Lie With Me (30 page)

‘What kind of things?’

‘You asked after Florrie.’

‘I wasn’t to know she had died. I can’t be blamed for not knowing.’

‘Paul.’ She took my head between her hands so she could look me in the eye. ‘You said, “How’s your little sister? Still hoping for a man to trap? Still dead from the neck down?” ’ She let go of my face as if she had seen enough. ‘I’ll never forget it.’

‘I’m sorry. What’s wrong with me? I am so sorry. Please.’

‘We were sitting there, trying so desperately to pretend everything was all right, when Harry had just died. I was a mess. Andrew was doing all that he could to make the holiday nice for me. And then you, suddenly there, filling the restaurant – so boorish and rude. You never knew what you had done. All that pain you had inflicted. And you had no inkling. You had never
felt
it. It’s the main reason I had to get away. I shouldn’t have been drinking. I shouldn’t have been driving.’ She let out a small cry. ‘You never
felt
it,’ she said again. ‘You had just got away scot-free.’

I took her hand, pulled it to my lips and tried to hold it there. My eyes had filled with tears. I was saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m going to change. I am feeling it. I am feeling it now,’ but she pulled her hand away, shaking her head.

‘The others have gone down to the port,’ she said. ‘But Gavras is here. I was told to come and fetch you. He’s waiting outside.’

It was dusk. Gavras was sitting alone on the terrace. Mosquitoes floated in the light from the kitchen. ‘Ah, Mr Morris,’ he said, when he saw us approach. ‘You were in a hurry to get away from us today, I hear. One might think you were evading questions. But just bored of our company perhaps? Still, it has been a busy day here, ripe with revelation. I’m thankful to Mr Hopkins for ensuring your return.’

I sat down across the table from him. ‘Please. Let’s just get this over with. I’ll answer any of your questions. I’ll tell the truth.’ I looked in appeal across at Alice, who was standing by the door to the kitchen. ‘I want to make this right.’

‘OK,’ Gavras said. ‘Well, that is what I like to hear.’

A leather satchel lay on the table in front of him and from it he carefully withdrew a foolscap file, which he opened on his lap. He placed a photograph from it on the table in front of me.

‘This woman,’ he said. ‘Have you seen her before?’

It was Laura Cratchet – a photograph taken against a white wall. Her full mouth was bare, her eyes naked without their heavy liner.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have. It’s Laura Cratchet.’

‘And you first met her when?’

‘She was on my bus, but we didn’t talk. We caught each other’s eye.’

‘You caught each other’s eye? You mean expressed interest in each other?’

‘No. That’s not what I meant. We smiled, that’s all. I can’t remember why.’

‘Did you wink, in a sexually suggestive way?’

‘No.’

‘But you had followed her on to the bus, having met her the night before, at the Pig and Whistle in Pyros where, according to Miss Cratchet, she cheerfully rejected your advances. You were drinking heavily and had to be escorted from the bar at the end of the evening. But you were persistent. You had listened to their conversation and took the same bus you knew she and her companions were taking north the following morning.’

I looked over at Alice and shook my head.

‘Or is this a case of mistaken identity?’ Gavras continued. ‘We are dependent on Miss Cratchet’s word – she was with me in Club 19 the other night when you wandered in. But perhaps she picked out the wrong man. Really, the truth of her story hinges on whether you were in Pyros town on the second of August or whether, as you claim, you arrived on the Thomas Cook flight the following morning?’

I spoke carefully. ‘Yes. I lied about my arrival,’ I said. ‘But it’s not what it seems.’ I turned to address Alice. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to know how broke I was. I got the cheapest flight I could find and I
was
on the island that night.’

She took a step towards me, frowning. ‘What about the meeting with your publisher?’

‘I lied about that.’

‘And the book deal?’

I shrugged.

‘Another lie,’ Gavras said. ‘You seem to make a habit of them.’

‘But I didn’t follow her.’ I turned back to him. ‘I was already on the bus when she got on. She wasn’t even staying in Pyros town. She was staying in Elconda. And I didn’t stalk her. I saw her after supper but it was a coincidence, that’s all. And I certainly didn’t wait for her outside the club. You know that, Alice – I came back to the house with you that night.’

She lifted her chin but didn’t answer.

Gavras was drawing another photograph out of the folder. He placed it on top of the picture of Laura Cratchet. ‘Does this look familiar to you?’

I bent to look closely. It was a close-up of a small crinkled object, gold, on the ground, next to some gravel. ‘Not really. A packet of some kind.’

‘Do you have your wallet on you, Mr Morris?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would it be a huge inconvenience to hand it over to me? You are quite within your rights to refuse.’

‘It’s fine. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

I pulled it out of my back pocket and threw it across the table.

He opened it carefully, and with a small smile, produced the three gold condoms. ‘Interesting. The photograph is of a condom wrapper, found in the alleyway where Miss Cratchet was sexually attacked. This make of condom is not available in Greece. LifeStyles Skyn.’ He made a face. ‘An identical condom packet to the ones we find unopened in your wallet.’

‘They’re not mine. They’re Andrew’s. Or at least . . . I took them from his washbag. As a joke.’

Alice let out a small noise, a muffled gasp.

‘A joke?’ Gavras made a movement with his hand, as if waving away an invisible fly.

I stood up. ‘Listen. I didn’t rape Laura Cratchet. I couldn’t have. I was here at the house, already in bed, when it happened. Wasn’t I? Alice, tell him. I was with you. Alice –’ I turned.

She was standing very still, head up, breath held.

‘Alice – I was in bed all evening. Tell him.’

Her body had stiffened. ‘But you weren’t.’

Gavras got to his feet. I felt a prickle of fear deep in my stomach. ‘I was,’ I said. ‘I got up and . . . oh, I see, this is about Louis. Tell him the truth. You have to.’

The corners of her mouth dipped down. Her fingers were knotting and unknotting. ‘Tell him what?’

I studied her for a moment. Andrew had been right. Of course she would choose her son over me. What mother wouldn’t? Would she hate me for telling the truth? I had no choice. I turned back to Gavras. ‘I got up in the night and saw Alice and Andrew helping her son Louis out of the car. It was well after the girls had got home. It was 1.30 a.m. or later.’

‘I don’t know what he’s talking about,’ Alice said. She spoke slowly and clearly, her hands clasped in front of her, as if already preparing for court. ‘I woke up in the middle of the night and I saw Mr Morris standing on the terrace. He was fully dressed. I don’t know where he had been all evening. As far as I was aware he had not yet come to bed.’

‘Alice, why would you say that? Don’t do this.’

I stared at her, pleadingly. But in the dusk, with the light behind, her face was in shadow.

Chapter Twenty-one

Gavras took me to a building on the other side of Trigaki. It was dark when we got there. Outside: the edge of an escarpment, a dried-up fountain. Inside: concrete pillars, a web of narrow corridors. The room was bare, save for a stinking bucket and a wooden bench, on which I lay motionless, staring at mosquitoes as they abseiled down dirty grey walls.

The heat was pressing, airless, unbearable. He took my phone and I lost track of time. Muted light glowed weakly from a high window. A plate of food – some sort of sausage, a heap of flabby courgette – congealed by the door. My innards solidified, turned to chalk. I had believed in the power of charm. It had served me well, throughout my gilded life, but it had lost its power. Looks, clever words, lies – all useless.

In the morning, I was taken by a short, thickset official with no English to a different room in the same building. Gavras was waiting for me behind a solid wooden desk. A woman with heavy make-up and glasses on the top of her head was sitting by a smaller desk in the corner. A shorthand pad rested on her knee. The room smelt of pine and sweat. A vase of silk flowers collected dust on a windowsill.

When I sat down, Gavras pushed a piece of paper across the table towards me. ‘This is a warrant for your arrest.’

I twisted it round and studied it, then spun it back. ‘Can I see a translation?’

‘You will be provided with an interpreter in due course.’

‘Do I need a lawyer?’

‘Mr Morris. You find yourself a fortunate man. You are blessed with very useful friends. Mr Hopkins, he has volunteered to represent you legally.’

‘I don’t want Andrew. I’m here because of him.’

‘You are refusing the help of Mr Hopkins?’

‘I don’t want Mr Hopkins anywhere near me.’

‘Ah – Alethea – please could you record that Mr Morris is refusing the offer of a lawyer.’

I let out a hollow laugh. ‘Are you being deliberately belligerent?’

‘Please also record that Mr Morris is being abusive.’

I spoke between gritted teeth. ‘Perhaps you could outline to me my rights? Or do I not have rights here? You have kept me locked up overnight. I’m innocent. I’ve been set up. It’s Louis, Alice’s son, you need to look into. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

Gavras studied me hard. ‘Why did you try and run away, Mr Morris?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘You have no obligation to answer my questions. Your silence cannot be used against you. That – Mr Morris – is one of your rights.’

He smiled, and then nodded at the middle-aged woman, making sure she had got every word.

I was led to a different room to be photographed and for a DNA swab. I thought about refusing, but what would be the point? They’d take it anyway – rip out my hair or scrape out my nails in my sleep. The police station seemed semi-deserted – a series of empty rooms, echoing doors, the air somnolent and torpid. But the languor of this police force, their sluggishness, it was all an act. I was in the care of wolves.

Back in my cell, flies buzzed above last night’s food, and against the small high window. Fresh mosquito bites rose in weals across my neck and ankles. I heard the whine of a motorbike, and the braying of a donkey. The water they had brought tasted chemical and sour. I lay down on the wooden bench, aware of every bone in my own head, and finally slept.

I did eat. Fresh food was brought, if you can call it fresh. A piece of gnarled fatty lamb in a watery sauce. On the side a boiled potato and a raw tomato. I was too hungry to avoid it, though I worried about my stomach. The bucket they had left me in a corner already stank.

Time crawled. I felt filthy with heat and sweat. I banged on the door several times and on the fifth attempt a slot in the door opened and the eyes of my squat jailor appeared. He moved his head. ‘Eh?’ his mouth said.

‘How long will I be here? You can’t keep me here forever. Not without charge. It must have been twenty-four hours now. You’ve got to let me go.’

The slot closed.

Later, when it got dark, I banged again. Over and over until the heel of my hand was raw. No one came.

I had no cause for complaint, Gavras told me calmly when he came to get me the following day. Thirty-six hours: it was nothing. Well within
their
rights. I should conserve my energy.

Something in his manner had changed, the sleepiness in his eyes replaced by an excitement, a hunger.

He escorted me, his hand firmly under my elbow, into the room where I had been shown the warrant. Someone else was sitting behind the desk – a larger man in a black suit, a pale striped shirt and a wide navy tie. Grey hair, black eyebrows: another wolf. He was the superior officer Gavras had been expecting. I could tell by the small obsequious nod Gavras gave as he came into the room. He also had an authority about him, an insolence, his chin resting low on his neck, his eyes narrow. He was big, but his jacket was too wide across the shoulders and the wedding ring he was fiddling with was loose. I wondered whether he had recently lost weight.

He was introduced to me by his title not his name. ‘Anakritis,’ Gavras said, with a slight nod of his head. ‘He is the prosecuting judge. He collects evidence.’

‘I see.’

Gavras asked again if I wanted a lawyer. I told him I didn’t, that this was an absurd fuss about nothing, that I had done nothing wrong. He sat down next to his colleague and put his leather satchel on the table in front of him. The woman in the corner had switched on a small recording device on the table next to her. She picked up her notepad and pen.

I asked them why they were keeping me.

A long silence.

‘Are you an honest man, Mr Morris?’ Gavras’s gaze was steady.

‘I hope so.’

‘Do you tend to tell the truth?’

‘I’m telling the truth now.’

‘Were you telling the truth when you insisted you visited the Helladic Settelment at Okarta, ruins that are closed for renovation on a bus that no longer runs on Fridays?’

I tried to keep my own gaze level. ‘OK. I didn’t get the bus to the ruins, but there is an innocent explanation. A group holiday, you know. Other people’s kids. I just needed a day on my own.’

‘Do you live at the address you gave me?’

‘Well, not presently. But I did, until . . . Look, why does this matter?’

I had raised my voice. The Anakritis hadn’t yet spoken, but now he said, in an impeccable English accent, ‘Do you have a violent temper, Mr Morris?’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I do not have a violent temper.’

I sat back in my chair, glancing over at the woman writing notes. She was looking at me, but she bent her head again and carried on scribbling.

‘When things don’t go your way? When you are tired. When you have –’ He mimed swigging from a bottle. He was still smiling.