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‘But even if they can prove he knew this girl, that he slept with her, and it was his baby she was carrying, that isn’t enough to prove he killed her. I can say I threw the carpet away.’
‘You will say you threw it away,’ Edward pointedly told him.
‘Yes, yes, that is what I’ll tell them.’
‘Hmm. They’ll want to know where you tipped it, and when. They’ll also be relying on the evidence of this witness, this girl who worked for you. She is the bedrock of their case, I think. She heard the murder, she links everything up. Have you found out where she is yet?’
‘She may be somewhere in Greece.’
‘Try and find her, Terry.’ A pause, then Edward said, ‘Of course you won’t threaten her, or anything. But we need to know exactly what she might say. Ah, my lunch has arrived. Beef in black bean sauce – smells great. I’ll talk to you tonight.’
Terry put down the phone and stared out of the window. He would have to go to Greece. Miranda was now even more of a danger. If Sean was charged her evidence would be vital to the police case.
He might be able to get away tomorrow; just for a few days. He had had a wonderful time in Greece last time he was there. The Manoussi family were charming and hospitable, he had loved being there.
It had been a culture shock for him, seeing how they lived, visiting the Athens museum, glimpsing the Greek past, the incredible statues, the gold, the beauty of ancient jewellery. It had all b
een so strange to him; the food, the buildings, the markets in that place . . . what was it called . . . the agora? Or had that been the old market, no longer in operation? He had loved the narrow alleys and lanes filled with stalls selling junk for tourists, reproductions of Greek vases, little statuettes, or selling army surplus boots, or fruit, or modern curtains. The noise, the bustle, the cheerful friendliness . . .
Oh, yes, he had loved Athens.
This time would be very different.
Miranda woke up next morning in a state of depression, hating, despising herself, for allowing Alex to use her the way he had. He must despise her, too. She had collapsed in front of him, like a crumbling wall – she had made it easy for him to take her then walk away.
How was she going to face him? She wasn’t hungry and skipped breakfast, walked into the office feeling very shy, wondering if people would be able to see what had happened between her and Alex. One of the other two girls was at reception as she passed, dealing with a telephone query. She waved a hand and winked at Miranda, who waved back, forcing a stiff smile.
As she passed the manager’s door she saw it was slightly ajar; she could hear Alex’s voice inside. Was he talking to Charles?
She paused, listening, to see if she could pick up Charles’ voice, and meaning to go in to talk to Alex, then realised Alex was talking on the phone. Through the open door she could glimpse the whole office. Alex was alone; standing by the window gazing out while he talked, one hand raking back his thick black hair.
‘Stop worrying,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept her here for you, haven’t I? She won’t get away – this is an island, remember? She’ll be here whenever you want her. Come over and get her any time.’
Miranda went cold, a frown etching itself between her brows. Who was he talking to?
No prizes for guessing who he was talking about. Her. He meant her.
What did he mean, he had kept her here and whomever he was talking to could come and get her any time?
‘Terry. Look,’ Alex said abruptly, then stopped, listening. ‘Right, OK, I’ll expect you. What flight will you be on? I’ll make sure you’re met. I’ll go back to Piraeus today.’
Miranda’s legs were trembling under her, she could barely walk, but she made it, somehow, to her own office, staggered to her desk and collapsed on to her chair.
Alex had betrayed her. Had lied to her all along, was in league with Terry. It had all been lies, his concern about her, his desire to keep her safe . . . oh, yes, safe until Terry could come and . . . and . . .
And Terry would kill her, to make sure she never gave evidence against his son.
Alex’s love-making, his passion, had all been phoney, a lie. She felt sick, remembering her own abandoned desire, the intensity of her own feelings. She had been cheated, deceived. Alex had made a fool of her. How could he be so heartless, luring her here and making love to her only to hand her over to Terry, knowing she would be killed?
The Angel of Death she had called him once.
Her intuition had been spot on; she had known from the beginning that he brought death, first to Tom, then to that poor girl who had been murdered by Sean – and now to her.
She heard footsteps, the outer door was flung open. Elena swayed through it, sinuous in a black suit with a low, plunging neckline and tight waist, a very short skirt that showed off her beautiful legs.
‘Oh,’ she said, looking around. ‘I’m looking for Mr Manoussi, where will I find him?’
‘The next door along the corridor.’
