The door was reinforced with bands of iron and a tiny grille gave a limited view of the corridor. From the direction of the office he could hear the low murmur of voices.
He wrapped a blanket around his body against the bitter cold that seeped through his damp clothing and smoked one of the cigarettes Kytros had given him.
Through the bars of the window he could see the blue-black night sky and a scattering of stars and in the distance thunder rumbled again. He got to his feet and moved to the window and far out to sea lightning flickered below the horizon.
A step sounded in the corridor. As he turned, Stavrou the gaoler, a tall, thick-set man in crumpled khaki uniform, unlocked the door.
Lomax dropped the blanket on the bed and moved into the corridor. “Now what?”
“The sergeant’s been having a word with Father John,” Stavrou said. “The old man wants to have a word with you before he goes.”
The office was a place of shadows, its only illumination the green shaded lamp on the desk. Father John sat beside it, a hand to his brow, as Kytros stood at the window. As Lomax paused in the doorway, the old man turned his head sharply.
For a long moment there was silence between them and then he pushed himself to Ms feet. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I shouldn’t imagine so,” Lomax said.
“Sergeant Kytros tells me you have accused Alexias JPavlo in this matter,” the priest said calmly.
“And you don’t think him capable, I suppose?” Lomax said.
“Of killing?” Father John shrugged. “The Devil is in each one of us. However, this evening, Alexias Pavlo was where he has been every Thursday night for years. Playing chess at my home until nine-thirty.”
“That still gave him enough time,” Lomax said stubbornly.
The old man shook his head. “I hardly think so.”
At that moment a stone rattled against the shutters that covered the window. “They’re beginning to get nasty,” Kytros said.
Father John and Lomax moved to join him. Through the narrow slats of the shutters Lomax saw twenty or thirty people standing in small groups, some talking, others just looking towards the police station.
“What do they want?” he said.
“You, I should imagine,” Kytros replied calmly.
“It will be a long time before the island sees the end of this night’s work,” Father John said, pulling his cloak over his shoulders.
“And naturally, I’m to blame?” Lomax said.
“To say with certainty where responsibility lies for anything in this life is difficult,” the old man said. “I am only sure of this: Two men are dead. You should have left on the boat, Mr. Lomax. I see now that we should have compelled you to go.”
Lomax sat down and helped himself to a cigarette from a packet on the desk. “It would have been so damned convenient for you all, Father. You could have gone on pretending that I was to blame. That the man responsible for so much evil wasn’t one of your own people.”
The old man looked at him, a slight puzzled frown oa Ms face. For a moment he seemed about to speak and then appeared to think better of it.
He turned to Kytros. “I must go now. I’ve still to visit the parents of Nikita Samos.”
“Thank you for coming, Father,” Kytros said.
“I’ll order the people outside to go to their homes,” the old man went on. “If you need me later, don’t hesitate to call.”
He turned again to Lomax, hesitated and then went to the door. As it closed behind him, Kytros moved to the window. After a while, he gave a grunt of satisfaction.
“Are they going?” Lomax asked.
“For the moment, but they’ll be back.”
Stavrou busied himself at a table in the shadows where a pot bubbled on a small spirit stove. He filled two cups and brought them to the desk and Lomax inhaled the fragrance of good coffee. It was hot and scalding, filling him with new life, and he sighed with pleasure and lit another cigarette.
Kytros sat on the other side of the desk. He inserted a Turkish cigarette into a plain silver holder and lit it. He leaned back so that he was on the edge of the circle of light, his face in shadow.