Heart leaping into my throat, I reached behind me, drew the Beretta in one fluid motion, slipped off the safety, turned fast, crouched low to reduce my size as a target, spread my feet, raised the weapon as a direct extension of my right arm and crooked my finger round the trigger – exactly as they had taught me so many years ago when I was young and didn’t know yet what it was like to kill a man and see the faces of his two young girls in my dreams.
A different man, a less troubled man, would have shot. Instead, I hesitated and looked down the barrel and saw a barefoot woman dressed in black – which was appropriate, given that she was newly widowed. It was Cameron.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she asked, trying to appear calm in the gloom, but the gun had scared her and she couldn’t stop her hand from shaking.
I holstered it. ‘My name is Brodie Wilson. I’m—’
‘The FBI guy? Cumali, the Turkish cop, said they were sending someone.’
‘Yes.’
‘The FBI always walks into people’s houses unannounced?’
‘I apologize,’ I replied. ‘I was under the impression it was empty. I came to look around.’
Her hand had stopped shaking, but she was still rattled and she pulled out a cigarette. But she didn’t light it – it was one of those electronic jobs favoured by people trying to kick the habit. She let it dangle from her elegant fingers. ‘Does the FBI normally investigate accidents? Who asked you to come to Bodrum?’
‘One of your husband’s lawyers or trustees, I believe.’
‘That figures,’ she said. ‘Who was it – Fairfax, Resnick, Porter?’
It seemed from her list there were a lot of her husband’s circle who didn’t approve of a sales assistant – even if it was Prada – hitting the jackpot. ‘I don’t know,’ I said.
She laughed, without any humour. ‘You wouldn’t tell me even if you did, would you?’
‘No,’ I replied.
She took a drag from the electronic cigarette. From anybody else, it would have appeared ridiculous. ‘The house looked deserted,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about the gun, but you surprised me.’
She didn’t bother answering. I got the feeling she was sizing me up. ‘How did you get on to the estate?’ I asked, trying to keep the question as casual as possible.
‘What do you mean?’ she replied.
‘I came through the front gate – there weren’t any cars parked there and the cop on duty didn’t say anything about you being at home.’
‘Our boat is moored in the bay – that’s where I’ve been staying since the accident. One of the dinghies brought me over and I walked up the steps.’
She must have seen a shadow of doubt cross my face, because she shrugged. ‘The dinghy is in the boathouse. The crewman is still down there – go and ask him if you want.’
‘Of course not,’ I replied. ‘It’s your house, you can do whatever you like. That was you up on the terrace, was it?’
She hesitated. ‘I didn’t realize you were watching.’
‘I was down on the lawn – I couldn’t be sure, I thought I saw a shadow.’
‘A shutter was blowing in the wind,’ she replied.
I turned quickly – from somewhere far away, I thought I heard a door close. ‘Is there somebody else in the house?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I thought I heard …’ I listened harder, but I couldn’t catch it. Everything was silent.
‘It’s an old house,’ she explained. ‘If the wind hits from the south it comes up through the basement.’ She started to turn lamps on. I couldn’t tell whether it was to distract me or because she was genuinely tired of the dark.
In the soft light I saw her clearly. Jack Lemmon once said of Marilyn Monroe that she was lightning in a bottle. He could have been describing Cameron. Willowy and athletic, her skin so fine it seemed to reflect light, I realized it then – and saw it several times later: she had a way of tilting her head and sharpening her eyes that made whoever she was talking to think they were the only person in the room, if not the world.
She was smart too – I knew because I had read a transcript of the interview which the Bodrum cops had conducted with her on the night of the so-called accident. Told she wasn’t allowed to have a lawyer present, trying to understand a translator’s fractured English, exhausted and alone, she remained polite and helpful throughout the hours of questioning. Lose your temper in Turkey and – guilty or not – you could find yourself in a world of trouble. Intelligent and self-possessed – remember that, I thought.