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of friends
from England. Every year, they take a cruise together. Seven women, all in
their seventies or eighties, who call themselves 'The Hirondelles'. The woman
who claims she witnessed a murder is from Scotland and in her sixties. As far
as I know, they had no contact with each other."
    "Who else have you spoken to?"
    "The captain, one of the ship's doctors, two of the
deceased’s companions and the Santorini police who recovered the body."
    "So what is your plan?"
    "Should we visit the site first?"
    Beatrice cocked her head on one side.
    He took the hint. "OK. First, we should visit the site
and check the facts. Next, we interview the witnesses. If there is reasonable
doubt, we conduct an investigation. I'm sure this can be resolved in a couple
of days."
    "Sounds like you have it all under control, Inspector.
So should I act as interviewer while you take notes? Mind now, here's the food."
    Dinos placed the plates on the table with a flourish. " Stifado !"
    A rich-looking meat stew with jewels of oil floating on the
surface, some roast potatoes decorated with cloves of garlic and sprigs of
rosemary, a platter of bread and a generous terracotta jug of wine. The time to
talk shop was over. She gave Dinos an approving smile and picked up her fork.
    “How do you say bon appétit in Greek?”
    " Kali sas órexi ."
    "And the same to you."
    The speedboat bounced over the waves and the island of
Santorini grew larger on the horizon. Beatrice admitted relief. After the first
half hour of sea spray, Mediterranean blue water, glittering sunshine and wind
on her cheeks, exhilaration gave way to discomfort. Bless Adrian for insisting
she tucked the Hermès headscarf he'd given her into her handbag. Without that,
factor 50 sunscreen and her dark glasses, things could have been a lot worse.
Stephanakis had stopped checking her every couple of minutes after it was clear
she would not be regurgitating her lunch and now kept his eyes on the island
ahead. She followed suit.
    At first sight, the island did not live up to the pictures
she had seen during her research. Stark, forbidding cliffs rose from the sea,
while cruise vessels and ferries filled the busy harbour. A switchback road
scored a zigzag up the cliffs like a lightning strike. Not at all the kind of
environment to host terraces of blue rooftops, pots of geraniums or ginger
cats.
    The police boat slowed and all the signs of a busy
commercial port emerged. Filthy water, slicked with oil. Massive rusting chains
upon which noisy seabirds perched, adding their own form of decoration. The
fresh whiff of the sea was overpowered by diesel and exhaust fumes, and the
sound of ferries, coaches, and larger boats drowned out the now-familiar buzz
of their own engine.
    Stephanakis left his post beside the driver and sat next to
her. He raised his voice above the noise.
    "This is Athinos, the ferry port. Most cruise ships use
the Old Port, in Thira. But the only way up to the town of Thira is donkey or
cable car. For the ladies of the Empress Louise , that was not an option.
They travelled by coach to Fira, the main city, which is where everyone goes.
The classic Santorini of the postcards. So we follow the same route. The
pathologist will meet us at the dock."
    "The island has its own pathologist?"
    Stephanakis watched as the boat nosed a path towards a
berth. "No, he is based in Heraklion, but he always takes the SeaCat. He
has problems with small boats."
    Not only small boats, it seemed. The hue and tone of
Konstakis Apostolou's expression reminded Beatrice of a morgue wall. He
exchanged pleasantries in English, a strong scent of peppermint on his breath,
before climbing into the police car with less enthusiasm for life than of one
of the local donkeys. Stephanakis, in the front, conversed with the local
officer; Apostolou, beside Beatrice, rested his head against the window while
she gazed out at the sea and the distant calderas. The switchback road provided
a constantly shifting