Leo nodded. He brought the end of the joint to his lips and inhaled deeply. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment. Then he slowly exhaled, managing not to cough, which impressed me. He handed me the joint.

  Then, without another word, Leo turned and walked down the stone steps, away from the house.

  Sensible chap, I thought. Braving the gale was infinitely safer than putting up with Kate’s current mood. Even so, he should watch his step.

  “Be careful,” I yelled after him. “The wind is really picking up.”

  Leo didn’t reply. He just kept walking.

  20

  Leo walked toward the water, to watch the waves, as the wind attacked the coastline. He followed the winding path down to the beach.

  The joint was hitting him now. He could feel his senses heighten. A delicious tingling feeling. Although Leo disapproved of alcohol—after all, he had spent his childhood witnessing its worst effects on his mother’s friends—he had become curious about weed. His drama teacher at school, Jeff, whom Leo deeply admired, said that getting stoned was good for an actor.

  “It unlocks chambers in the mind,” Jeff said. “Weed opens doors into rooms that should be explored.”

  This sounded intriguing—creative and inspiring. Leo hadn’t tried it only because he hadn’t had the opportunity. He was lying when he said all his friends smoked. Leo didn’t have that many friends, and the ones he did have were as responsible and rule abiding as he was. I was the only reprobate in his life.

  Wicked Uncle Elliot. Jolly good, glad to oblige.

  Sadly, what Leo was experiencing now, after a drag on the joint, he couldn’t describe as revelatory. He felt mellow and enjoyed the sensation of the wind rushing between his fingers and through his hair. But nothing else, nothing profound or spiritual.

  Leo took his shoes off and left them on the sand. He walked barefoot in the swirling surf, with the wind whistling in his ears.

  He lost track of time as he walked—it seemed to disappear, as if blown away by the gale. He felt oddly peaceful; at one with the wind and the waves churning up the sea.

  Then, suddenly, a dark cloud blew in front of the moon, lingering there. Everything was thrown into shadow. As if the lights had been turned off.

  Leo sensed something behind him. A pair of eyes, on the back of his head—and a creeping, crawling sensation on the back of his neck, making him shudder.

  He spun around—but couldn’t see anyone. Only the empty beach—and the black trees, shivering in the wind. No one was there. He was about to turn away—when he saw it.

  It was straight ahead, at the back of the beach, in the shadows of the trees. What was it? It didn’t look entirely human. Leo peered, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Was it an animal of some kind? The legs were the legs of a goat, or something like that—but it was standing upright. And on its head … were they horns?

  Leo remembered the island’s legendary ghost. Was this what he was witnessing? Or something more sinister? Something evil … a kind of devil?

  In that instant, he felt a terrifying premonition—Leo knew, with complete and utter certainty, that something terrible was about to happen, very, very soon—something horrific, and deadly; and he would be powerless to prevent it.

  Stop it. You’re stoned and paranoid, he told himself. That’s all.

  Leo shut his eyes and rubbed them, trying to unsee what he was seeing. Then, mercifully, the wind came to his aid—blowing the clouds from the moon. Moonlight illumined the scene like a floodlight, instantly dissolving Leo’s fantasy.

  The monster was revealed to be nothing but a collection of various interconnecting branches and foliage. Leo’s overactive imagination had drawn the dots together and assembled a devil. It wasn’t real, just a trick of the light. Even so, he was thoroughly spooked.

  And then—Leo grabbed his stomach. He groaned.

  Suddenly, he was feeling sick.

  21

  While we had been at the restaurant, Agathi had dealt with the two measly-looking wood pigeons Jason had shot that afternoon.

  She had sat at the kitchen table and begun the slow, patient plucking of the birds. She had been doing this since she was a girl, when her grandmother taught her. She had been reluctant to learn at first—it looked unpleasant, even gruesome.

  Don’t be silly, girl, her grandmother said, taking Agathi’s hands and placing them firmly on the bird. Doesn’t it feel nice, soft under the fingers?

  She was right, it did—and plucking these feathers, enjoying the sensation, the rhythmical movement, comforted by the memory of her yiayia, Agathi went into a meditative trance, listening to the wind. That wind, it was like the wrath of God. Appearing from nowhere—a lightning bolt from a clear blue sky. No warning. The fury—that’s what her grandmother called it. And she was right.

  Agathi remembered how the old woman would watch the gales from the kitchen window. She would clap in delight, applauding, as branches were ripped from trees and hurled through the air. As a child, Agathi used to believe her grandmother was somehow responsible for the violent gales; that she had conjured them up, by one of her spells, by one of her magic potions bubbling on the stove.

  Agathi’s eyes were suddenly wet with tears. She missed her, terribly—she’d give anything to have the old witch back, bury herself in those bony arms.

  Stop it, she thought. Stop thinking about the past so much.

  What was the matter with her? She pulled herself together and wiped the tears from her eyes, leaving fluff and traces of feathers on her cheeks. She was tired, she thought, that was all. Once she’d plucked the birds, she made herself a cup of mint tea and went upstairs to bed.

  She wanted to be asleep before the family returned from the restaurant. Years of experience had given Agathi a nose for trouble—she sensed something was in the air. If there was to be any drama, she wanted no part of it.

  In the end, Agathi fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. Her mint tea remained on the bedside table, untouched.

  * * *

  She wasn’t sure what woke her up.

  At first, while asleep, she became aware of voices downstairs—muffled voices, raised in argument. Then she dreamed Jason was looking for Lana, calling her name.

  Suddenly, Agathi realized it wasn’t a dream. It was real.

  “Lana!” Jason yelled.

  Agathi opened her eyes. She was instantly awake. She listened. There was no further shouting. Only silence.

  She got out of bed. She crept to the door—and opened it a crack. She peered out.

  Sure enough, at the end of the corridor, she saw Jason. He was emerging from Lana’s bedroom.

  Then Kate climbed up the stairs. She and Jason spoke to each other in low voices, barely audible. Agathi strained to hear.

  “I can’t find Lana,” said Jason. “I’m worried about her.”

  “What about me?”

  “Haven’t you had enough attention for one night?” Jason gave Kate a look of contempt. “Go to bed—”

  He tried to pass by her and they tussled for a second. He threw her aside with possibly more force than he intended. Kate lost her balance, clutching on to the banister for support.

  “You’re pathetic,” Jason said.

  Agathi silently shut the door. She stood there for a moment, feeling uneasy. Her instinct was to pull on her dressing gown and go in search of Lana. Yet something held her back. Better not to get involved. Go back to sleep, Agathi told herself.

  There had been similar evenings to this over the years, many dramatic scenes, often involving Kate, and they were always amicably resolved the following morning. No doubt Kate would sober up, apologize for whatever she had done. Lana would forgive her.

  Everything would go on as before.

  Yes, Agathi thought, yawning. Just go to bed.

  She lay down and tried to sleep. But the wind kept slamming her window shutters against the wall outside. It kept her from entering a deep sleep.

  Eventually, she got out of bed and closed the shutters. After that, she slept soundly for an hour or so—perhaps longer—until once again her sleep was interrupted.

  The shutters were banging against the wall:

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Opening her eyes, Agathi suddenly realized it couldn’t be the shutters banging. She had locked them. It took her a second to work out what she had just heard.

  It was gunfire.

  Agathi’s heart was racing as she hurried out of her bedroom, and she rushed downstairs. She ran out the back door.

  The wind was fierce but she barely noticed it. She heard other footsteps nearby, bare feet thudding on the earth, but she didn’t look around. She focused on running, racing in the direction of the sound.

  She had to get there, she had to prove to herself she was imagining it, that she was wrong, that nothing terrible had happened.

  Finally, she reached the clearing beyond the olive grove. She reached the ruin.

  And on the ground was a body.

  A woman’s body—in a pool of blood. The face was in shadow. Three bullet wounds on the front of the dress. A deep red shawl around her shoulders; red turning black, as it soaked up blood.

  Leo got there just before Agathi. He peered at the body, as if he needed to make sure who it was. Then he let out a horrible, strangled scream.

  I arrived then—the same time as Jason. I ran over and knelt by the body, grabbing the wrist, desperately feeling for a pulse. It was difficult—Leo was in my way, cradling her; he wouldn’t let go. He was covered in blood, burying his face in her hair, clinging to her, sobbing. I tried and failed to disentangle her from him.

  Jason attempted to take charge. But he sounded lost, and afraid. “What happened? What the fuck happened—? Elliot?”

  “She’s gone.” I shook my head. “She’s—gone.…”

  “What?”

  “She’s dead.” I lowered her wrist, fighting tears. “Lana’s dead.”

  ACT II

  Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend.

  —AGATHA CHRISTIE, The Mysterious Affair at Styles

  1

  I still can’t believe she’s gone.

  Even now, after all this time, it doesn’t feel real. Sometimes I think if I were to shut my eyes, I could reach out and touch her—as if she were sitting right next to me. But Lana’s not here. She’s in a different galaxy, light-years out of reach, getting further away by the second.

  I read somewhere that hell has always been misrepresented. It is not a burning pit, full of fiery torments. In fact, hell is just an absence, a banishment from God’s presence. To be removed from Him is hell itself. And so I’m in hell. Condemned to dwell forever in some empty place—away from Lana’s radiance, away from her light.

  I know, I know—I must cease this maudlin self-pity. It does no one any good—Lana least of all. It’s me I’m feeling sorry for—this poor wretch who must live without her.

  In one sense, I still possess her. Lana lives on forever, immortalized in her movies; eternally young, eternally beautiful—while we mortals grow older, uglier, and sadder every day. But that’s the difference between two and three dimensions, isn’t it? As Lana exists now, preserved in celluloid, she’s only to be gazed at. Not touched. Not held; not kissed.

  So, it seems Barbara West was right in the end (though in an entirely different way from how she meant) when she said to me spitefully one day, “Darling, I do hope you’re not falling in love with Lana Farrar. Actors simply aren’t capable of love. You’re much better off hanging a picture of her on your wall and having a wank over it.”

  Funnily enough, I have a photograph of Lana here with me on my desk as I write. It’s an old publicity still—slightly aged, curling at the edges, faded and yellowed. It was taken a few years before I met Lana. Before I ruined her life, and my own.

  But, no—that’s not fair.

  My life was ruined already.

  2

  Okay, I have something to tell you.

  Before I can go any further, before I can reveal who committed the murder—and, more important, why—I have a confession of my own to make.

  It’s about Lana.

  There is so much I could say about her. I could tell you how much I loved her. I could reminisce about our friendship, regaling you with stories and anecdotes. I could romanticize her, mythologize her—paint you an artist’s flattering impression, idealized beyond recognition.

  But that would be a disservice to you—and to Lana. What’s required, if I have the stomach for it, is a “warts and all” portrait, like the one Oliver Cromwell famously demanded. What’s needed is the truth.

  And the truth is, much as I loved her, Lana wasn’t quite the person I believed she was. She had many secrets, it seems, even from those closest to her. Even from me.

  But let’s not judge her too harshly for that. We all keep secrets from our friends, don’t we? I know I do.

  Which brings me to my confession.

  Believe me, it’s not easy. I hate pulling the rug out from under you like this. All I ask is that you hear me out.

  Here, in the imaginary bar in my mind, where I’m talking to you, I’ll order you another drink—and tell you to brace yourself. I’ll have one, too—not a perfect martini like in the old days; just a quick slug of vodka, cheap stuff that burns the throat.

  I need it, you see, to steady my nerves.

  When I first began writing this account, I promised you I would tell only the truth. But the thing is, looking back over what I have written, it occurs to me that I may have misled you over a few points, here and there.

  I have told you no actual lies, I assure you—it’s a sin of omission, that’s all.

  I’ve told you nothing but the truth.

  Just not all of it.

  I did this from an honorable motive: the desire to protect my friend; not to betray her confidence. But unless I do, you will never understand what happened on the island.

  So, I must rectify this error. I must tell you things you need to know, fill in certain gaps. I must reveal all of Lana’s secrets.

  And mine, too, for that matter.

  That’s the tricky thing about honesty. It cuts both ways, that sword; which is why I am so wary of wielding it.

  Here goes.

  * * *

  To begin with, I must turn back time.

  Do you remember when you first encountered Lana, on the street in London?

  Let us return there, for a moment. Let us go back to that miserable day in Soho—and the rainfall that prompted Lana to make the spontaneous decision to flee the English weather, for a few days in sunny Greece.

  I suppose my first, and most grievous, omission, when I began telling this story, was in allowing you to assume that once she made this decision, Lana immediately phoned Kate at the Old Vic—to invite her to the island.

  But, in fact, twenty-four hours elapsed before Lana made that call.

  Twenty-four hours, during which, as you shall see, a great deal happened.

  3

  Lana was walking on Greek Street, appropriately enough, when she had the idea about going to the island. But the moment she pulled out her phone to call Kate, to invite her to the island, the rain started coming down heavily. A sudden deluge.

  Lana quickly returned the phone to her pocket and hurried home.

  No one was in the house when she let herself in. She dried herself off as best she could. She’d have a bath, she decided, once she’d had a cup of tea.

  Lana had only picked up the habit of tea drinking since moving to London. Endless comforting cups of hot tea in this damp, depressing climate made perfect sense. She brewed a pot of Earl Grey and perched on the window seat; watching the rain fall outside.

  Lana’s mind went back on the same track it had been on earlier. Back to what was bothering her. She was determined to work it out. If she kept puzzling over it, she felt sure the answer would unearth itself.

  Once again, Leo popped into her mind. Why? Did this anxious feeling have something to do with him? With that awkward conversation they’d had, a few days earlier, here, in this kitchen?

  * * *

  “Mum, I’ve got something to tell you,” Leo said.

  Lana braced herself. “Go on.”

  She didn’t know what she was expecting—some typical teenage confession involving sexuality, addiction, or religion? None of these possibilities bothered her. They’d work it out together, the way they always had. Lana had never given her son anything other than 100 percent support in anything he did.

  “I want to be an actor.”

  Lana was taken aback. This was a shock. Not just the words that had come out of Leo’s mouth—which she hadn’t anticipated—but also her reaction, which was instantly, violently hostile. She suddenly felt angry.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Leo stared at her blankly. He didn’t know how to respond. He looked like he might burst into tears. The conversation went downhill from there. Lana’s response had surprised and hurt him. Leo wasted no breath in telling her so: she was being “toxic”—and he didn’t understand why.

  Lana tried to explain that it was her duty as a parent to try to dissuade him. Acting was a waste of all the advantages and opportunities he had been given. An extraordinary education, a natural scholarly aptitude and intelligence; as well as his mother’s contacts—many of the world’s most influential people’s numbers were on her phone, just a call away.

  Wouldn’t Leo be much better off going to university—here in Britain, or in America—and qualifying as something more substantial? Last year he had expressed an interest in human rights law—surely something like that would suit him better? Or medicine? Or psychology, or philosophy? Anything … but an actor.