Chapter Eight
Like many of the roads in rural Cyprus, St. Andrew’s Street was tarmacked up to a point. Beyond that point, which lay about 40 metres north of the last house, it became a winding track of rubble and dirt used only by hunters, goats and, on this occasion, Lillian.
Parked on the grass verge, well back from the street’s only light, Lillian’s dark blue Pajero painted an indistinct smudge in the gloom thanks to the heavy cloud cover blocking the moon. She thanked God for that. It was twice He had given them the luck of the weather. Most of the time, clouds were less common on the island than sightings of Elvis.
Lillian looked at the time on her phone. A little after four in the morning. In an hour and a half, the sun would rise, and so would the locals. Looking towards a drivew
