by Tony Kaplan
But changing who I am also means giving stuff up – to live here on this island, I would have to give up my flat, my neighbourhood (as smelly as it’s become), my local, BBC Radio Four, Sadler’s Wells, the Tate Modern, the view of the Thames embankment from Waterloo Bridge, the friends I have (although most of them are wankers), the familiarity of places I went to as a child… Fuck, I am so sentimental! Or is it risk-averse? Self-protective? If only I were brave, more adventurous.
I suppose coming here was adventurous, although I didn’t know it then. But what have I achieved? I came to find Lucy, but I wasn’t the one who found her. I didn’t rescue her. I didn’t save her. I have made enemies of people on the island I would like to have had as friends. I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest. I’ve made their lives more fraught. And for what? Where will it lead? Okay, I found Agapi, but if I’m honest, I’ve probably infused my image of her with naïve and self-serving fantasies. Anyway, what have we got together? - what will it come to? - probably nothing. As usual. I’m such a loser. And with Lucy’s murder? - I haven’t been much help. I suppose I did press for the autopsy, I think I’ve pinned down the murder scene to the beach at the Poseidon and I’ve probably got an innocent man, Jurgen Preissler and the dubious NGO he works for, off the hook. But what does this add up to? - practically fuck all!
And what make me so sure that I have got Jurgen Preissler a reprieve from a miscarriage of justice? Fuck, I don’t even know for sure that Jurgen Preissler isn’t involved. I should have asked the Environmental Officer if he had a photo of Jurgen Preissler – is he as puny as the Canadian Greek guy described? What was his name? – Tsammis. What if Tsammis is his lover and is protecting him? He could be in on it also? Even if he is not, he wouldn’t be the first person to be taken in by a charming psychopath.
My phone rings with strident presumptuousness and startles me out of my self-hating reverie. It’s Panagiotis. His officers have just arrested Jurgen Preissler.
They found him holed up in a disused farmhouse on the south of the island. They have taken him to the police station to be questioned. The Chief is very pleased with his catch and I can hear him waiting for my congratulations.
He is not pleased with my saying, with fierce sarcasm, “Oh, so this gangster killer you’ve been chasing, he’s a huge muscle-bound guy who could possibly have overpowered Lucy Discombe, is he?” Fuck his feelings – I’m in a bad mood.
There is a pause, before he comes back at me, “Who you talk to? Who gives you this informations? Maybe is zmall, but is very strong. It was take three policemens to hold him down when we arrest him,” he says with a calmness which is a slick over his anger at my grudging response.
“I have evidence that Lucy was killed on the beach at the Poseidon,” I say, not to be defeated so easily. “You should at least interview Christos Papademos. The water in her lungs in the autopsy matches the contents of the water in the sea off the Poseidon – the algae are the same, the rabbit fish spores…”
He cuts me off, openly angry now. “Mr Pickering, don’ tell me how I must do my job. I have found the man who was kill your friend. You no thank me for this? This Jurgen is a friend for you? When we find him, he say he won’t come with us, he run away, he fight us – this is the behaviour of an innocent man? Leave Christos Papademos out of this. Also, don’t make trouble with the Mayor. You have already, with your reporting, made our island look like a bad place for tourists. You have point your finger at innocent peoples. You think we will say thank you? Maybe, Mr Pickering, it is time for you to leave the island.” He puts the phone down. The after-burn of his anger crackles and hisses in my ear.
48
Maybe he is right and maybe he is wrong. But I do know that the Chief of Police will protect his friends, like the Mayor and men of influence, like Christos Papademos. What’s more, if there is one thing people who know me will know, it is that I don’t like being told what to do, and as a journalist, I certainly don’t like being told what to write and what not to write. I’m practically allergic. I’m contrary. If someone tells me where not to look, that’s the first place I am going to look. As an investigative journalist, that’s in my DNA. Especially when I am in bad mood. This year, 2005, has been a record-breaker for hurricanes. Global warming kicking in. My mood is building into a category five shit-storm. I feel like doing damage, something for people to remember me by. My own carbon footprint.
So, of course, the first thing I do after the call from the Police Chief, is to get on the phone to Christos Papademos. “Christos Papademos,” comes his smooth voice.
“It’s Tom Pickering,” I say evenly.
“Oh, Tom, I’ve been meaning to phone you. Sorry to hear about Lucy,” he says, sounding sorry.
I don’t get suckered into mutual condolences. I go straight in. “I’ve been doing some digging, Christos, and from what I’ve found and with the autopsy report, it seems to me highly likely that Lucy was killed on the beach near the Poseidon.”
“No ways!” he comes straight back at me. “I keep a close eye on whatever goes on around here. I’d heard something. Somebody would have seen something.”
“That’s why I’d like to interview your construction workers. Maybe jog their memories,” I say. (Maybe my hostility is making me involuntarily threatening. I should rein myself in a little.)
“Maybe you should leave any enquiries to the police. I don’t want you bothering my workmen, especially after what you’ve written about us so far. Fuck it, Tom, that wasn’t on. I was nice to you. I was helpful. You chose to rubbish everything I said. Made me out to be some sort of an uber-capitalist scumbag! That was not cool, dude.”
“I write it how I see it,” I say.
He picks up the self-righteousness in my tone. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You fucking journalists! You’re so arrogant! You don’t take any responsibility for the shit you write. I have responsibilities. People’s livelihoods depend on me and me making a go of this place. Lots of people. You only think of yourself. You English – you still think you’re the centre of the world, like you’ve still got all your colonies. You treat us Greeks like we’re a Third World banana republic. It’s fucking insulting, dude. It’s not like you’ve got a Pulitzer Prize. I looked up the rag you write for. Got a circulation of a few hundred?”
“A regular subscription of nearly eight hundred,” I correct him. “We sell more than that.” I could tell him about our online readership - but fuck him! Why should I have to justify myself?
“Call me a liar…” he says sarcastically. “You’re small fry! You don’t even register!” I hear his heavy breathing. “Look, it’s not like I don’t care about what happened to Lucy. I cared about her too. I’m upset about her death too. But you’re on a mission to fuck things up for everyone else, to have someone else to blame, because you didn’t look after her like a friend should. Tell me if I’m wrong, you wanted to fuck her too. You’re jealous because I fucked her and you didn’t. Right?”
He notices my hesitation. “I’m right, aren’t I? Well, don’t fuck up my business because of your sexual… inadequacies. Go back to London. See a shrink,” he snarls, “Or get your cock enlarged.”
“Fuck off, you… you… toe-rag!” is the best I can manage. (“Toe-rag”? I haven’t used that phrase since I was fourteen!)
He is quite within his rights to put the phone down on me and that is what he does. I wanted to put the phone down on him, the prick! What makes me especially cross is that he was right about everything he said. But why should I let that stop me? I can be right about things too.
He definitely wants to keep me away from his workers. I don’t buy this, “I don’t want them bothered” shit. There is something he doesn’t want me to find out. He protested too hard and too long. He is trying to scare me off. So what’s he hiding? I can’t rely on the local constabulary to find out. I’m going to have to go to the Poseidon myself.
49
I manage to persuade Bobby to lend me his car. Well, I hire
it from him. He pockets the twenty euros with a smile. I don’t tell him where I am going. I’m not in the mood to trust anyone and I don’t want Christos to get a warning that I am on my way. Stealth is the key.
There is an almost full moon up in the zenith, which is just as well, because I shall have to go the last kilometre or so downhill on a winding road with a sheer drop to the sea, with my headlights off. If I crash Bobby’s car, I won’t have any insurance. This could be a very expensive fun-fair ride.
But when I get to the crest, with the lights of the Poseidon in the valley, the moonlight is more than enough. I shut of the engine off and freewheel all the way down, very slowly. My foot is on the brake most of the time and I worry Christos might see the brake light. But I reassure myself, from the side all he’ll see is just a single red light – he’ll probably think it’s a bike or a conscientious walker. I roll the car into a siding just before the entrance to the resort. I shut the door quietly. The only sound is the sea, the waves rolling in and crashing gently with a whoosh and the crackle of pebbles as the water shifts them up the beach… and then back, as the sea recedes. The cicadas click insistently at the moon.
I keep to the shadows. There are lights on in the entrance and around the back in the kitchen area. Are there staff who live in there yet? I’d better keep my eyes alert for some chef having a crafty smoke out the back. I don’t see any security guards. I creep around the side and try to work out which is Christos’s office. There are no lights on here. I presume Christos has a place in town. Is the place alarmed? I look around for tell-tale CCTV cameras. I see one perched on a pole, but there are wires running out of it into thin air – not connected yet. They must think there isn’t enough to steal. Besides, there can’t be much petty crime in this area anyway. There are only four cops on the whole island.
I try a side door cautiously. I turn the handle and gently push. It opens. I slip into a short passage. White neon comes from a corridor leading off this one at the top of a short T. I wait and listen. Nothing. I tiptoe to the corner and peak around. The corridor is empty. Unless I am mistaken, this is the corridor that Christos’s office is on. I advance. I’m right. This is his office. I try the door. It’s open. Luckily, they’re a trusting lot! I enter and close the door silently behind me.
I use the flashlight on my phone to see my way. The moonlight coming in through the far window helps. The bookshelves are still empty. The drinks cabinet is well-stocked - eccentric bottles, tumblers and wine glasses glint as the beam from my torch touches them. To one side of the office, leather chairs, a low coffee table with magazines tastefully scattered and behind that, the imposing desk. I walk quickly to the desk – let me try that first. I slide into Christos’s swivel-chair and gently ease out the left top drawer. Papers – receipts mainly it seems. I can tell by the numbers – I realise this is going to be hard, given that I can’t decipher the Greek letters. The next drawer is just pens and clips and shit. The bottom drawer is locked. Do I force it? Let me first examine the drawers on the other side of the desk. The top drawer is empty. As is the middle drawer. I’m expecting the bottom drawer to be locked, but it slides open.
There, lying quietly, is a thirteen-inch MacBook Pro. On its front is a Greenpeace sticker. It’s Lucy’s laptop.
I can hear my heart thudding in my chest. I place the laptop very carefully on the desk. I open the lid and press Power. A slight hesitation, then the Apple icon… and the blare of the opening clarion! Fuck! I instinctively shield the computer with my body. Fat lot of good that will do to cushion the sound. My heart is racing. I wait to hear footsteps. Nothing. All is quiet. The screen opens.
There it is: the confirmation, if I needed any. The Users’ boxes: ‘Lucy’ and ‘Guest’. I click on ‘Lucy’, hopefully. A box appears, asking for a password. What the fuck was the cat’s name? What does it matter? This is Lucy’s computer and it’s in Christos’s desk. I think I’ve found Lucy’s killer.
Then, suddenly, the glare of harsh white office lighting. My heart tumbles in my chest as I look up and there is Christos, looking startled, his hand still on the light switch. He’s caught me in the act. My mind immediately races to excuses, apologies, before I realise that he’s seen that I have Lucy’s laptop open and he’s probably shitting himself. I’m the one who is in the right here.
Christos’s expression has changed from surprise to fear, then it shifts again – now he is enraged, a cold malevolence. I have the evidence. He will be desperate to keep me quiet. I look around for a weapon, something to protect myself if he comes for me. The drinks trolley. I dart from the desk to the trolley in a flash and I grab the first bottle I see. A Talisker Dark Storm. Expensive. The right shape for a weapon. I grab the bottle by the neck and hold it like a club.
Christos crouches into a battle pose, arms out. “You’ve got this wrong, Tom,” he says in a low voice. “Don’t make me hurt you,” he says, as he angles off crab-wise to one side, keeping his distance, his eyes fixed on me. Is he a martial arts expert? I suddenly wonder. His father was CIA. I’ve seen this in a movie before – a bar-room brawl, the protagonist suddenly vulnerable, the antagonist leering. What did he do? Harrison Ford, was it? I smash the bottle against the rim of the desk and I’m left with the neck of the bottle in my hand, a shard of razor-sharp glass extending out from it. I see Christos’s face drop and he looks frightened, then he tries to bluff. But I’m one step ahead and I step boldly towards him. The look of fear reappears and he backs off, hands in front of him to protect himself. From me. Power surges into me, and with it, a cold anger. “You cunt! You’ve got Lucy’s computer. You killed her, didn’t you, you cunt?!” It’s my turn to snarl.
“No, no,” he protests. “Tom, listen to me. Kosta brought the laptop here. I didn’t know what to do with it.” He has backed himself up against the wall. He can see I mean business. “Kosta, the young cop. You know which one – Panagiotis's son. Yeah?” he squeals, imploring me. “I wouldn’t have hurt her. I was in love with her. I’ve never had better sex with anybody. I swear it. We were having a great time. She was going to write up our eco-tourism angle. Why would I want her dead?” he implores me. “Believe me,” he pleads. He is shit-scared I’m going to cut him, to ruin his handsome features. He isn’t going to bullshit me and get me riled up, is he?
“Why did Kosta bring the laptop to you then?” I ask him.
“Okay, I’ll admit it. My father was worried about what she was up to. He’s still head of the company. He won’t let anything get in the way of the family business. I run this project, but it’s for the family, for the company. He has put up all the money, leaned on the politicians, got straight things to bend. He employed Kosta to keep an eye on her. Okay, I was in on it too, I don’t deny it. But just to keep an eye on her! When she first came. Before I’d even met her. We’d heard she was investigating the Poseidon. We didn’t know what she would find, what she would say. We wanted to be one step ahead. But then I met her and I was knocked out by her. She’s… she was…” he says with a catch to his voice, “… my type, you know – athletic, sassy… and God, she was so beautiful! And so young!” His voice cracks. “Then she fell for me too. When she left and I didn’t hear from her, I was so let down. I was torn apart.” I know what that feels like, I want to tell him, but don't. “Then a few days ago, Kosta arrived with her laptop. Said he’d taken it – to try get into it, see if there were any incriminating photos – of him, of me! What the fuck was he thinking? He said we could see what she was writing about the Poseidon, if she’d changed her mind again. He’d watched her with her computer before - he knew her password. But the files on the Poseidon were encrypted. Then when her body was found, he didn’t want to keep it at his place anymore – worried his father would ask questions – he lives with his dad still. So he brought it to me. Said maybe I’d want to keep hold of it. I don’t know why he didn’t just get rid of it. I don’t know why I didn’t.” He lets out a sob. “Oh, fuck!” he says.
“Why did he take Lucy�
�s hoodie? Did he know where she was?” I ask.
“The hoodie wasn’t hers. It was his. He’d left it there. He’d thought someone would trace it back to him.”
How would Christos have known that? “How do you know that?”
“He told me. He was like seriously anxious, you know… like when he brought the laptop to me. Lucy’s body had just been found and he was worried people would think it was him.”
Then a thought strikes me. “So, who e-mailed me? Did you?” I ask Christos.
“E-mail? No,” he says, “What e-mail?”
Mmm, Christos would have been smarter, more flamboyant. The e-mails have Kosta’s scent. He can see I am starting to believe him. His voice becomes more measured. “I think Kostas knows who killed her,” he says quietly.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. I just got the feeling he knew more and wasn’t saying.”
“Why didn’t you report this?”
“Well, because I could have been implicated myself. I didn’t know what to do. Put yourself in my position, Tom.”
I can see that.
“We should talk to him, you and me together,” Christos says. “Don’t go to the cops – to his father – he’ll just clam up – he’ll deny everything. Let’s get him here and see what he says.”
I suddenly feel weary. It’s the adrenaline going out my body. I just want this thing over now. “Okay,” I say, “Phone him. But keep it simple. Don’t give him a warning, I know enough Greek to know if you are warning him off,” I bluff. I keep the broken bottle, my weapon, pointed towards him and signal for him to go to the desk, to the phone.