‘And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to upset Emir. He’s such a sweet little thing. And it’s his birthday tomorrow, and I was upset that I wouldn’t be here to organise it for him.’
‘On the subject of Emir,’ says Jackson. ‘He’s admitted to taking all the jewellery, including Garry’s watch by the way, and giving most of it to you. The family also say you’d already told them about it and had intended to return it all, along with the bak-sheesh.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The tips they gave you. The fact that the money is now missing is odd though.’
‘Another complication is your alibi,’ says the captain. ‘Both Astrid and Mehmet claim you were with them. You can’t be in two places at once, so, where were you last night?’
I blow out my cheeks. ‘It’s a bit hazy as to what time I got to bed but I think we were playing cards until maybe two in the morning? Again, absolutely nothing happened between Mehmet and me. It was purely about strategic play and the laws of probability,’ I emphasise for good measure, but Jackson is purposefully not making eye contact. I doubt whether he is finding my competitive streak appealing. ‘Ask all Mehmet’s relatives. They were there to the bitter end. And it wasn’t my fault that they had a sweepstake going as to how long I could last.’
‘The police think Shaun has something to do with it because he is saying he was with Tiffany, but she is claiming she had an early night which leaves him unaccounted for…’ Jackson trails off.
‘When really, he was probably with Astrid, but neither can admit it without Tiffany kicking off big time. So that’s why Astrid is saying she was with me.’
The captain’s gaze is ping-ponging back and forth between us as we try to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.
‘None of it makes sense. It’s infuriating. What are we missing?’ I furrow my brow and perch down on the bed. ‘What connects them? Did the two Turkish chefs see or hear anything? Did the police question them?’
‘They are not Turkish,’ the captain is quick to correct. ‘The tall skinny one is Greek, and the other is Armenian. Turkish is their common language. That stream of expletives you heard earlier was definitely Greek.’ He raises his eyes. ‘They love to call people wankers.’
Good to know.
‘So that’s no help,’ says Jackson. ‘Do either of them speak English?’
The captain shrugs. ‘Usually everybody these days speaks a little English but these guys, no. I only hear Turkish. Or Greek. He calls Garry a tosspot wanker and Garry repeats.’
Jackson screws his eyes. ‘So, Garry speaks a little Greek, does he?’
Again, the captain shrugs. ‘I suspect.’
‘I think I’ll go ask them a few questions.’
‘Want me to come?’ I ask. I’d like to be helpful, plus I’m keen to see this impressive sleuth in action. If it wasn’t my own life at stake, I’d be finding it all as riveting as Emir does.
‘I will need to go back upstairs. Guests are complaining, so I will put, how you say? Easy listening? My Tarkan cassette. It is very good. All the hits. You know it?’
‘Yeah, it’s great,’ I tell the captain politely. Tarkan is Turkey’s biggest popstar. His latest hit was played at least fifteen times an hour at the Halikarnas nightclub. ‘I have theNow That’s What I Call Music 25cassette in my Walkman. You can borrow it. Ace of Base and 4 Non Blondes. They’ll love it. Oh, and I have a mix tape that’s very mellow.’ It’s from my breakup with Dillon but the dreary ballads should be the perfect soundtrack to a miscarriage of justice.
As the three of us walk the short distance to the kitchen, the captain says something rapidly in Turkish to both chefs and turns to point at us before heading up the staff stairwell. They continue chopping tomatoes, coriander, ginger and garlic. Their knives are slicing through the ingredients with alarming speed. Neither looks up.
‘Merhaba.’ Jackson greets them in Turkish and (I deduce) asks them if they speak English. ‘Ingilizce biliyor musun?’
They exchange what I’d consider an odd look before shaking their heads and resuming their chopping. Jackson carries on undeterred. I can’t help but notice that throughout the two-minute, one-sided conversation, one of the chefs remains especially tight-lipped and feigns ignorance when Jackson is asking in rudimentary Turkish (which is very impressive and once again has my traitorous pelvis twanging like a guitar string) about Garry.
We leave empty-handed except for an uneasy feeling that something is up. As we climb the stairs, I turn to look over my shoulder at Jackson. ‘So, are we doing that whole ignoring each other thing once we get back on deck? In case… you know… people think I’m guilty and assume you’re in on it?’
He stops abruptly, a step behind me. Close enough for our bodies to be almost touching. His face is a few inches from mine, his eyes dark and serious. ‘I’m sorry I said that. It wasn’t a supportive thing to say. But I’m trying to remain impartial. That’s what I need to do in order to rule out all the suspects.’
‘You sound like you’ve done this before.’
Jackson’s cheeks colour.
‘This sort of thing has happened before?’ My voice is barely a whisper. I can’t believe this.
He maintains steady eye contact but refuses to answer.
‘What are you not telling me?’
