It struck me now that it was I who had been her shadow.
I quickly took leave of Muyia, stuttering my apologies and promising to come back for a coffee another time. I did want to speak to him more, but I had to sort out my questions. And anyway, I’d already been delayed and didn’t want to leave Aliki with Mrs Hadjikyriacou all morning.
I hustled along the street, to the gated mansion, a colossal neoclassical building with balconies flowering at every window. I pressed the buzzer and looked into the intercom. After a moment there was a crackly voice: ‘Madam, come in!’ followed by a loud click. The gate creaked open.
I’d visited Mr and Mrs Kostas’ mansion once before when they’d thrown a New Year’s party. All the neighbours – well, the ones they deemed worthy – had been invited, and I had made the cut. I supposed it was because I mixed with the rich and famous in my work; perhaps they thought I would have some good stories. This oversized house was their retirement home: they’d repatriated from the UK, where Mr Kostas had owned a chain of insurance firms in London.
I walked along a path, through the meticulously kept orchard: on one side were shoe-fig trees, cacti and apple and pear trees; on the other, lemon, cherry and apricot trees, grape-vines and tomato plants. Winter was approaching so the trees were losing their leaves, but I knew in just a few months tiny buds would appear on the branches and in a few weeks after that this whole place would smell like a perfumerie.
Halfway down the path I hesitated, expecting someone to come out to greet me.
‘Madam, come in!’ a voice called, and I followed the path around the house to the back garden, where there was an open lawn and a large metallic cage that held two sand-coloured hunting dogs. They were lean and muscular, and should have looked fierce, but their eyes were docile and calm. Inside the cage, one of the maids was bent over, cleaning the dog’s backside.
‘Madam,’ she said, standing up, holding her gloved hands behind her back, ‘Binsa . . . she opened for you. She is inside. Please go inside.’ She pointed at the door beneath the terrace. ‘I have to clean the dog, he has a bad stomach today.’ While she spoke, the dog remained with its hind end up in the air, its front paws stretched in front, obediently waiting for her to continue.
I thanked her and walked up a couple of steps to the patio, where a glass door was open and smells of cooking wafted out.
‘Madam, this way!’
Binsa was in the kitchen, deep-frying. ‘I’m sorry, madam, I couldn’t come to the door. I am making keftedes for sir and madam. You know, you can’t leave these things in the oil. It is no good for them. And how is Nisha, madam? She hasn’t come to the gate to talk for a long time. We miss her. I called her phone but nothing. You know that madam doesn’t let us go out, so I couldn’t come to see her. I hope she is OK, madam?’ She flicked her eyes towards me now, but swiftly returned her attention to the oil and the fire.
‘Where are sir and madam?’ I said.
‘They’re out shopping today, madam. If you come back in one hour, they will be here.’
‘Actually, Binsa, it was you I wanted to speak to.’
She looked up from her work again for a moment, furrowed her brow, then quickly said, ‘OK, madam. I will take out this lot, three minutes, and talk to you before I do others. Can you wait a few minutes?’
‘Of course, Binsa,’ I said. ‘Take your time.’
On the counter by her side there was a large platter full of raw meatballs dusted with flour, ready for the oil. Nisha had spoken to me many times about Binsa and Soneeya from Nepal. Both in their twenties, about ten years younger than Nisha, their journey to Cyprus was the first time either of them had been away from their families. Before making the decision to migrate, Binsa had been a young radio host at her local radio station, and Soneeya had been a nursery nurse, I think. Their English wasn’t as good as Nisha’s, because Nisha had learnt it back in Sri Lanka when she was a little girl. But Binsa and Soneeya had been here for two years and were already speaking quite well. Apparently, Mrs Kostas gave them classes in the evenings. Nisha had told me how they were not allowed out of the grounds because the Kostases were worried that they would be led astray.
Soon Soneeya came in, taking off her blue rubber gloves, chucking them in the bin and washing her hands thoroughly with plenty of soap. Before long, I was sitting in the living room with a cup of tea in my hand, the two women looking at me intently.
‘I’m worried about Nisha,’ I said.