by Gavin Lyall
He shook his head. ‘How can a hotel chain afford it?’
‘I thought we’d proved this one can’t. Wait till you see the running costs of a private jet. That’ll turn your hair white and your politics red.’
Ken came back in, picked his glass off the bar and walked across. ‘Yes, they’re there. I talked to Mitzi: she’s not too happy about it all, but what can we do?’ He sat down.
I said: ‘She’s got the document. It’ll be worth a lot in the long run. A fair bit in the short run – Aziz would buy it now.’
Ken nodded. Kapotas didn’t know what we were talking about, but Mitzi’s name had rung a bell. ‘The Inspector Lazaros – he was very surprised you had gone. He said you should call him.’
I suddenly felt weary. ‘Tomorrow. Or some other month. What have you got in sandwiches apart from octopus?’
‘Or,’ Kapotas said firmly and not too unhappily, ‘I must telephone him as soon as you get back.’
Lazaros wasn’t at the station but they said he’d call me back and he did – inside a minute. He made it simple: ‘If you will stay in one place for five minutes, I will be there.’ So I promised.
Then I went through to the kitchen and talked them into a plate of cheese and ham sandwiches, chargeable to the staff account. There were just two cooks, no sign of Sergeant Papa, and the place certainly hadn’t been cleaned up since I was last there. Mind you, the cooks weren’t anything to dry your hands on.
I took the sandwiches back to the bar and Ken ordered two Keo beers to go with them. ‘Somehow, whisky and sandwiches don’t go together.’
‘You picked up some strict etiquette up in Biet Oren.’
Kapotas winced at being reminded he was sheltering a fresh-hatched jail-bird, so I changed the topic. A bit. ‘Did you find any real fraud in there?’ I pointed half a sandwich at the account books.
‘No. But then, nobody made the most basic mistake of fraud: to try and pay money back.’
‘How’s that again?’ Ken mumbled, his mouth full.
‘If you defraud money to – let us say – go to the Beirut races, and if you then win, remember never to try to become honest again by paying it back. You will have found a clever way to get the money out of the books, but who thinks it is twice as difficult to get it in? Any company expects some small unexplained losses; more money gets lost than is found. But a big mysterious payment in – that starts an investigation.’
‘Let that be a lesson to us all,’ Ken agreed. Then Lazaros walked in. Ken added: ‘Join the night school. The subject is how to work a fraud – you might learn something.’
Kapotas paled, Lazaros just smiled wearily. He looked as tired as he had two nights ago, but at least he’d changed his suit: this one was a snazzy gun-metal-blue affair in some man-made fibre, with lapels most of the way out to his shoulders and lots of raised seams. The middle button had come off.
He said: ‘Mia birra Keo,’ to Apostolos, sat down and lit a State Express. ‘Now: I know you went to Beirut. Why?’
Ken said: ‘Well, there was this race meeting …’
‘I hope you won.’
Ken and I looked at each other. I said: ‘I’d guess we came out about even.’
‘Good. Of course you did not think we could not have the inquest, without even evidence of identity?’
‘Oh, come off it,’ I said. ‘You weren’t going to have an inquest on a Saturday.’
‘Did we have a choice? But why did his daughter go as well? Not for the races.’
Ken said carefully: ‘No, but you know how it is? She wanted a break from sad memories and all that. And there was a bloke in Beirut she wanted to see – a friend of her father’s – something about his affairs. So we gave her a lift …’
Lazaros watched him thoughtfully, twiddling the cigarette in his stained fingers. Apostolos put the beer down in front of him and he nodded and took a gulp. Finally: ‘She came back with you?’
‘She’s staying at the Ledra Palace this time.’
Lazaros nodded. That was a lot more sensible than suspicious. So I asked: ‘Did you get the Viennese relatives rushing in?’
‘Not yet one. Just a Nicosia lawyer saying he has been appointed from Vienna to represent the family. No more.’
I glanced at Ken, then said as delicately as possible: ‘Well … the Professor was an old man. No parents left, probably no brothers or sisters – and the cousins and such might not want to get too close to a man with a criminal record. It must make it simpler for you, anyway.’
It didn’t make it happier for him, though. He took another gulp of beer, another long drag on his cigarette.
Ken said casually: ‘Do you know yet who he’d been ringing in Jerusalem that night?’
‘Yes. Our consul found out for us.’ He looked hard at Ken. ‘Do you know Israel? – but of course you do. Do you know a man called Mohammed Gadulla?’
‘A fine old Yiddish name,’ Ken said sourly. ‘No, I don’t know any Israeli Arabs bar a couple that were in the coop with me. What’s Gadulla do?’
‘He has a shop for … an antiquities shop, in old Jerusalem.’
Ken just nodded.
Lazaros went on: ‘But of course Professor Spohr would know many such dealers. It need not mean anything – except that the call was made that night, just before … before he died.’
Ken got up and went to the bar to get another beer.
I said: ‘Do you really want the inquest to find you a verdict of unsolved murder rather than simple suicide?’
He looked irritated. He could certainly run around saying that cancer victims don’t suicide and that suicides always leave notes, and drag up some dirt from the Profs past – and Ken’s and mine, if it came to that – but if all he achieved was a murder with no murderer, then his promotion board was going to cut him off the Christmas card list.
Ken came back and sat down. All this time Kapotas had been sitting quiet, doing nothing except go pale again when I mentioned murder. We were the only people in the bar, sitting in a lonely pool of orange light, the dining end of the room dark, now. Just like the night the Prof had died.
Then Lazaros said: ‘Has Papadimitriou come back yet?’
‘Sergeant Papa?’ Ken asked. ‘Where’s he gone?’
Kapotas’s face sagged. ‘He rang today – to say he is resigning.’
‘He has left for good?’ Lazaros demanded.
I said: ‘He’ll never get another hall porter’s job. Not at his age.’
Kapotas shrugged. ‘He has not been paid for so long, so perhaps I cannot blame him, but … with a full partner coming in tomorrow from Harborne, Gough …’
Ken nodded at the ledgers. ‘Maybe there’s something in there he’s afraid the partner will spot.’
Kapotas glanced at the stack of books. ‘No. I am a good accountant. I do not say I would want to be Sergeant Papa on Judgment Day when those books learn to speak, but now they are dumb. However he cheated, he kept it small and regular … That is also good advice, if you want to juggle account books.’ He took a long sip at his whisky.
Lazaros looked stern. ‘You should have told me he called you.’
Kapotas shrugged again. Ken asked: ‘What did you want him for?’
‘Don’t you think he listened to that call to Jerusalem?’
‘Ye-es … Bruno didn’t speak much Arabic … I suppose Gadulla would speak English, running a shop like that …’
I said: ‘Don’t you know where Papa lives, then?’
Lazaros nodded. ‘He owns a … a guest house just by Kyrenia. He makes his old mother be the housekeeper there.’ That sounded like our Papa’s well-known way with women, all right.
Lazaros lit another cigarette and stared at his beer. Ken asked: ‘But why resign? – he may not have been paid, but he was still making money here.’
I said: ‘Maybe his dear old mum finally got the staggers and he has to run the place himself.’
‘Maybe he had a big inheritance,’ said Kapotas gloomily. ‘Wit
h his luck, he might.’
Ken looked at him sharply.
Then Lazaros said: ‘Damn, I shall drive over and see him. Now.’ He stood up.
‘Why not ring him?’ I suggested.
His long face tightened into something like a sneer. ‘To give him time to invent some good lies, perhaps?’ And he went out. We heard the glass front doors swing shut.
Ken took a deep breath, seemed about to say something, then didn’t. Kapotas finished his whisky, collected the account books and stood up. ‘I will just see that everything is secure and the cooks have not stolen the breakfast.’
‘Are you staying the night?’ Ken asked.
Kapotas nodded sadly. ‘Without Sergeant Papa …’
‘Can I make a phone call?’
‘Help yourself. You will, anyway.’ He went out.
‘Who to?’ I said quietly. ‘Papa?’
He nodded. ‘There must be some staff book with their private numbers.’ He went and began routing under the counter in front of the switchboard.
I carefully poured the last of Lazaros’s beer into my own glass, which seemed to need it, and started lighting a pipe. It still wasn’t much past 9.30 and the sandwiches had mopped up most of my weariness.
I was still only on my third match when Ken came back in, looking thoughtful. I asked: ‘Did you get him?’
‘Yes, but … something odd. He sounded a bit strained, like. I don’t think he was alone. I didn’t say what it was about, but I said the inspector was coming … rather wish I hadn’t. Hell,’ he shook his head in a mind-clearing gesture. ‘Let’s get over there. We can use Kapotas’s car.’
‘What can we do that Lazaros can’t?’
‘Get there first. He’s got to go the long way round. Kapotas!’ he shouted.
Chapter 21
I’d forgotten that aspect of the routes to Kyrenia. On the map, it’s on the sea about fifteen miles due north along an easy road that runs over a pass in the coastal range. But from Nicosia to the pass is all Turkish-Cypriot territory: no Greeks wanted today, thank you. So Lazaros would have to take a forty-mile swing out west, around the end of the range through Myrtou or Larnaka, and back in on the coast road.
We went north. It took us a while to untangle from the Saturday night traffic, but then we were out in the dark, with big notices saying we were welcome to free Cyprus skimming past at the fringe of the headlights. On a clear straight road, the Escort station wagon got the wind up her tail. From the mile-ometer I’d guess she was only just run in, which might account for some of Kapotas’s reluctance in lending her – but either we were getting faster at talking him into things or he was getting defeatist by now. Anyway, I reckon that if a car will do sixty on that sort of road then it should do sixty.
After a while, I said: ‘When you say “scramble” I’m old enough not to ask why – but now d’you mind telling me why?’
‘Sure. I’ve just been admiring your driving.’ He sounded just a little breathless.
‘Thank you. Do you think the Prof really said something in that call to Jerusalem?’
‘I’m bloody sure he didn’t. Bruno wouldn’t even give his right name on an open line to a Jerusalem Arab.’
‘D’you think the Israelis would—?’
‘It doesn’t matter what they would; it’s just a risk he wouldn’t take.’
‘So …?’
‘So the phone call was just to make sure Gadulla was still there, or something like that. So there had to be a letter to follow it up.’
‘Two letters. Damn. And I only got one off Papa. Sorry.’
The station wagon hit a rut on a bend and its unladen rear end got slightly airborne. I twitched the wheel here and there and we got back to straight-and-level. I let the speed drift down to fifty.
Ken said: ‘Thank you … I suppose Papa would choose the Jerusalem letter because it related to the phone call. Bruno may have dropped some sort of hint – and anyway, if the call was in English the letter would be, too.’
The road began to climb, then hooked right, riding up the shoulder of the hills. Raw rock and splashes of sand glowed in our lights. We’d done over ten miles by now; just over the pass and we’d be in sight of Kyrenia itself.
Suddenly, almost too suddenly, we were at the Turkish ‘frontier’, just a sentry box and an armed Turkish National Guard waving us down sharply. I suppose we were a bit suspicious, at that speed and at that time and in a car that didn’t look as if it belonged to a tourist.
A dark wary face with a big moustache peered in at me.
I said: ‘Evening. We’re a bit late for a party in Kyrenia. D’you want to see my passport?’ It didn’t matter much what I said: I just wanted him to get my pure English accent.
He grunted and flashed a torch past me at Ken, who was already holding up his passport. ‘Is your car?’
‘No, our hire car broke down and the hotel lent us this one.’
He swung the torch and searched the back of the car, then grinned vividly. ‘Hokay. Have good party.’ He waved us on with the Thompson – without a magazine in, thank God.
I steamed off at a gentler speed. Now we were in a sort of no-man’s-land, theoretically patrolled by the United Nations when they weren’t throwing punches at me in the Atlantis Bar and Grill. Tonight, we didn’t see a thing, and probably wouldn’t until almost Kyrenia; the Greeks don’t usually bother to man their own roadblocks.
I asked: ‘Any idea where Papa’s house is?’
‘Out west, a bit up the coast.’ He picked a road map off the plaited cloth atop the dashboard and turned it over to look at the town plans. ‘Go in as far as the Town Hall and turn left for Lapithos.’
We came over the crest and started down in gentle swirling curves towards the twinkling lights of the coastline. No lights nearer than a mile, maybe—
—except the lights of a parked car. Instinctively, I braked. Our own headlights swung across a bright blue Volkswagen.
Ken said: ‘I’ve seen one like that parked by the hotel.’ Maybe I had myself; I braked down to a stop and slipped the lever into neutral. A gun flashed and cracked in the Volkswagen.
Then we were out on the road, rolling and scrabbling for the back of the Escort. Another shot. We huddled in cover, Ken untangling the Smith from his inside pocket.
Without any fuss, the Escort began to roll gently away from us.
On hands and knees, we scuttled after it, heading towards but past the Volkswagen.
‘This’d be a great idea if we’d intended it,’ Ken grunted. The Escort got faster, and we shifted to a crouching hop, like playing monkeys.
The gun banged thinly.
Then the Escort ran off the road, dropping a wheel into a shallow ditch with a groan and a twang. Its headlights stared into a bush; the Volkswagen had become a dark hump behind its own pale parking lights, perhaps fifteen yards away.
Ken leant the Smith and an eyebrow around the rear end of the Escort, the tail light glowing on the side of his forehead and the exhaust huffing in his ear. I heard the hammer click back.
I whispered: ‘Hold on. I don’t think he’s shooting at us.’
‘He picks his nose damn loud then.’
But I was pretty sure I was right. You can hear a bullet that’s meant for you, and it isn’t a whistle but a crack: a miniature supersonic bang, in fact. All I’d remembered hearing was the pistol itself – fairly distant. Not even a shot crunching into the Escort, which he could hardly miss.
Ken said: ‘He’s in the Volks or behind it.’
‘I think he’s bugging out.’
‘Well, I’ll take the Volks.’
‘Don’t let’s rush into things.’
‘If you don’t think he’s shooting at us, what’re you worried about?’
‘Being wrong.’ Either side of the road, the rocky, bushy hillside staggered in blurred shapes up to meet the starlight. You could hide a battalion out there, I said: ‘Anyway, militarily I’m stark naked.’
‘So distract hi
m.’
I crawled around to the front of the Escort, took a deep breath and stood up in its headlights and shouted: ‘Come out of there!’ – and threw myself flat into the ditch.
Ken’s gun banged twice, the glass in the Volkswagen went spang, and he was zigzagging across the road, firing once more, ripping open the driver’s door.
A heavy body slumped out on to his feet. Ken jerked aside into a crouch.
Far down the hill a pistol snapped, like a last farewell. Ken pointed the Smith into the dark, then jerked it down angrily.
I reached into the Escort, switched off the engine and lights, and walked across to look at Sergeant Papa.
‘You didn’t kill him,’ I said. ‘Not unless you ricochetted one to come in under his ear. With nice close powder burns, too.’ Papa was still warm and limp and there was a tang in the air that was partly powdersmoke and partly something stronger.
‘Did I hit him?’ Ken asked tonelessly, He was standing guard beside us, looking somewhere else.
‘You hit him.’ There was a starred hole in the Volkswagen’s windscreen and a frontal shot had ripped away a lot of Papa’s left cheekbone. But the bone glittered white in my match-light, with no more than an ooze of blood. His neck wound was something else, on both sides. It isn’t like a gun in the mouth, but it’s still a messy way to go. Quick, though.
Being careful where I put my hands, I rolled him on his back and started on his pockets. ‘I’d guess somebody beside him in the passenger seat, holding a gun to his neck.’ The passenger door was slightly open.
Ken said distantly: ‘Papa would have to be under the gun to drive up here at all. As a Greek he’d know it was a dead end for him.’
‘Sorry,’ he added.
‘That makes it a nice quiet place for an execution.’
‘He wouldn’t plan to leave Papa here.’
‘Papa maybe, the car no. He’d want that – I assume it’s Papa’s car – to get down the hill again. To his own car, probably.’
He looked down to the lights of Kyrenia, glittering as calm as the stars. ‘So the bugger’s down there somewhere, running like—’
‘Nothing we can do.’ I finished with Papa’s pockets, then turned his head gently to look at the back of his neck.