Angel of Death (29 page)

‘I’ve heard my parents talk about you. Afraid I don’t remember you, myself; I guess I was too young to notice much when you were around. Oh, this is our computer anorak, Liam Grady,’ he introduced him and Terry looked hard at the other man, shaking hands.

‘I suppose you could say I was a computer anorak, too,’ he smiled. His obsession with computers in the beginning had led him to another world, a new career. What had begun as a passion had become a business. Sometimes he regretted that, wished he still felt the same eager excitement.

‘Yeah, well, we all need to understand computers and use them, or lose out in the modern world.’

Liam Grady was dogmatic, a small, sharp Irishman with spiky yellowish hair, bright blue eyes and a touch of belligerence in his manner. No room for discussion or argument in his view of life. Liam Grady knew what he was talking about and anyone who didn’t agree with him had to be taught he was right. He was the type to have a fight in every bar he walked into. Terry had known a lot of men like Liam Grady when he lived in Manchester and moved in the Irish Catholic enclave centred on the local church and the social life held there in the club.

He had been that way himself, when he was young, before he caught on that fighting wasted energy you could better use in making a success of your life.

‘You’re right,’ he said amiably, smiling at Grady.

Andy looked at his watch. ‘I want to get back up to Manchester this afternoon, I have things to do in the office there, so do you mind if we cut corners? We need to see how your firm works – your order books, your accounts, everything. My father told you that, didn’t he?’

‘He told me. Come along.’ Terry led them into another room. The computers were all switched on and waiting, ticking like wound-up clocks, their screens blank but alive, shining in autumnal morning sunlight. Terry sat down, punched in the code to give access. The machine began to hum, to whir.

Terry stood up again, impatient to get away. He found it hard to be polite to these intruders who were going to fumble through his business like policemen searching somebody’s knicker drawer.

‘You’ll find your way around without needing me here. I’ll leave you to it. If you do want me my internal number is on this pad. And the access codes to the computers are on it, too.’

Liam nodded abstractedly. ‘Fine. OK.’

He sat down in the chair Terry had used, immediately attentive to the screen in front of him, and began operating keys. The screen changed, numbers and figures swam up from somewhere. Liam read them, his fingers hovering over keys.

‘Can we have a tour of the premises later?’ Andy asked.

Terry nodded. ‘Certainly. Just give me a ring when you’re ready. We can have some lunch across the road in the pub you can see from the window here. It’s an old house, but the food is pretty good and they have a huge range of beers and spirits.’

‘Sounds great then. See you later.’ Andy went over to another computer and sat down.

Terry left, glad to escape their presence. He was too afraid of losing his temper.

Since Sean’s engagement party and what happened next day, his mood was always volatile. After years of being amiable and even-tempered he had become aggressive again, just as he had been when he was young, but he could not risk losing his temper with Bernie’s son. Bernie would turn nasty if he did. When they met in Manchester, the old man had seemed a burnt-out case, a lion whose teeth had been drawn, but Terry was not deceived. Bernie would be a bad enemy to make.

He was a bad friend to have, come to that. Ruthless, acquisitive, greedy, he was going to eat into Terry’s company, if he could, but if they were still, on the surface, friends, he would not go too far. If Terry let his temper rip, though, Bernie might turn nasty and step up his demands, no longer feeling he needed to pretend or mask his intentions.

The strain of keeping calm was unbearable. He shut himself in his office and tried to concentrate on some work. His new secretary was not efficient; he had to check every letter she sent to make sure there were no spelling mistakes, bad grammar, stupid little errors of fact. She didn’t always get the name of the client right, and her filing was erratic, she was always losing documents. As he couldn’t shout at Andy Sutcliffe, he shouted at her all morning, reducing her close to tears several times.

‘Oh, don’t turn on the water works! Just get it right next time, and save me the trouble of telling you where you’ve made mistakes.’

She went off, sniffing, a delicate little handkerchief dabbing at her eyes and nose, but he sensed the angry resentment underneath. She would probably start looking for another job but Terry did not care. There were plenty more fish in the sea.

He got a call from his solicitor just before lunchtime. Edward Dearing sounded as weary and bored as usual.

‘How’s it going?’ Terry asked and Edward sighed.

‘They’ve broken for an hour, to eat lunch. They’ve sent sandwiches down for Sean, and a bottle of beer. I’ve gone across the road to eat a Chinese.’

‘How’s Sean bearing up?’

‘Not too well. To be frank, Terry, your son is far too aggressive with them, he keeps shouting. That never works. He’s making enemies.’

That didn’t surprise Terry, Sean was an arrogant, hot-headed young fool. But it worried him. How did you guard against the boy’s own folly?

‘What about the evidence? Do you think they’ve got anything we need worry about?’

Edward was dry. ‘Terry, they’ve got the body, and these days that can tell them a lot. Forensic evidence can make a case, and they have a lot of circumstantial evidence, too – that he was involved with the girl, that he had a strong motive for wanting to get rid of her. It all mounts up.’

‘Surely they can’t have much evidence from the body after all that time in the sea?’

‘I’m afraid so. They’ve got DNA evidence, proof of identity, and that carpet . . . they know where it came from. They’ve got photographs taken in your office flat that show an identical carpet, in the hallway. Do you know if any was left over, when it was laid? Was there a spare roll somewhere?’

‘In a cupboard, yes.’ No point in lying – they would only check with the cleaners and find out. It had been there ever since the flat was furnished.

‘And is it still there?’

‘I haven’t looked.’

‘Then do so, at once! We need to know exactly what we’re up against. Well, we’ll put up what defence we can, but, frankly, it isn’t looking too good. I think they’re going to charge him, perhaps today, maybe tomorrow – but the probability is they will charge him sooner or later.’

‘But even if they can prove he knew this girl, that he slept with her, and it was his baby she was carrying, that isn’t enough to prove he killed her. I can say I threw the carpet away.’

‘You will say you threw it away,’ Edward pointedly told him.

‘Yes, yes, that is what I’ll tell them.’

‘Hmm. They’ll want to know where you tipped it, and when. They’ll also be relying on the evidence of this witness, this girl who worked for you. She is the bedrock of their case, I think. She heard the murder, she links everything up. Have you found out where she is yet?’

‘She may be somewhere in Greece.’

‘Try and find her, Terry.’ A pause, then Edward said, ‘Of course you won’t threaten her, or anything. But we need to know exactly what she might say. Ah, my lunch has arrived. Beef in black bean sauce – smells great. I’ll talk to you tonight.’

Terry put down the phone and stared out of the window. He would have to go to Greece. Miranda was now even more of a danger. If Sean was charged her evidence would be vital to the police case.

He might be able to get away tomorrow; just for a few days. He had had a wonderful time in Greece last time he was there. The Manoussi family were charming and hospitable, he had loved being there.

It had been a culture shock for him, seeing how they lived, visiting the Athens museum, glimpsing the Greek past, the incredible statues, the gold, the beauty of ancient jewellery. It had all been so strange to him; the food, the buildings, the markets in that place . . . what was it called . . . the
agora
? Or had that been the old market, no longer in operation? He had loved the narrow alleys and lanes filled with stalls selling junk for tourists, reproductions of Greek vases, little statuettes, or selling army surplus boots, or fruit, or modern curtains. The noise, the bustle, the cheerful friendliness . . .

Oh, yes, he had loved Athens.

This time would be very different.

Miranda woke up next morning in a state of depression, hating, despising herself, for allowing Alex to use her the way he had. He must despise her, too. She had collapsed in front of him, like a crumbling wall – she had made it easy for him to take her then walk away.

How was she going to face him? She wasn’t hungry and skipped breakfast, walked into the office feeling very shy, wondering if people would be able to see what had happened between her and Alex. One of the other two girls was at reception as she passed, dealing with a telephone query. She waved a hand and winked at Miranda, who waved back, forcing a stiff smile.

As she passed the manager’s door she saw it was slightly ajar; she could hear Alex’s voice inside. Was he talking to Charles?

She paused, listening, to see if she could pick up Charles’ voice, and meaning to go in to talk to Alex, then realised Alex was talking on the phone. Through the open door she could glimpse the whole office. Alex was alone; standing by the window gazing out while he talked, one hand raking back his thick black hair.

‘Stop worrying,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept her here for you, haven’t I? She won’t get away – this is an island, remember? She’ll be here whenever you want her. Come over and get her any time.’

Miranda went cold, a frown etching itself between her brows. Who was he talking to?

No prizes for guessing who he was talking about. Her. He meant her.

What did he mean, he had kept her here and whomever he was talking to could come and get her any time?

‘Terry. Look,’ Alex said abruptly, then stopped, listening. ‘Right, OK, I’ll expect you. What flight will you be on? I’ll make sure you’re met. I’ll go back to Piraeus today.’

Miranda’s legs were trembling under her, she could barely walk, but she made it, somehow, to her own office, staggered to her desk and collapsed on to her chair.

Alex had betrayed her. Had lied to her all along, was in league with Terry. It had all been lies, his concern about her, his desire to keep her safe . . . oh, yes, safe until Terry could come and . . . and . . .

And Terry would kill her, to make sure she never gave evidence against his son.

Alex’s love-making, his passion, had all been phoney, a lie. She felt sick, remembering her own abandoned desire, the intensity of her own feelings. She had been cheated, deceived. Alex had made a fool of her. How could he be so heartless, luring her here and making love to her only to hand her over to Terry, knowing she would be killed?

The Angel of Death she had called him once.

Her intuition had been spot on; she had known from the beginning that he brought death, first to Tom, then to that poor girl who had been murdered by Sean – and now to her.

She heard footsteps, the outer door was flung open. Elena swayed through it, sinuous in a black suit with a low, plunging neckline and tight waist, a very short skirt that showed off her beautiful legs.

‘Oh,’ she said, looking around. ‘I’m looking for Mr Manoussi, where will I find him?’

‘The next door along the corridor.’

Elena left, not bothering to close the door behind her.

Miranda glared, hating her. She went to the door to shut it, and saw Elena open the door of the manager’s office, glimpsed her entwining herself with Alex, cooing up at him.

‘Darling Alex . . .’

He didn’t exactly push her away, either. ‘Good morning, Elena, how are you? I hope you slept well. I’m sorry but I’m busy. Maybe we could have lunch?’

Miranda shut her own door and sat down at her desk again. Her temples were throbbing with pain. A migraine, she felt it gathering, darkening her sight. She had been such a fool. She put both hands over her eyes, pressing her palms down.

She wished she were dead.

For a few minutes she sat, breathing slowly, feeling the aching in her head lessen. Then the door opened, and she let her hands drop, fought to appear calm.

Alex came over to her desk. ‘Good morning. How are you today?’ His voice was warm, held a hint of passion.

‘Fine,’ she said, her stomach churning with sickness and pain. How could he cheat, lie and pretend like that?

‘You look beautiful.’ He ran a hand over her hair, cupped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. ‘Every time I see you, I can’t believe how lovely you are. It’s going to be hell to leave you again. But I’ve got to, I’m afraid. I have some important business to deal with. I’m sailing back this morning.’

When he had gone, would Terry arrive to kill her? Fear choked her, fear and misery over Alex’s betrayal. She pulled her head away, refusing to look at him. How could he live with himself afterwards, knowing he had abandoned her to her fate? Or was he leaving so that he needn’t be here when she died? Maybe that was his version of a conscience? What he didn’t have to see he need not feel guilty about?

‘I’ll miss you, I hate to leave you,’ he said huskily. He was a consummate actor. Men could be such liars.

She couldn’t bring herself to answer him; she couldn’t pretend, the way he did.

‘I wish you would move back into the hotel so that it would be easier to keep an eye on you,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you do that while I’m away?’

She forced herself to answer that, her voice rusty. ‘No, I told you, I prefer to be independent.’ Why was he so insistent that she move back into the hotel? Was it because he knew Terry would come here and stay in the hotel, and having her under the same roof would make it so much easier for Terry to get at her?

‘You obstinate vixen!’ he said, sighing. ‘Well, I must go. I’ll ring you tomorrow to check up on you.’

He kissed her averted cheek, then was gone and she sat bleakly listening to his departing footsteps.