‘This is ridiculous!’
‘I’m only asking you what the police will ask. What happened to it?’
Knox sat back, striving to remember. He’d stayed with the car himself, wanting Augustin and Claire to enjoy a private reunion. ‘He took it into the terminal,’ he said.
‘You’re sure?’
Knox nodded. ‘I remember him holding it aside when he met someone coming the other way.’
‘What about when he came back out?’
Knox frowned and shook his head. ‘He had all Claire’s luggage stacked up on a cart. It may have been amongst it, but I can’t remember.’
‘Think,’ urged Charissa.
‘This is preposterous,’ protested Knox. ‘This whole thing is preposterous.’
‘You have to understand something, Mr Knox,’ said Charissa. ‘Last year, our Athens police shot and killed a fifteen-year-old boy. You may remember—we had riots right across Greece. The situation here is still extremely tense. The authorities will be praying that nothing happens to exacerbate it; they’ll be desperate to show that Augustin only got what he deserved. If that means being selective in their investigation, or smearing him or leaking incriminating details to their pet journalists, then that’s what they’ll do. Our job right now is to anticipate every move they might make, and be ready. So I ask again: did he bring this bag back out?’
‘I can’t remember,’ said Knox. ‘But isn’t this all beside the point anyway? I mean, Augustin had no earthly reason to kill Petitier. Aren’t murderers supposed to have a motive?’
It was a rhetorical question; he didn’t expect an answer. So it was something of a shock when Nico half turned in his seat and pulled an apologetic face. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I hate to say this, but I’m rather afraid your friend did have a motive after all.’
III
Nikortsminda Castle, Georgia
Kiko Zdanevich had never seen anything quite like it, not outside of school trips and history books, at least. A moonlit fortress of ivy-covered stone with high battlements for its archers and towering pointed turrets from which brave knights-errant like himself could rescue beautiful imprisoned princesses, all set on a small island close to the edge of an ink-black lake, surrounded by ancient forest and snow-capped mountains. He pressed his face against the window as they wound along the country lane toward the island, watched open-mouthed as the drawbridge lowered for them, and the great wooden gates creaked open. ‘Is this really where we’re staying, Mama?’ he asked.
‘I suppose it must be,’ she said sternly, as though offended by his excitement. She’d been in a strange mood ever since Alexei Nergadze and the men in black suits had come for them earlier with a message from their father that they were to spend the weekend with the Nergadzes.
They passed through the outer gates into a vast central courtyard, spotlights illuminating lawns and interior battlements, open flights of stone steps up to them, a chapel with a tall spire and a long line of white-painted stables and garages, not to mention the central keep of grey stone, outside whose front doors they now stopped.
Liveried servants hurried down to collect their luggage from the boot, while Alexei Nergadze led them inside, then down a long and gloomy gallery of stern-faced portraits to a high-stepped spiral staircase. Kiko’s heart swelled briefly at the prospect of sleeping in one of the turret rooms, but they headed along another corridor instead to a rather shabby bedroom with two sagging single beds. ‘The girls will be sleeping in here,’ he said, nodding to them to stay while one of the servants unpacked their luggage.
‘What about me and Kiko?’ asked his mother.
‘You’re further along.’
‘We want to be together.’
‘We have a full house this weekend. This is the best we can do.’
‘Then we’ll all be fine in here, thank you.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Alexei. ‘My grandfather would never forgive me if I didn’t make you all as comfortable as possible.’
‘But I assure you we—’
‘You’re coming with me,’ said Alexei. They followed him and the second servant to another set of stairs. ‘I don’t like this, Mama,’ murmured Kiko. ‘I want to go home.’
She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Everything’s going to be fine, sweetheart, I promise.’
Alexei showed them next to Kiko’s room. It was grander by far than his sisters’. It had its own fireplace and chairs and desks and tapestries on the wall and huge cream curtains that could be opened and closed by pulling on a rope, and a four-poster bed hung with pink silk decorated with roses. He threw his mother a pleading glance as Alexei led her off to her own room. She gave him just the hint of a wink before she left, asking him to play along for the time being, promising it would be all right.
It was another ten minutes before he heard footsteps outside and then she came back in, carrying her bag. ‘You’re staying with me?’ he asked eagerly.
‘The bed’s big enough, isn’t it?’ she smiled.
‘It’s big enough for a king!’ he cried, climbing up onto it, then jumping up and down.
‘Careful, now,’ she admonished. ‘We don’t want to break anything.’
Kiko nodded and went to the mullioned window, cupped his hands around his eyes, the better to see. Three black limousines with tinted windows were coming in across the drawbridge, their headlights sweeping across the castle’s interior. A canvas canopy had been erected outside the keep’s front steps since they’d arrived, and the cars stopped one by one beneath it. He could hear their doors opening and closing, the cheerful chatter of guests as they made their way inside.
‘What’s got you so riveted?’ asked his mother, putting her hands upon his shoulders, laying a kiss on his crown.
‘People,’ said Kiko. ‘Lots of them.’
‘Wow!’ she said. ‘There are a lot, aren’t there?’
‘What do you think that canopy is for?’ he asked.
‘I suspect it must be to keep all these guests dry from the rain.’
‘But it’s not even raining.’
‘Yes. But they weren’t to know that when they put it up, were they?’
‘I think it’s to stop those cameras in the sky from seeing who they all are,’ declared Kiko, who had a fondness for spy films.
His mother ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘You do have an imagination, don’t you?’ she said, drawing the curtains and leading him away.
‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘I suppose I must.’
I
Edouard tapped Mikhail Nergadze’s address into his Mercedes’ SatNav, only to discover that someone had been making mischief, downloading a husky-voiced woman to deliver breathy doubleentendre instructions. ‘After eighty metres, unnh, turn hard left,’ she urged, triggering in Edouard a sudden welcome memory of the one time he’d ever come even close to infidelity, tempted into a seedy Kiev escort bar by boredom and a leather-clad whore in icing-sugar make-up, then having to spend an exorbitant sum on champagne before he could negotiate his escape.
‘Right