‘Go on. This is what we need. You’re doing well.’
‘I was close to the door, and he was coming towards me slowly. I thought I’d have time to get out before he got to me, but the door was locked. He must have locked it when he first came in. I couldn’t unlock it, not at the same time as keeping the gun on him, and if I didn’t do that …’
‘I understand.’
‘He was coming closer. I couldn’t get away. There was nowhere for me to go. I knew he was going to kill me if I didn’t do something, so I aimed the gun at his right arm – or I thought I did. I never meant to hit his head.’
‘You’ve never fired a gun before?’
‘No. Never.’
‘Then the odds were against you hitting him at all. How much distance would you say there was between you when you fired that shot?’
‘I don’t know. The closer he got, the more scared I was. I fired when I knew …’
‘It’s okay. Take your time.’
‘When I knew that if he came any nearer I’d freeze and it’d be too late. I remember thinking, “Soon he’ll be too close and there’ll be no point.” I shouted at him not to do it, not to kill me—’
‘Excuse the interruption. You were the one holding the gun, and Mr Braid was not yet close enough to reach you, andyoushouted “Don’t kill me”?’
‘I told you: he was walking towards me with a knife. Holding it like this.’
‘But you had a gun. Wasn’t he worried you’d kill him? I mean, that’s what happened, yes? You killed him.’
‘No, he wasn’t worried. He still totally believed he was going to walk away without a scratch after killing me and Flora. He didn’t think I’d ever fire the gun. He thought I was too weak. So did I, until I did it.’
‘All right. Thank you, Mrs Leeson. We’ll let you have a little rest, maybe call your family in England. And then – I’m sorry, but it’s necessary – you’re going to need to go back a little further and talk me through all this from the very beginning. How it all started.’
Epilogue
Four months later
The narrow road winds around and around, perilous zig-zag corners all the way up the hill. Every so often we pass a large pile of rubbish, bagged in multi-coloured plastic sacks, that’s been dumped by the side of the road and left to rot in the sun. There’s a strike going on according to Dom. I don’t know how he knows anything about the work disputes of Corfiot refuse collectors; I never got to find out. When he started to tell us, Ben and Zannah both groaned and put their earphones in, and he gave up with a sigh.
‘How can there be any more turns?’ he asks. ‘I mean … this is it. We’re at the top. But I think I’m supposed to turn right again here. Didn’t Flora’s email say turn right at the Lavandula bar?’
‘Yeah. We must be nearly … Look, there. There’s a sign saying “Villa Agathi”, with an arrow.’
‘Okay,’ Dom says in a low voice. He sounds as if he’s readying himself for an ordeal.
‘It’ll be fine,’ I tell him.
‘Will it?’
‘Yes. The kids aren’t worried.’ I adjust our hire car’s rear-view mirror and inspect each of them in turn. They’re half asleep, undisturbed by the loud music that’s pouring into their ears.
‘What are you expecting to happen?’ I ask Dom.
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the bumpy track ahead.
‘We’re not going to walk into an awful scene of pain and anguish. Is that what you’re worried about?’
‘I wouldn’t say I’m worried, exactly.’
‘It’ll be fine. They’re on holiday.’
‘We’re not, though. Are we?’
