Page 31 of Deep Blue Lies
“Um…” My voice fades away. I stare at the water. There’s just the tiniest sheen of oil on the surface now, I think from the engine’s cooling system. A tiny swirl of rainbow. It’s easier to focus on this than what I’m suddenly being told.
“Perhaps Karen was pregnant when she left the island? Perhaps you were born after, back in England. Or somewhere else, another island.” Kostas’ words keep coming.Insane. Completely wrong. I shrug, shaking my head at the same time.
“No. It was definitely…Alythos.” I have my passport in my bag. Hans needs to see it for my work permit. It lists my place of birth. And the date. But I don’t pull it out, I don’t show it to him. I’m not here to prove myself.
He turns away, as if me not believing him is insulting. But he’s just wrong.
“I will take you back now. Hold on.”
And then he fires up the engine again. Moments later the boat has climbed back onto the mountain of white water that its engine produces, as we power back towards the beach. For a minute or so there’s no possibility of talking, with the noise and the movementof it. It could be thrilling, but my head is spinning. I don’t understand what he’s just told me, why he’d say it.
But we don’t quite get to the beach. Instead he kills the engine, spinning the boat around again when we’re maybe a quarter of a mile from the sand. The water here is bluer, but still dark and deep. It makes me want to get closer still. To where I could definitely swim ashore if I needed to. If he tried to throw me off.
“I do not know if I should tell you this.” His words cut into me again. “I do not understand this.”
I let go of the handles to lift my hands into a shrug. “I don’t think I do either.”
“You are the daughter of Karen Whitaker?” His dark eyes bore into me. “The woman in your photograph – Imogen. We are talking about the same Karen Whitaker who was friends with Imogen Grant?”
“Yes. Yeah, I think so.”
He draws in a deep breath, then shakes his big head again, like this cannot be the case. Then he half-unzips his buoyancy aid, and reaches a hand inside. He stops. Seems to consider again.
“Imogen and I…our relationship was casual. Typical of its time. I mean by this, we did not know so much about each other, outside of the island. This was a time before mobile telephones, the internet. This you understand?” He waits until I nod, before he goes on.
“I did not know where she lived. Of course I knew America, but I could not contact her, when she left the island, after the murders.”
Now he turns to face me properly, looking me square in the face. “This was hard for me. I believed myself to be in love with her at this time. And her with me. Yet I had no way to reach her.”
I can’t see where this is going, but it must have been hard. I can sort of understand what he’s telling me.
“So did you find her? Afterwards?”
“No.” He shakes his head. Like a powerful but tragic bear. “I have never seen Imogen Grant again. Not after the deaths.”
“Oh.” I nod, for what must be the fourth or fifth time. I mean, this is super interesting and stuff. But I’m not sure why it’s that relevant to me. I still don’t really know what I’m doing out here. But it turns out Kostas isn’t finished.
“At first the police sealed off the resort. Everything was off limits. But after a few days, it was clear they did not have enough men to keep it locked down. They put police tape. Keep out.” He glances at me, then looks away, so that I see the whites of his eyes. I just wait. Whatever this is, it seems it’s difficult for him to tell me.
“So one night. I went down there. To the hotel. I broke into Imogen’s room. Imogen and Karen’s room. You understand?”
“Um, not exactly?—”
“I wanted to find an address – something to help me get in touch with Imogen. Maybe I did not think the relationship could last forever, but it should not have ended the way it did.”
I wait, then reply.
“But you didn’t find anything? Otherwise, you’d have contacted her?”
He nods, his eyes absent again.
“Nothing from Imogen. No.” His frown deepens, his brow knotting like he’s pulling something up from the past. “I should not have done what I did next. It was shameful. I have felt a guilt over this for many years. Perhaps if I hand this over to you, it will remove this guilt? I do not know…”
He stops again, and I have to press.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Hand what over?”
“Your mother, Karen. She kept a diary of her time on the island. I found it when I searched their room. I am sorry to say I took it. Ever since, I have kept it, I cannot say why, I do not know…” He fixes me with his dark look again, and then his hand disappears further into the buoyancy aid. Underneath, tucked into his shirt, is a clear plastic bag, and inside that, I see the corner of a book.
