Will Adams - The Lost Labyrinth

'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.'

'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.'

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.