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What was going on, she wondered, scared, as the van bounced off along the islands roads. Was it the Albanians again, imagining there was something of value to be got from the site after all?Stacey wasn't the only one having an uncomfortable ride. Helen had been on her way down to the harbour, taking the short cut that she always used between the flat where she was staying and the road that lead to Alexander's bar. It was a favourite walk cutting around the back of an old shepherd's hut, through an olive grove and down between some ramshackle stone walls until the path emerged onto the road with a stunning view of the sea, the houses around the harbour and, across to the right, the valley where they were excavating. Helen had just reached the road. Parked across where the path came out was a car; one of the pale green Punto's that the police had said they were looking for. As Helen edged around the car, she saw Petros peering under the bonnet. She walked up to him to ask what the. Or at least sheloved the status that living in such a fine house gave her. As shewalked disconsolately to the window, she stared with fiercepossessiveness over the lawns and flowerbeds that bordered the house.This was her home, it was the place she had been born, and she knewevery each of it with the familiarity of long use. How could herbrother even suggest that she leave it all to live in a grubby townsuburb?As a small child she had known a time when famous people had enjoyedhospitality beneath its roof; it had been a time when her family hadowned estates that stretched back almost to the Oder. There had beenpicnics and hunts and wonderful parties in those days, but then hadcome the bleak time of the 1920s when the value of the German Markbecame virtually worthless, and practically overnight the familyfortune had dwindled to nothing. They had to sell most of the landaround them simply to maintain a decent standard of living, andkeeping such a large building in good repair soon.
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