The Lost Labyrinth (9 page)

‘Really?’ asked Mikhail. ‘How?’

‘Give me his address. I’ll go visit him.’

‘And what good will that do you?’ asked Mikhail. ‘Unless you take a Ouija board, of course.’

‘Oh Christ!’ muttered Edouard.

Mikhail laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.’ He turned to Boris, like a doctor discussing an intriguing case with a colleague. ‘I even got him to write his own note. Amazing what people will do.’

‘So who’s the guy with the fleece, then?’ asked Zaal. ‘The one we’re going to see in the morning, I mean?’

‘His name’s Roland Petitier,’ said Mikhail. He threw Edouard another disdainful glance. ‘Another professor, as it happens.’

The plasma TV was still tuned mutely to the news, showing footage of a white-sheeted body on a trolley being loaded onto an ambulance, while banner headlines ran across the top of the screen. Edouard felt a touch of reckless, almost childish glee as he drew Mikhail’s attention to it. ‘You don’t mean him, I suppose, do you?’ he asked.

As Knox returned from the ICU, the lamps in the hospital lobby went into synchronised spasm, shuddering like lightning. Gaille was on a wooden bench, deep in conversation with Charissa. They both looked up as he approached. ‘Well?’ asked Gaille. ‘How is he?’

Knox shook his head. ‘Not so good. But at least he seems to be stable.’

‘And Claire? How’s she holding up?’

‘She’s a bit shaken, as you’d expect.’

‘Any chance that she could talk to the press?’ asked Charissa. ‘Only we need someone sympathetic to be Augustin’s spokesperson.’

‘Not tonight,’ replied Knox. ‘She’s too upset. Maybe tomorrow.’

‘How about you, then?’

Knox took a step back to allow past a porter pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair, her head tipped to the side, silently weeping. ‘Isn’t spokesperson a lawyer’s job?’

‘I’ll be beside you, believe me,’ said Charissa. ‘But right now our most important task is to get the public on Augustin’s side; and the public has a habit of making assumptions in cases like these. They assume, for example, that only guilty people need lawyers. And they further assume that lawyers will say anything for a fee.’

‘Aren’t you exaggerating?’

She shook her head emphatically. ‘Did you know that the jury system started as a popularity contest? The party with the most supporters won the case, on the basis that good people had more friends. Public opinion still works that way. We need to demonstrate that Augustin has friends who believe in him and who’ll stick by him even in terrible situations. Right now, that means you and Gaille. And, of the two of you, you’ve been his friend much longer.’

‘Fine,’ said Knox. ‘What do I say?’

‘Start by establishing your credentials. You’re Daniel Knox, you discovered Alexander’s tomb, you brought down the Dragoumises. Don’t boast, just let viewers know you’re a man of substance. Then tell them much what you told me: that you’ve been Augustin’s friend for many years, and that the idea of him being responsible for anyone’s death is absurd, but that you know for a fact he couldn’t have been responsible for
this
death because you were with him all afternoon, collecting his fiancée—not his girlfriend, mind, his fiancée—from the airport, and Petitier was still alive when you found him. Explain that Augustin himself called the emergency services, and that none of this would have happened if a policeman hadn’t groped Claire, leaving him with no choice but to defend her honour. We Greeks understand honour.’

‘Okay.’

‘Try to keep the blame as focused as possible for the moment. One rogue policeman, not the whole department. And, whatever you do, don’t make out like it’s a case of foreigners against Greeks. You’ll lose all sympathy in a heartbeat.’

‘Understood.’

‘Good,’ she nodded. ‘Then let’s go do it.’

For a moment, Edouard feared he’d made a dreadful mistake, bringing the news of Petitier’s death so gleefully to Mikhail’s attention. But Mikhail was too perturbed by what he saw to worry about that. He grabbed the remote, turned up the volume. A studio anchor was discussing latest developments with a reporter on location outside Evangelismos Hospital; but then the reporter broke off and turned to the front steps, down which two women and a man were now walking, their night-time faces a strobe of flashbulbs.

‘That’s Daniel Knox,’ muttered Edouard.

‘Who?’ asked Mikhail.

‘The Egyptologist. He found Alexander the Great and then Akhenaten. You must remember.
And that woman to his left. That’s his girlfriend Gaille Bonnard.’

‘She’s pretty,’ muttered Mikhail, his hand drifting to his crotch. ‘I like a girl who makes the most of herself.’

Edouard sat back, intrigued. Knox and Bonnard had turned the world of archaeology upside down with their recent discoveries. Suddenly the prospect of the fleece being genuine seemed significantly higher.

In brisk Greek, Knox introduced his companions, gave his own background, before launching into a spirited attack on the notion that Augustin Pascal had had anything to do with Petitier’s death, not least because he’d been with him all afternoon. Then he looked direct into the camera and added: ‘I love Greece. I love the Greek people. I love being here in Athens. So I’d like to believe what happened to my friend was the handiwork of one rogue policeman.’ He jerked his head at the hospital. ‘But I heard something disturbing just now in Intensive Care. I heard that the police have been arranging the transfer of my friend into their custody, even though they have no way of looking after him properly. So I have a question for those policemen, if they’re watching: why would you want to take him into custody, unless what you really want is for him to die?’

There was an audible grunt from one of the
journalists, taken aback by so direct an accusation; flashbulbs popped even faster and a clamour of questions were thrown in English and Greek. The woman lawyer threw Knox a fierce look then tried to downplay the accusation, assuring everyone that Augustin was receiving the finest medical attention Athens had to offer, and would continue to receive it. Then she thanked the press for coming and promised updates in the morning.

The camera switched back to the reporter who wrapped up and handed back to the studio, who switched instantly to another reporter who was with a Chief Inspector of police, identified as Angelos Migiakis. ‘That’s an outrageous slur,’ he stormed, when Knox’s allegation was put to him. ‘Our first priority this afternoon was securing treatment for Mr Pascal. We took him to Evangelismos ourselves. We’d never do anything to put his life in danger.’

‘But you must acknowledge that it was your officer who—’

‘I acknowledge nothing. We’re conducting a thorough investigation, and when it’s finished then we’ll know what happened. But I want to make two points. Pascal wasn’t the only victim today. Professor Petitier was brutally murdered. Let’s not forget that. We
owe
it to him to find out who killed him. And the hotel CCTV shows quite clearly that no one entered or left Augustin Pascal’s
room other than Pascal himself and this man Knox. So you tell me, eh. Who else should we be looking for?’

‘Are you accusing Daniel Knox of being involved in Petitier’s murder?’

‘And let me say something else,’ went on Migiakis. ‘Items were taken from Petitier’s overnight bag. We know that for sure. We also know that Pascal had a bag with him when he left for the airport. What was in it? No one will tell us. What happened to it? No one knows. It mysteriously disappeared while they were at the airport. So I ask again, who else should we be looking for, other than these two?’

The reporter handed back to the studio; the anchorwoman moved to the next story. Mikhail muted the volume, then turned to Edouard and pointed at the screen. ‘The fleece,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘That’s what was in the bag. My golden fleece. Those two fucking archaeologists murdered Petitier for it. Then they stole it.’

‘I suppose it’s a possibility.’

‘It’s not a
possibility
, as you put it,’ said Mikhail. ‘It’s what happened. Weren’t you listening? They took it to the airport and then they hid it.’

‘You can’t know that,’ said Edouard. ‘Not for sure.’

‘You’re wrong. I
can
know it.’ He touched his
chest. ‘I know it in here. I’m never wrong when I know something in here.’

‘Yes, but what if—’

‘Are you questioning my instincts?’

Edouard dropped his eyes. ‘No. No. Of course not.’

Mikhail turned to Boris. ‘I want to speak to this man Knox,’ he said. ‘I want to speak to him
now
.’

‘But we don’t know where he is.’

‘That press conference was outside Evangelismos Hospital, wasn’t it? You’ve heard of phone books, haven’t you? You’ve heard of the Internet? Your cars have SatNav, don’t they? Or is it beyond you to find a single fucking hospital?’

‘The press conference is over,’ said Zaal. ‘They’ll be long gone.’

‘Maybe,’ acknowledged Mikhail. ‘But Knox’s best friend is lying in intensive care, remember. He’ll be back soon enough, believe me. And we’re going to be waiting for him.’

‘What the hell was that?’ scowled Charissa, once she, Knox and Gaille had walked out of the hospital grounds, and the cameras were no longer on them. ‘The police are planning to take Augustin into custody?’

‘Claire was scared they’d try something,’ Knox told her.

‘They wouldn’t dare.’

‘They certainly won’t now.’

Charissa shook her head angrily. ‘I can’t represent you if you’re going to provoke the police unnecessarily. I have to work with these people on other cases. I have to keep good lines of communication open. How am I supposed to do that if you start throwing out wild accusations?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Knox. He followed Charissa down a short flight of steps into a small park, where a young woman with lank dark hair stood on an upturned beer-crate and warned that Jesus was come, He was alive. ‘You’re right. It was stupid of me. It won’t happen again.’

‘It better not,’ she warned. They emerged from the park onto a main road, turned right. They walked in stony silence to Charissa’s car, bumped up on the kerb behind a truck. ‘I’ll drop you off at your restaurant,’ she said.

‘Aren’t you coming?’

‘I like to see my children at least once a day, if I can,’ she said. ‘And then I’ve got some calls to make, to smooth down those feathers you’ve just ruffled.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Knox again. But this time he meant it.

‘It’s okay,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll sort it out. And I’ll
see if I can’t find out some more about what the police are up to.’

‘We should talk about your fees,’ said Knox. ‘We need some idea of what to expect. We’re only archaeologists, after all.’

‘Nothing so far,’ Charissa assured him. ‘Nico asked me to help, so I helped. But of course if you should want me to stay on the case…’

‘We do,’ said Gaille, taking her wrist. ‘Absolutely we do.’

‘Then maybe you should come by my office tomorrow morning. We can talk about it then.’

‘Not in the morning,’ said Knox. ‘I’ve got Augustin’s talk to give.’

‘The afternoon, then.’ She handed him her card. ‘Call ahead of time; my assistant will find a slot. And don’t worry. We’ll manage something. I don’t charge the earth, not for cases like this. Frankly, they do my profile good. But you should be aware that it’s not just my fees you have to consider. We may need expert medical opinions on Petitier’s injuries, for example. We may need private investigators to shadow the police investigation. They’re dealing with one of their own here, after all. At the very best, their officers will be
hoping
Augustin is guilty. It’s human nature that they’ll look for evidence that implicates him and exonerates their colleague. So perhaps we’d be prudent to make our own enquiries. This man Petitier, for example.
Who is he? Why did he contact Nico? Is there anything to this golden fleece business? What was on his laptop? What was taken from his bag? If we can answer such questions, we’ll be in a far stronger situation.’

‘Gaille and I could look into it,’ suggested Knox. ‘We have some experience of this kind of thing.’

‘This isn’t a game,’ said Charissa sharply. ‘Petitier was murdered earlier today. Don’t forget that. And whoever did it is still running around free—unless you believe it was your friend Augustin, of course. Do you really think they’ll just stand back and let you two poke your noses into their business, particularly if you start getting close?’

‘No,’ acknowledged Knox. ‘I guess not.’

There was a garage beneath Omonia police station, private parking for the senior officers. But Angelos Migiakis had no intention of using his own car for this. He took the wheel of a police cruiser, put it into first gear, then nosed it against the garage wall and roared its engine furiously, his foot pressed upon the brakes, so that the tyres burned in a futile effort at forward motion, filling the air with the stench of things scorching.

Theofanis banged upon the passenger-side window, then opened the door and climbed in. ‘Got to you a bit, eh, that interview?’

‘Did you hear that bastard Knox?’

‘I heard.’

‘He suggested we’d take Pascal out of intensive care! How dare he? How
dare
he?’ He revved the engine into the red to emphasise his fury. ‘What kind of people does he think we are?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

There was something in Theofanis’s voice. Angelos relaxed his foot on the accelerator and glared at him. ‘You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.’

‘Didn’t what, sir?’

‘You know damned well what: shoot your mouth off about transferring Pascal into our custody.’

Theofanis pulled a face. ‘I only asked what the procedure would be.’

‘Jesus!’

‘You
did
want us to put pressure on Knox to come to some kind of arrangement. I thought this would help.’

‘Yes. An absolute bloody triumph!’ The smell of scorched rubber that filled the car suddenly felt almost corrosive, as though it was eating into his clothes and skin. He turned off the engine and climbed out, marched back inside the station
and slammed the door so hard that the officer on duty jumped. He turned to Theofanis, his temper under control again, his mind back on practicalities. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘this is what I want. No more press conferences for Knox and his lawyer outside that fucking hospital, reminding everyone that Pascal’s inside. Understand? And, while we’re at it, Knox said he’d heard this
inside
Intensive Care. How the hell did he get in? I thought you had a man on the door.’