“Yeah. OK – thanks.”
I take a breath and step inside.
FOURTEEN
I slip into the office and see Kostas at once, seated behind another Mac computer, his eyes tight with frustration as he stares at the screen. Something about him makes me shut the door behind me. It’s like visiting the headmaster.
“Yes?” He doesn’t offer a seat.
I step forward, already feeling my words tumble out too fast. “I’m um…I’m sorry to bother you. I have a photograph of my mother, here on the island, before I was born. I’m trying to find out about her time here. I was told you might be in it too.” I pause, I hope he speaks English, I should have asked Sophia. “In the photograph?”
His eyes narrow further. But he holds out a hand, silently indicating the chair in front of him. I sit in it, but his hand doesn’t move, and I suddenly realise he was actually asking for the photo.
Shit.“Sorry,” I mutter, as I get back to my feet, reaching into my pocket for the photograph. His hand doesn’t move, he just waits impatiently, his black eyes not leaving my face. I find it and hand it over.
Now Kostas looks carefully at the image. His expression doesn’t change, but he scratches absently at his beard. Then he looks up at me, a questioning look on his face.
“Um, I was told that this might be you?” I lean forward and point at the figure in the background, the gardener. “Could it be?”
He studies me for a long moment before his eyes return to the image. Finally he meets my eyes again.
“Why do you ask this?”
I launch again into my now familiar speech. “I’ve come to the island to try and find out more about my mother.”
“Your mother? Which one?”
I realise his English is just fine. More of a local accent than Sophia, but he understands me at least.
“The blonde girl. Obviously she’s much older now,” I say with a stupid laugh and then I get myself under control. “Her name is Karen Whitaker.” Then I add, because he’s still sitting there in silence, staring at me. “Do you maybe remember her? Do you know anything about her?”
He stays silent a while longer. It’s odd. His beard is so thick and dark that there’s a blackness to his face. It changes when he opens his mouth, showing ruby-red lips.
“When was this taken?”
“Um. I think it was the summer of 2000.”
He absorbs this without reaction, but after a while he responds.
“This is out by the old Aegean Dream Resort. It closed in 2001,” he says.
“Yes. I know.”
His eyes narrow a little now, perhaps with curiosity. “You know what happened there?”
“Yes. The murder?”
Now he really stares, his eyes narrow and searching my face. They then flick to the door, like he’s checking it’s shut. When he speaks again his voice is a growl.
“Who said this was me?”
I don’t know what it is, but I don’t want to tell him about Maria. It’s silly, I know, but at the same time it would make sense that I don’t know the names of the people I’ve been speaking too.
“I’m not sure of their name.”
Please don’t ask me to describe them,I think.
He doesn’t, thank God. Instead he just offers a half-shrug.