by Simon Brett
“Wasn’t sure what you wanted. Try some of this?” Mrs. Pargeter proffered the retsina bottle.
Joyce sniffed the contents and grimaced. “No, thank you.” She looked round and was immediately rewarded by the approach of a young waiter, carrying paper cloths and a metal holder for oil, vinegar, salt, pepper and toothpicks. “Could you get me a drink, please?”
“Yes, please.” Deftly he lifted the retsina bottle and glasses, slipped the paper cloth under them onto the polythene-covered tabletop and snapped its corners secure under elastic cords. “What you like, please?”
“An ouzo.”
“An ouzo, of course, please. No problem.”
“Thank you. Can I ask what your name is?”
“Name, please? I am Yianni, please.”
He flashed an even-toothed smile and whisked away, his improbably slim hips gliding easily between the tables.
“Hm, how do you get one like that?” Joyce asked wistfully.
“I hadn’t thought of you as on the lookout for a toyboy,” said Mrs. Pargeter.
“Chance’d be a fine thing. No, first time in my life that I’d be free to have a toyboy, and now I’m fiftysomething and stringy, so nobody’s going to be interested.”
“Oh, well . . .” Mrs. Pargeter shrugged philosophically. “That’s the way things go. I once heard someone say that experience is the comb life gives you after you’ve lost your hair.”
“Sickening, isn’t it? Trouble is, Melita, when you actually do have the freedom, you don’t realize it. I mean, when I was about twenty I could have been having a whale of a time, lots of affairs, no strings, but did I? No, I just spent all my time worrying because nobody appeared to want to marry me. Didn’t you find that?”
“Well, not exactly.” Mrs. Pargeter didn’t really want to elaborate. In fact, she had had a vibrantly exciting sex life before she met the late Mr. Pargeter—and indeed a vibrantly exciting sex life throughout their marriage—but she had always believed that sex was a subject of exclusive interest to the participants.
Joyce was fortunately prevented from asking for elaboration by the arrival of Yianni with her ouzo. She diluted it from the accompanying glass of water, watched with satisfaction as the transparent liquid clouded to milky whiteness and took a long swallow, before continuing her monologue. “Conchita’s just the same as I was. I mean, there my daughter is, lovely girl, early twenties, successful career, could have any man she wants, and what does she do? She keeps falling for bastards—married men, usually—and keeps getting her heart broken when they won’t leave their wives and set up home with her. Why does that happen?”
“In my experience,” said Mrs. Pargeter judiciously, “women who always go after unsuitable men do so because deep down they don’t really want to commit themselves.”
“Huh,” said Joyce. “Well, I just wish Conchita’d settle down and get married.”
“Why? Do you really think marriage is the perfect solution?”
“I don’t know. I just think life is generally a pretty dreadful business and maybe it’s easier if there are two of you trying to cope with it.”
This seemed to Mrs. Pargeter an unnecessarily pessimistic worldview. She had never regarded life as an imposition, rather as an unrivaled cellarful of opportunity to be relished to the last drop. Probably it was just bereavement had made her friend so negative.
“I don’t know, though,” Joyce went on, digging herself deeper into her trough of gloom. “How much do you ever know about other people? I mean, you think you’re close, you live with someone, sleep with them for twenty-five years, then they die and you realize you never knew them at all. I don’t think you ever really know anything about another person.”
This made Mrs. Pargeter think. It did not make her question her own marriage—she had never doubted that she and the late Mr. Pargeter had known each other through and through—but it did make her ask herself how much she knew about Joyce Dover.
The answer quickly came back—not a great deal. Mrs. Pargeter had met Joyce some fifteen years before in Chigwell, during one of those periods when the late Mr. Pargeter had had to be away from home for a while. Joyce’s husband, Chris, it transpired, was also away at the time (though on very different business), and she and their daughter Conchita, then a tiny black-eyed eight-year-old, were living in a rented house till his return. The two women had seen a lot of each other for three months, and kept in touch intermittently since.
Though there was a ten-year age difference between them, they had got on from the start, without ever knowing a great deal about each other’s backgrounds. Joyce, Mrs. Pargeter was told, had always lived in London. Her husband Chris had been born in Uruguay, but, politically disaffected with the governing regime, had fled to England in his late teens. He had made a success of some kind of export business (dealing chiefly with Africa) and had, from all accounts, turned himself into the perfect English gentleman. His origins were betrayed only in details like his daughter’s unusual Christian name. That was all Mrs. Pargeter had ever known about the life and business of Chris Dover.
And she had seen to it that his wife Joyce knew even less about the life and business of the late Mr. Pargeter.
Joyce maundered on, but Mrs. Pargeter only half listened. The retsina was as welcome as ever, and in the soft, warm breeze that flowed off the sea, lulled by the recorded strumming of bouzoukis, she started to relax. It had been a tiring day, and the prospect of a lethargic fortnight in the sun became very appealing. There was always, Mrs. Pargeter found, something seductive about being in a new place. So many exciting details to find out when you start from total ignorance. Yes, she was going to enjoy herself in Agios Nikitas. Very relaxing, she thought, to be in a place where I know no one, and no one knows me.
Which was why she was so surprised to hear a voice saying, “Ah, good evening. Mrs. Pargeter, isn’t it . . . ?”
chapter
FOUR
* * *
The man she looked up to see was a creature of contradictions. The voice that addressed her had been thick cockney, but its owner looked typically Greek. Heavy Mediterranean features seemed at odds with the thinness of his body, and this incongruity was accentuated by the flapping tourist uniform of brightly colored shorts and T-shirt. Sticklike legs ended in sports socks and improbable silver-gray trainers. He looked like a Greek trying to pass himself off as an English holidaymaker.
Responding to the blankness in her eyes, the man immediately identified himself. “Larry Lambeth. I used to work with your late husband.”
That explained everything. The late Mr. Pargeter’s business interests had been wide and had involved acquaintanceship with people from a variety of backgrounds. Since he was a great believer in the separation of his domestic and professional lives, there were many of his contacts whom Mrs. Pargeter had never met and she had become accustomed—particularly since her husband’s death—to encounters of this kind with people she had never seen before.
“Do join us, please, Mr. Lambeth. Can I get you a drink?”
“Allow me.” He called across to a waiter in fluent Greek, then sat down.
After introducing Joyce, Mrs. Pargeter asked the question that was uppermost in her mind. “I’m delighted to meet you, but how on earth did you know I was going to be here?”
“Oh, there aren’t many secrets in a place like this. Everyone knows everyone, all related, you know. No, I’m sure I would have found out pretty quickly, anyway, but in fact I was tipped off.”
“Tipped off?”
“Well, that is to say I was informed by a friend back in England that you was planning a trip over here.”
“Oh?”
“Truffler Mason.”
“Ah.” No further explanation was required. Truffler Mason was one of the inestimably useful contacts featured in an address book which the late Mr. Pargeter had bequeathed to his wife. The skills which had earned Truffler his nickname were now being directed into the legitimate work of the Mason de Vere
Detective Agency, and he had proved invaluable to Mrs. Pargeter in a murder investigation the previous year. Larry Lambeth could not have provided better credentials.
The waiter brought fresh drinks. Mrs. Pargeter was still only halfway down her initial half-liter bottle of retsina, and placed the full one beside it. Joyce, who had drained her first ouzo, fell on the second with disturbing enthusiasm. Larry Lambeth had ordered a glass of Greek brandy. This would have been against the advice of the late Mr. Pargeter, who, having sampled it when they were on Crete, had expressed the opinion that, though Greek brandy might well be an excellent rust-removing agent, it had no place in the human digestive system. Larry Lambeth, however, sipped at his drink with apparent enthusiasm, before continuing his explanation.
“No, fact is, Truffler rang me last week, Mrs. P. Tipped me off, like, said you was on your way, asked me to look after you, you know, see if there was anything you needed, generally help you out. And of course I said yes. I mean, it would have been a pleasure to help, anyway. I’d have done it without asking, but Mr. P.—your husband, that is—he specifically asked me to keep an eye out for you, you know, if there ever was a time I could be of any assistance.”
Mrs. Pargeter smiled fondly. It was always heartwarming to find out the careful provisions the late Mr. Pargeter had made for her before his death. Not every widow had the benefit of such assiduous long-term protection.
“He was the best,” Larry Lambeth asserted. “The very best, a real prince.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Pargeter agreed, a trifle mistily.
The coach drew up once again outside the taverna, having distributed luggage to the various villas of Agios Nikitas. Ginnie, a clipboard and a mess of papers clutched to her bosom, leapt lithely off the vehicle, calling out some pleasantry in Greek. The driver laughed at this parting shot, and drove off in a scream of metal. Mrs. Pargeter decided that the previous noisy gear changes had not been dictated solely by the corkscrew roads; they were just part of his driving style.
At the sight of Ginnie, Mr. Safari Suit, seated over pork chops with Mrs. Safari Suit, called something out, but she resolutely pretended not to hear and strode towards the interior of the taverna. In her haste, she did not notice a couple of papers dislodge themselves from the bundle in her arms and float to the ground.
Mrs. Pargeter picked them up, stopping Larry Lambeth who made to rise. “Don’t worry, I’ll give them to her,” she said and followed the rep into the stone building.
The atmosphere inside the taverna was markedly different to that outside. It was dark and, in an indefinable way, primitive. This impression did not derive from the facilities. The gleaming aluminum refrigerated counter, through whose glass front slabs of meat, fish and lobsters could be seen; the CD-player with its attendant racks of boxed CDs; these, and the spotlessness of the marble floor, attested to the taverna’s recent creation of refurbishment. In corners of the mirrored bar were tucked overflashed snapshots of giggling tourists dancing with Spiro and his waiters.
It was the faces inside that gave the primitive feeling. Through a hatch to the kitchen a black-eyed woman looked up at the newcomer’s entrance with an expression of studied vacancy.
The men whose small table by the bar Ginnie had joined also turned their dark eyes on Mrs. Pargeter. There were three sitting there with glasses of ouzo in front of them—Spiro, another, balding man with blue eyes but unmistakably Greek features, and a third dressed in uniform.
Mrs. Pargeter’s first impression was that he was the Customs officer who had stopped Joyce at Corfu Airport. The likeness was striking, but a closer look showed differences. The uniform was not the same, either; this man was dressed in light gray. His mustache formed a perfect black isosceles triangle over his mouth, and an upturned peaked cap lay on the table by his glass.
The ancient, slightly deterrent, curiosity in the man’s eyes was echoed in the expression of a photograph over the bar. Though their owner looked old and ill, the dark eyes in the faded picture seemed to dominate the scene like some household god. The photograph’s central position and lavish frame gave the impression of some kind of shrine, and the family likeness left no doubt that its subject was Spiro’s father.
Mrs. Pargeter was only allowed to feel like an intruder for a millisecond before Spiro’s customary smile reappeared. He rose to his feet and spread his arms expansively. “Can I help you?”
Mrs. Pargeter proffered the dropped papers, which had turned out to be car-hire agreement counterfoils. “You dropped these, Ginnie.”
“Oh, thank you so much.”
She must still have been looking at the photograph, because Spiro confirmed her conjecture. “My father. It was taken just before he died—thirty years ago—but still he keeps an eye on his taverna. Spiro brings good luck to Spiro. The photograph keeps away the Evil Eye.”
The two other men chuckled, as if this had been rather a good joke. Mrs. Pargeter gave a little grin and said, “Oh, isn’t that nice?”
The whole episode had taken less than a minute, and she couldn’t explain the feeling it had given her. She had felt a frisson, not exactly of fear, but of sudden awareness of new complexities, of the difference between the tourist surface and reality of Corfu.
At the door she looked back into the room, hoping to recapture and perhaps further define the impression. But all she saw was joviality, the flash of friendly teeth from the men. Only in the proud defiance of the photograph and the guarded eyes of the woman in the kitchen could she still feel the depths to the brink of which she had stumbled.
chapter
FIVE
* * *
When she got back to the table, their food had arrived. Joyce was toying with a lamb kebab on rice and in front of Mrs. Pargeter’s place was a crisply grilled fish with a garnish of a few chips. Between them on the table was a bowl of Greek salad, topped with feta cheese. Joyce was working her way through yet another ouzo.
Mrs. Pargeter attacked her fish with relish, while Larry Lambeth further defined his relationship with her late husband.
“Fact is, I worked with him a great deal. I mean, I was never one of the big boys, but I done kind of little jobs for him.”
“Ah.”
A look of modest pride came across his face. “I was involved in, er . . . Welwyn Garden City.”
Mrs. Pargeter looked suitably impressed. “And now you’re living out here, are you?”
“Yeah, well, I always said I’d come back to Greece. I am Greek, you see. My parents was Greek, but I was brought up in London. Lambeth, actually. Where I got the name from.”
“Really?”
“Well, growing up in London, like I did, you had to make a decision. You know, when you go into business, do you play on the ethnic bit or do you just gloss it over? I had to ask myself—do I want to spend the rest of my life known as Nick the Greek? And I decided I didn’t, so I made up Larry Lambeth. Reckoned it was less conspicuous, and the sort of work I do, you don’t want to draw attention to yourself too much.”
“Ah, no, I see.”
“So, you know, at home I was Greek, spoke Greek with the parents and all, but professionally I was, well, just London. So long as I done my work all right, nobody was that interested in where I come from.”
“Right. And now you’ve retired, have you?”
“Yeah, well, in a manner of speaking. Fact is, I always did fancy coming out to Greece at some stage . . . you know, roots and that. And, not to put too fine a point on it, there was a moment when staying in London suddenly didn’t seem too brilliant an idea.” He leaned towards her confidentially. “Fact is, Mrs. Pargeter, I got mixed up with a rather dubious bunch. This was after your husband died, of course. I mean, Mr. P. was always a great organizer, you run no risks working for him—well, no risks other than the ones naturally associated with our line of work—but after he was gone, I got mixed up with a real bunch of villains. And, fact is, the moment come when either I had to get out of London sharpish or I might not be able to get o
ut of anywhere for a few years . . . if you catch my drift . . . ?”
Mrs. Pargeter nodded. She caught his drift all right.
“I had my savings, and I still had my Greek passport, and I thought, well, maybe this is the moment to change all that London fog for a bit of the old Greek sunshine. So, like, end of story—here I am.”
“And you’ve given up work completely now, have you?”
“Well . . .” Larry Lambeth smiled modestly. “I do run a small business on my own account . . . very small, like, but I kind of keep my hand in.” In response to Mrs. Pargeter’s quizzical eyebrow, he continued, “Probably better if I don’t go into too much detail, eh?”
She gave him a nod of complicity, as she negotiated a fishbone out of her teeth.
“Anyway, as I say, anything I can do for you while you’re out here, no problem. That’s a catchphrase out here, actually—‘no problem.’ Got it on all the T-shirts and that. Mind you, with the Corfiots, sometimes there is problems. With me, none—promise you that, Mrs. Pargeter. Anything you need, you just say the word—O.K.?”
“Thank you very much.”
“I mean, like, if you want to use the telephone, I got a telephone up my villa.”
“Oh? Aren’t there that many telephones around?”
“No. I think Spiro’s got the only telephone in Agios Nikitas. Could be one at the hotel, but, anyway, you might not want to use either of those.”
“Why not?”
“Could be a bit public. Things get overheard in a place like this. You want to make any kind of private call, you do better using mine.”
“Oh, well, thank you very much.”
“No problem. And the same goes for you, Mrs. Dover, if you . . .”
He tailed off as he saw Joyce’s expression. Mrs. Pargeter looked at her friend, whose face was white with shock, and followed her eyeline to the opening of the taverna.