone on an island whose inhabitants, apart from Nondas, had always seemed to him very unlike other Greeks. The second was that Hollywood film people were unlike any other human beings. And the last was a question — why had a major director broken into his schedule to spend a morning flying to and from Athens when Alice Quincy could easily have done the job on her own?

Mavros followed Luke Jannet off the plane and was hit by a blast of heat — Crete was hotter than Athens had been. Then he got a surprise.

‘Neat, aren’t they?’ Jannet said, following the direction of his gaze.

‘Something like that,’ Mavros muttered. His Greek heritage had asserted itself and the World War Two German aircraft with swastikas on their tails did not impress him.

‘A Ju 52 transport aircraft — they dropped paratroopers — and an Me109 fighter,’ the director said proudly. ‘We’ll be filming more aerial shots tomorrow.’ He shrugged. ‘But you’ll be busy finding that fuckin’ dyke.’

‘Unless I find her today.’

Jannet gave him a thoughtful look. ‘Don’t get overambitious, my man. This is a big island.’ He grinned. ‘But if you do, you’re welcome to see the planes in action.’

Mavros followed him towards a pair of cars. The director got into the first, a large dark-blue BMW, while Alice hung back.

‘The Jeep will take you to the shoot hotel. Ms Parks has been told to expect you. An account has been opened in your name for meals, car hire and so on, and you’ll find a cash advance in the safe in your room. We should exchange cell numbers.’ They did so. ‘I’ll be available to help you, subject to Mr Jannet’s needs. If you run into any difficulties with crew members, let me know. Will there be anything else?’

‘Sounds like you’ve thought of most things.’

She smiled. ‘Mr Jannet will be expecting regular reports.’

‘Hey, Ali, shake your tail feather.’

Mavros watched as her slim form inserted itself into the BMW. He’d have liked to know what Alice Quincy really thought about her boss, but she was almost as inscrutable as a jade Buddha. Even more, he’d have liked to know what else she knew about Maria Kondos and Cara Parks.

The Jeep, with a parachute-festooned Freedom or Deathlogo on the door, was driven by a young man with a moustache Nietzsche would have been proud of.

‘First time in Crete?’ he asked, revealing a lower line of gleaming teeth.

Mavros considered sticking to English, but decided he’d find out more by speaking Greek. He introduced himself, saying he was a writer from Athens.