Page 27 of Deep Blue Lies
“Of course.” The way he talks about “we” is totally weird. But I make myself smile encouragingly.
I pause, and now I notice on the kitchen table a stack of three identical paperbacks. I sense he’s not going to tell me anything until he relaxes, and this seems the way to make it happen. “Is that yours?” I pick one up, turn it around to see the cover:The Shadow of Theseus.
I may have got that wrong, he looks like I’ve just pulled a gun on him. But he gives his nervous laugh again. “Yes, my latest.”
“It looks…” I think what to say. I’ve started down this path so I might as well continue. “Amazing.”
He laughs again, but then waits, like I’m holding some valuable treasure and he expects me to study it some more. So I do. I turn it over and scan the blurb:
When British historian Daniel Mercer is sent a mysterious letter, written in an ancient language that nobody on earth still speaks, he travels to Greece to try and find the key to unlock the mystery. But as he journeys through the ancient landscapes, his personal history begins to unravel around him. What if the woman who left him could now be trying to hunt him down?
“That actually sounds really good,” I say again. I kind of mean it too.
“Yes, well. Thank you.” His eyes dart onto mine, and then away again. He watches the book, until I put it back down.
“But you didn’t come here for books?” It’s half a question but he doesn’t give me a chance to answer it. “How exactly do you think I can help?”
I pull out my photograph, then hand it over to him.
“I’m trying to find out more about my mother’s time on the island,” I explain. “I know I was born here, but I don’t know much else. I was wondering if you might have known them. If you could tell me anything.”
He doesn’t say anything but studies the photograph for a while. A couple of times he looks up at me, then back down at the image. He turns the photograph over, examining the back, and then coughs when he sees the date written there.
“Your mother…” he begins, speaking carefully. “What was her name? May I ask?”
“Karen.” I smile hopefully. “Karen Whitaker.”
It’s not exactly a look of recognition, but the name seems to do something to him. He gives his nervous laugh again. Then he walks to his office door and casually pulls it shut.
“Well, I did work at the resort.” He speaks slowly as he crossesthe room back towards me. “I suppose anybody here will tell you that. I’m rather well known on the island…” He hesitates, and goes on when he sees I don’t really understand that.
“The books. There are not many authors on Alythos,” he says, “much less published ones, so people tend to know me.”
“And do you know her? Karen Whitaker?” I ask. He peers at me now through his glasses, but after a moment he shakes his head.
“I don’t recall. I’m sorry.”
“The other woman is called Imogen Grant. Maybe you remember her?”
There’s something weird about his reaction again, but I don’t know what. It’s like he’s thinking I’m somehow testing him, and he doesn’t know why.
“Imogen?”
“Yes.”
“Imogen?” He repeats the name to himself, half under his breath, staring now at the wall.
I watch him, as various emotions undulate across his face. This guy would either be hopeless or amazing at poker, because I can see he’s thinking something, but I don’t know what. He goes back to studying the photo again. When he looks up he seems defeated. He shakes his head sadly.
“No, I’m sorry…” He screws his eyes shut, stays that way a moment, then opens them again and looks at me. “It’spossibleI remember that name, but…barely. You know?” He stares at me, like he’s hoping I’ll accept that.
“Are you sure?” I ask, disappointed. At one point today it felt like I might actually get somewhere with the search. Now it seems every lead has gone nowhere.
“Yes. I do apologise. There’s nothing I can say that will help you.” He hands me the photograph. “And now if you will excuse me, we do have to get back to our story. I cannot leave myself in the bank vault for ever, the police are on their way.”
I don’t want to take the photo, but I can’t not. And I can’t thinkof anything else to ask him, if he won’t tell me. But even so, I’m certain that he knows something. More than he’s saying. I’m just not sure quite why, or what.
EIGHTEEN
