At least in prison she would be safe—safe from Mike …
Hysteria beaded within her, but she crushed it down. Crushed down everything—all thought, all emotion. Everything was over. Everything was finished. Her life would be destroyed—just as her mother’s had been, her grandmother’s before her. There was no way out now—not from what she’d done.
Now she was answering the officer’s questions—name, date of birth, address—numbly, docilely. Because what else was there to do? Nothing could save her now. Only a miracle. And they didn’t happen. They never happened.
A policeman was walking into the station—yellow reflective coat on, boots and a helmet. A traffic cop. He walked up to the desk. Face sombre.
‘What’s up?’ asked the sergeant.
‘Nasty business—just happened,’ said the traffic cop, shaking his head. ‘Motorbike speeding—skidded and smashed head-first into a wall. Just round the corner from here. Rider dead on impact. The ambulance is there now, taking the body away.’
‘Any ID?’ asked the sergeant.
The traffic cop dropped a driving licence on to the desk. Kat’s eyes went to the photo. The world stopped moving. It was Mike.
For a timeless instant she could only stare. Not daring to believe.
Not daring to believe in miracles.
Then, as if an electric charge had jolted through her, she knew what she must do. What she had to do to save herself—to save herself from the pit of destruction that was opening beneath her feet.
There was a way to save herself—if she took it—if she snatched at it—snatched at the lie that glowed in front of her like a lifeline. She could use it to haul herself out of the pit that was swallowing her up even as she sat there, waiting to be charged with theft, to have her life ruined, destroyed—over. Her brain was working feverishly, desperately. She had to do this—she had to! It was her only chance.
She had to become the person she had been in that nightmare moment in the suite, when her hand had closed over the watch. Ruthless, desperate.
She took a breath—jagged in her thro
at—opened her mouth, touched the sleeve of the policeman taking down her details. Interrupting him.
She made her voice match the lie—the lie that might save her skin. Save herself from prison. From having her life destroyed.
‘Officer,’ she husked, ‘I need to speak to you … discreetly …’
Angelos’s mobile rang. He answered it immediately.
‘Yes?’ he barked. His limo was paused at traffic lights, the chauffeur revving the engine expectantly. The blue light of the police station was visible a short way beyond.
There was a pause. Then, ‘She’s saying what?’
The policemen, his voice impassive, repeated what he had just said. ‘Miss Jones is denying absolutely that she is in possession of stolen property. She is saying,’ he went on, his tone studiedly deadpan, ‘that you gave her the watch as a present, sir.’ He paused slightly, choosing his words with care. ‘A personal present. Following her visit to your suite this evening.’
He let the words sink in, then resumed. ‘In the circumstances, therefore, Mr Petrakos, we would advise you that we will not be charging Miss Jones. It would, after all, be your word against hers. Especially considering that as I understand it she has a witness in a hotel employee who saw she was there with your consent, and that you were offering her hospitality. Moreover, Miss Jones says she appreciates you may have changed your mind about making her such a generous gift, and has returned it. We have therefore discharged Miss Jones, and your watch is now in safe custody, awaiting collection.’
Angelos’s grip tightened. The beds of his fingernails were white. White the lines around his mouth.
Then, ‘Thank you, officer,’ he said. ‘I will be there shortly.’
There was nothing in his voice. Nothing at all.
As the limo glided smoothly forward, approaching the police station, he could see a tall, slim figure pause at the entrance, start to walk down the steps. The limo pulled into the car park.
He was out of the car before she had set foot on the pavement. Blocking her way. He seized her arm. It was as if an iron claw had closed around it. She stared blindly up into Angelos Petrakos’s murderous face.
For one endless moment he just stared down at her.
Then slowly, each word dragged from him, he spoke.
‘You try and sell me your body, and when I don’t buy, you dare—you dare—to steal from me! And then you slime your way out of it by lying about me! No one—no one—steals from me and lies their way out of it by slandering me, accusing me of paying for sex!’ His eyes sliced her, sharper than a razorblade. ‘Enjoy this moment—it’s all you’ll have. You’re finished.’