The Divided Child (56 page)

           
"I
think you must be mistaken."

           
"No,
I'm not.
 
Look, Robert, I think we
should go back.
 
What if something's
happened to them?"

           
His
expression grew grim.
 
"Then
I'd better get you safely back to town."

           
"But
--"

           
"If
they've had some sort of mishap,” he said, “a puncture or some sort of
mechanical trouble, then they're perfectly capable of dealing with it on their
own.
 
If, on the other hand,
something more sinister has occurred, then the last thing I should do is drive
you back there into a possible trap."

           
"But
we can't just leave them!” I exclaimed.
 
“If they've had an accident, they may be hurt!"

           
He
said impatiently, "We'll telephone Lieutenant Mavros when we reach town
and notify him of what's happened."

           
I
didn't argue further.
 
Instead, I
considered his suggestion that the policemen's disappearance might be a
trap.
 
Was he right?
 
Was Spiro lurking somewhere out in the
darkness waiting for us?
 
Waiting
for me?
 
Waiting to dispose of me
as he had Helen?

           
I
shivered.
 
Poor Helen.
 
Had she really been fool enough to
think she could blackmail a murderer?
 
I shook my head, trying to erase the image which my imagination seemed
determined to create in vivid detail: Helen, walking quickly along the path
toward the cliff, in a hurry to reach that last fateful rendezvous . . .

           
Rendezvous
.
 
How had I forgotten?
 
Helen on another rendezvous, a
rendezvous in a church with a tall, light-haired man who from the back I'd
mistaken for Geoffrey.
 
I cast a
covert glance at the man sitting next to me.
 
His hands rested lightly on the wheel, but his face was set,
determined.
 
Fighting down a sense
of panic, I stared ahead, wishing I could remember how far we were from the
junction with the road north to Corfu Town.

           
The
two policemen who were to guard me were gone.
 
I was alone in a car with a man who -- what?
 
Had met in secret with a woman who was
later murdered?
 
That hardly made
him a killer.
 
Why was I letting
myself get so worked up?
 
I was in
no danger.
 
We would reach the
junction, and we would turn north, and soon I would be safely back in my hotel
room with the door locked and the bed covers pulled up to my chin.
 

           
But
what if we turned south instead, or west?
 
What if we didn't head back to town at all?
 
Would anyone know where I'd been taken, or even by whom?
 
There were no police behind us now, and
all Robert had to do was claim he'd dropped me safely off at my hotel . . . .

           
It
was an alarmingly convincing scenario, but it suffered one serious flaw.
 
I was wrong about there being no police
behind us.

           
Eerie
blue light swirled and eddied against the windows, the dashboard, our
clothes.
 
I twisted around to see a
police car, lights flashing, bearing down on us.
 
Robert turned off onto the shoulder of the road, shutting
down the engine with a fierce twist of the key.
 
As we waited for the policeman to approach, I tried to read
his expression, but it was inscrutable, like a sphinx.

           
The
policeman was young and appeared slightly wary as he gestured for Robert to
roll down his window.
 
"Excuse
me, sir, but the lady with you, her name is Stewart?
 
Miss Christine Stewart?"

           
"It
is," Robert replied cautiously.

           
"Then
I must ask her to return immediately with me to town."

           
"May
I ask why?"

           
"Lieutenant
Mavros wishes to speak with her about an important matter."

           
"And
that matter is?"

           
The
policeman hesitated, then apparently gave in to the tone of authority in
Robert's voice.
 
"All I have
been told is that an arrest has been made and the Lieutenant wishes to ask Miss
Stewart a few questions."

           
Robert
swore under his breath, but I sat there mute, unable to accept the fact that Geoffrey
had somehow allowed himself to be caught.
 
"Am I being arrested, too, then?" I finally asked numbly.

           
The
policeman regarded me with dark, apologetic eyes.
 
"I'm sorry, Miss.
 
I do not know."

           
Robert
said, "In that case, Officer, I believe I'll follow you, in case Miss
Stewart finds herself in need of a lawyer."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

           
When
I was finally ushered into the Lieutenant's office, he was sitting at his desk
poring over some papers.
 
He didn't
say anything, or lift his head to acknowledge my presence; he merely continued
to read.
 
I made my way to a chair
and sat down.
 
When he finally
looked up, his expression was anything but welcoming.

           
"Miss
Stewart."

           
"Lieutenant."

           
"I
know the hour is late, but that cannot be helped.
 
As you have probably already been informed, I've been forced
to make an arrest, and there is little time left before the British police
arrive to take custody of their prisoner."

           
"The
British
police?
 
I don't
understand.
 
I know Michael's
English, but he was taken from the hospital here on Corfu.
 
Doesn't that make it your
jurisdiction?"

           
"You
are under a misapprehension," he said grimly.
 
"The charge is not kidnapping, but murder."

           
Suddenly
my throat felt tight.
 
"But
that's ridiculous!
 
Lieutenant,
please, you can't really believe he threw Helen over that cliff?"

           
"You
surprise me, Miss Stewart.
 
I had
not expected such a spirited defense from you, of all people.
 
However, it is not Helen's murder that
he has been arrested for, but that of William Redfield, in England, slightly
over two months ago."

           
I
stared at him, stunned.
 
"But
that's impossible --"

           
His
voice grew hard, his blue eyes openly hostile.
 
"Apparently someone provided the British police with
new and incriminating evidence in the case.
 
It seems Spiro lied about being in England on the day of
Redfield's death, and new inquiries have led to a witness who identifies him as
the cyclist who reported Redfield's car over the cliff."

           
A
shaky feeling of relief washed over me.
 
"Wait a minute, Lieutenant!
 
Are you telling me it's
Spiro
you've arrested?"

           
"Not
by choice!
 
My hand was
forced."

           
"You
don't think he's guilty?
 
How does
he explain being at the scene of the crime?"

           
"He
admits staging the accident," Mavros said heavily, "but he maintains
that he did not kill Redfield, that Redfield was already dead."

           
"And
you believe that?"

           
"It's
no longer a matter of what I believe," he replied stiffly.
 
He rose and crossed to the window and
looked out.
 
"I told him you
would be of no help."

           
"You
mean Spiro asked that I be brought here?"

           
He
turned to face me.
 
"For some
reason he believes you may be able to prove his innocence.
 
I told him that I thought it unlikely
you would help, even if you could, but he insisted, and he is my friend.
 
Of course, if you are unwilling to see
him, I cannot force you.
 
I do
think, however, that the person who provided this new evidence to the British
police has a responsibility to see it is not used to convict an innocent
man."

           
Our
eyes met and locked.

           
"All
right," I said reluctantly, "you win.
 
I'll see him."

*
                                 
*
                                 
*

           
The
room was small and bare, its only furniture a wooden table and two worn-looking
chairs.
 
Spiro was standing near
the window, his face striped by the shadows of heavy metal bars, and when he turned
I was shocked by the change in him.
 
The cool charm and arrogant confidence were gone.
 
He had the desperate, panicked air of a
man being dragged toward the edge of an abyss.

           
"Christine,
you must help me!"

           
"Spiro,
I'm sorry.
 
I don't think there's
anything I can do."

           
"But
there is!
 
You must tell Ari where
Redfield is hiding the boy.
 
The
boy knows the truth, Christine.
 
He
was there that day; I think he must have seen the real killer.
 
The British police will not listen to
me -- I am a Greek, a foreigner, but they will listen to the boy.
 
He is my only hope."

           
His
words startled me.
 
How had he
learned that Michael was home the day his father was murdered, and why did he
believe Michael's testimony would help him?
 
"What makes you think Michael is with Geoffrey?"

           
He
flashed me an angry look.
 
"Why do you protect him?
 
Do you truly think he has taken the boy to keep him safe?
 
Don't you realize he has kidnapped the
boy to prevent Michael from telling the truth about his father's death?"

           
"Michael
doesn't know the truth about his father's death!” I exclaimed.
 
“All he knows is that his father had an
accident on a foggy road -- an accident you've as good as admitted you
staged!"

           
"You
don’t understand!” he exclaimed.
 
“Redfield was already dead when I pushed the car over the cliff!"

           
"So
you say.
 
But all that proves, even
if it's true, is that you killed him somewhere else and then staged the
accident to cover-up the fact."

           
"
No!
 
He was already dead when I found
him!
 
He was lying

face-down on the floor of his study
with a small, bloody dent in the back of his head.
 
Surely the boy must have seen or heard something?"

           
Slowly
I shook my head.
 
"Why didn't
you call the police?
 
Why did you
trundle his dead body into a car, drive it forty miles away, and send it over a
cliff to hide his murder and make his death look like an accident?"

           
"I
had no choice!
 
There had been
arguments, violent arguments in the past about money.
 
I was in charge of Redfield's holdings here in Greece.
 
Just before his death there had been
some large losses, checks paid out to companies that turned out not to
exist.
 
Redfield blamed me for the
losses, accused me of embezzling the money.
 
The charge was false, but until I found the true thief, I
had no way to prove my innocence.
 
I
came to England because he threatened me with prosecution if the money was not
returned.
 
I arrived at his home to
find him dead, murdered."

           
His
eyes met mine.
 
"What was I to
do, Christine?
 
Telephone the
police to come and arrest me?
 
Do
you think for a moment they would have listened to my claims of innocence -- a
'wog' embezzler who also happened to be the dead man's brother-in-law?
 
No, they would have done as Geoffrey
Redfield urged them to do and sent me, and possibly my sister, to jail."