“Lucky girl,” said Janet, unthinkingly.
“Not really,” said Zarpas, solemnly. “He’s got syphilis. It’ll take some time to see whether she has, too.”
Janet tried to think of something to say and couldn’t.
Zarpas said: “We’ll need you to make out a formal complaint for a charge to be brought.”
“What about the Australian girl?”
“She thinks she’s contracted venereal disease,” reminded the policeman. “She’s making every accusation she can think of.”
“So you’ve got a case?”
Zarpas stared pointedly at her. “Don’t be stupid!”
“No,” said Janet, determinedly. The publicity could be dangerous for John: and make her look naive, too. Stupid, like the man was already accusing her of being but for different reasons.
“It’s?5000!”
Janet said nothing.
“If you don’t make out a formal complaint you can’t recover the ?3000 we’ve got back!”
“What about the others who were tricked?”
“They wouldn’t formally complain, either.”
“Neither will I,” said Janet, stubbornly.
“We’ll try to spare you as much embarrassment as possible,” Zarpas promised, probing for her reluctance.
“I won’t do it.”
“Whatever accusations the other woman makes, the maximum Nicos could get is a year. Which he won’t: it’ll be six months top, more likely three,” set out Zarpas. “With a charge of willful deception in the sum of?5000, which we could bring if you complain, I could get the whole family off the streets for more than a year.”
Janet shook her head, her mouth tight together.
The silence echoed between them. Zarpas broke it. “I felt sorry for you, the first time. Didn’t like bullying you, although I had to. You know my feelings now? I despise you, Mrs. Stone. I think you are a spoiled, rich, stupid woman posturing like someone out of a cheap book.”
“I’m not any of that,” Janet tried, in weak defense.
“Get out of Cyprus. We don’t want you here; won’t have you here. Have you ever heard of an expression called stitching up?”
“No.”
“It’s what policemen do when they know someone is guilty but can’t prove it: they arrange incontrovertible evidence to get a conviction on something else,” elaborated Zarpas. “That’s what I’m prepared to do with you. I’m prepared to fix a reason to get you expelled from this island if you don’t leave under your own volition. I actually want to stitch you up.”
“No!” Janet shouted, careless of the looks that came from around the pool. Thirty minutes later, after their hostile parting, Janet lay face down on her bed, weeping uncontrollably for the first time since Sheridan’s kidnap, both hands clutching her pillow and pulling it into her face.
“How!” she said. “How!”
15
J anet was lying stiffly on her back, her eyes open, when the maid came into the room in the morning and for several moments the girl didn’t realize the room-or the bed-was occupied, so still was Janet. The maid gave a tiny mew of surprise and backed away apologizing, giggling near the door in her embarrassment. Janet remained where she was, scarcely aware of the intrusion; scarcely, after another near-sleepless night, aware of anything. She’d gone through all the emotions-anger and frustration and helplessness and despair and back to anger again-until now she was used up, quite empty. Wrong to be that way, she told herself. That was how she had collapsed when Hank had died. When she’d given up. Wouldn’t give up this time: it would be weak-womanlike tried to intrude into her mind but she refused to let it-to give up. So she’d been conned. Always a possibility: she’d actually be warned against it. But it would be immature to accept the first setback as a disaster and give up again, although in a different way. What, realistically, had she lost? Five thousand pounds. A lot of money but not the end of the world: certainly not the end of John Sheridan’s life. Also, she supposed, she’d lost face and credibility in the eyes of a Cyprus policeman and about that she couldn’t give a shit, apart from the difficulty that his threat might cause her. She simply had to try again.
Janet got out of bed and spent a long time under the shower, trying to wash away the lingering disappointment. By ten she’d had another hire car delivered and by ten-thirty she was on the road to Larnaca, not bothering with the attempts of the previous journey to spot any cars which might be following her because she’d already accepted the futility of that.
In Larnaca, still unsure how to proceed, Janet decided upon more reconnaissance. Because the Arab boatworker had told her the Byzantium restaurant was away from the center of the town she drove on to locate Artemis Avenue and then the gathering spot that had been identified to her. Although it was nearly lunchtime it appeared practically deserted: the nightclub annex, obviously, was shuttered and unlit. Janet made a three-point turn, to drive back in the direction of the town center, but when she asked directions she discovered that the Sanacosta was even further away, on the Dhekelia Road along which the Kholi family had taken her to soften her up for the deception. As she passed the Palm Beach Hotel Janet became aware that she was actually blushing, embarrassed at how easily she’d been tricked. Practically deserved it, in fact. Right, then, to feel embarrassed, but the other feelings of that long night hadn’t been necessary. The Sanacosta seemed even more deserted than the restaurant on Artemis Avenue and Janet reluctantly saw that if she were going to attempt contact in either she would have to wait until the evening.
She returned to the town center and left the vehicle as before in the Othello Cinema car park. The Rainbow was busy although not as crowded as the Marina Pub had been.
Janet ordered kokkineli and remained standing at the bar, gazing around. This was not really the way, she forced herself to admit. This was the way to get laughed at or conned again, maybe, but without a better sort of introduction-the proper sort of introduction, by someone who knew the right people-she was wasting her time. Imagining movement was productive activity, in fact.
Who then? She didn’t know anyone apart from the hostile, unnamed American and he certainly wasn’t going to provide any introductions. Yes, she did know someone!
Janet gulped at her drink and then decided she did not want to finish it anyway, leaving her glass half-filled on the bar. She hurried out into Kitieus Street and walked around the square, to the marina, not able from the level at which she was walking to establish whether the Sea Mist was still at its moorings. She glanced along the earlier pontoon as she hurried by and saw that the English yacht and its bikini-clad sunbather had gone. With two pontoons still to go Janet faltered and then stopped, able to see now the other mooring she was seeking. The space was occupied by a different vessel, a high-bridged motor-cruiser, big game lines upright in their prepared sockets, two fighting seats still with their belts and harnesses in the stern. She could not see anyone aboard but some sort of motor was running, pumping bilge water out in little spurts.
Disappointment rose within her. She remained where she was for several moments and then turned back towards the entrance to the marina. And saw him.
The Arab was just beyond the marina wire, looking away in the direction of the pier, as if he were searching for someone. He wore the same stained T-shirt as before. She hurried along the slatted, heaving pontoon, anxious he should not walk away before she reached him. Almost within hailing distance he looked into the marina and saw her, too. His face opened, in frowned recognition.