Page 18 of Deep Blue Lies

SEVENTEEN

I try to look around, but the place is pretty dark.

“Would you like a drink? Some tap water perhaps?”

I don’t, but I say yes anyway and follow Duncan into his kitchen.

It’s quite small, and he obviously hasn’t cleaned up from breakfast, nor last night’s dinner.

This seems to embarrass him, and he tidies away a half empty bottle of wine, a plate that goes into the sink.

This seems to give him second thoughts about the tap water and he goes to the fridge instead.

His hand hesitates by a bottle of Diet Coke, but it’s mineral water he takes out.

“The water here’s fine to drink,” – he gives a nervous laugh – “but it comes out warm, so I fill this from the tap.”

“That’s fine, thank you,” I say, as he looks for a clean glass.

As he pours I look around some more. There’s an open door leading off to some sort of study where I can see his computer screen, sat on a wooden desk.

I can see the cursor blinking at the bottom of a page of text.

I guess I really did interrupt his writing.

On the walls are framed pictures of what I suppose are the covers of his books.

And pencil sketches too. Views of the island maybe – landscapes anyway, and a pencil sketch of a girl, just inside the door.

They’re all quite good, the portrait especially, but maybe not quite good enough to justify hanging on the wall ?

“The problem is island infrastructure is very poor,” he goes on, not making eye contact with me.

“And with the heat…unbearable. Especially in the summer. It’s essential to keep hydrated.

” I realise he’s still talking about the water, so I take a sip.

I feel a strange need to put him at ease, not for my sake exactly but…

I notice on the table there are five pencils, a sharpener and a pile of shavings.

He’s made them all the exact same length.

He laughs again, the same anxious sound.

“I apologise if I seemed rude – or awkward – outside.” He speaks cautiously, one hand fiddling with the button on his shirt. “I was…writing, you see. When you knocked? It can be challenging to be pulled so suddenly out of one world and into another. So to speak.”

“Sure. Of course. I’m really sorry to disturb you.” I’m kind of regretting coming in here, and it feels rude not to ask, so I do. “What were you writing?

For a moment he looks at me like this might be a trick question, and then he gives his laugh again.

“Haha!” He tries a smile, but one side of his face doesn’t move.

“I was…” – his tongue comes out of his mouth and licks all the way around his lips – “defusing a bomb in a bank vault in Geneva. Well, I wasn’t,” he clarifies, relaxing a little now.

“My protagonist was. We were literally seconds away from it detonating, when you appeared. Perhaps if I look a little startled, that will explain it?”

“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 crosses the 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’s possible I 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 think of 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.