The Lost Labyrinth. Will Adams

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.’

      III

      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.’

      ‘He must have slipped by. I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.’

      ‘It had better not. And I want a proper presence at that hospital. Anyone nosing around, journalists or anyone, I want people in their faces, I want to know exactly what they’re doing there. We need this damned story closed down before it gets out of hand. You hear me?’

      ‘Yes, boss. I hear you.’

       TEN

      I

      The Island was boisterous and crowded, all the tables taken, the barstools too, with several more people milling around just inside the door, waiting to be seated. The moustached head waiter flinched a little when he saw Gaille and Knox arrive, as though this level of success was too much for him. He looked around, perhaps hoping that some miracle would create space for another table, but there seemed little chance of that. Apart from anything else, it was an awkward shape for a restaurant, all arches and alcoves and sharp corners, and every possible square inch was already pressed into service, the diners packed so close together that the larger ones had their table-edges jammed into their midriffs.

      ‘Here!’ yelled Nico, getting to his feet in the far corner, enthusiastically waving them over. They sucked in their stomachs and wended between tables to an alcove that allowed Nico a bench-seat all to himself. ‘Wine?’ he asked, holding up a half-empty carafe.

      ‘Please,’ said Gaille.

      ‘Not for me,’ said Knox.

      ‘I took the liberty of ordering,’ said Nico, slopping the resinous yellow wine into all three glasses, despite Knox’s answer. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ He put a hand upon his stomach, as if it were days since he’d last eaten.

      ‘I’m sure you know what’s best.’

      ‘I’ve taken another liberty too.’ He reached into his jacket pocket, produced some stapled sheets. ‘Augustin’s speech,’ he said, passing them to Knox, the white paper smeared with sticky fingerprints. ‘In case you should want to read it through later.’

      ‘Thanks,’ said Knox, folding the pages away. ‘That’s very thoughtful.’

      ‘Don’t mention it.’ His gaze slid past Knox; his face lit up. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘What perfect timing.’ A waiter and a waitress cleared space upon their table, then began setting down brushed steel platters of succulent seafood, baskets of warm crusty bread and a palette of dips and side-dishes. Nico rested his fingertips upon the edge of the table for a few moments, like a priest about to give a blessing, then reached with surprising grace for the fried taramasalata, scooping a good third of it straight