Copyright & Information
Mortal Remains
First published in 1974
© Margaret Yorke; House of Stratus 1974-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Margaret Yorke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755130138 9780755130139 Print
0755134729 9780755134724 Kindle
0755134834 9780755134830 Epub
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
Born in Surrey, England, to John and Alison Larminie in 1924, Margaret Yorke (Margaret Beda Nicholson) grew up in Dublin before moving back to England in 1937, where the family settled in Hampshire, although she now lives in a small village in Buckinghamshire.
During World War II she saw service in the Women’s Royal Naval Service as a driver. In 1945, she married, but it was only to last some ten years, although there were two children; a son and daughter. Her childhood interest in literature was re-enforced by five years living close to Stratford-upon-Avon and she also worked variously as a bookseller and as a librarian in two Oxford Colleges, being the first woman ever to work in that of Christ Church.
She is widely travelled and has a particular interest in both Greece and Russia.
Margaret Yorke’s first novel was published in 1957, but it was not until 1970 that she turned her hand to crime writing. There followed a series of five novels featuring Dr. Patrick Grant, an Oxford don and amateur sleuth, who shares her own love of Shakespeare. More crime and mystery was to follow, and she has written some forty three books in all, but the Grant novels were limited to five as, in her own words, ‘authors using a series detective are trapped by their series. It stops some of them from expanding as writers’.
She is proud of the fact that many of her novels are essentially about ordinary people who find themselves in extraordinary situations which may threatening, or simply horrific. It is this facet of her writing that ensures a loyal following amongst readers who inevitably identify with some of the characters and recognise conflicts that may occur in everyday life. Indeed, she states that characters are far more important to her than intricate plots and that when writing ‘I don’t manipulate the characters, they manipulate me’.
Critics have noted that she has a ‘marvellous use of language’ and she has frequently been cited as an equal to P.D. James and Ruth Rendell. She is a past chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association and in 1999 was awarded the Cartier Diamond Dagger, having already been honoured with the Martin Beck Award from the Swedish Academy of Detection.
Introduction
Patrick rolled over and swam parallel to the shore for a while, then lifted his head from the water. Towards the rocks he saw a blob; another swimmer had arrived. Patrick swam slowly in that direction, wondering if it was a solitary-minded person or someone who would exchange a greeting when they met.
The other swimmer was a slow mover. The head remained well down in the water, and there was no sign of action from the limbs. He was like a snorkel swimmer, lying motionless on the surface gazing into the depths.
Patrick swam closer, until even without his glasses, he could see there was no snorkel tube. The swimmer lay unmoving, face downwards in the water, arms floating outstretched, and there was something very wrong about him, for the figure – it was a man – was fully dressed. Patrick knew before he turned him over that he was dead.
PART ONE
Monday night and Tuesday morning
London to Crete
I
Dr Patrick grant was in a bad mood when he entered the departure lounge at Heathrow airport, but after five minutes, in its muted atmosphere of spurious comfort, his humour improved. Though his plans had gone awry, travel always stimulated him and he was bound for a land he found captivating. Ahead were blue skies, brilliant sunshine, and the ruins of ancient civilisations; if he got bored he could always wrestle with the intricacies of the Greek language.
And he would hire a car.
He should have been in his own car now, aboard the ferry for Patras, but ten days ago his white Rover 2000, four years old and without a scratch, had been stolen from the street in Oxford where Patrick had parked it while he visited Alec Mudie, a fellow don of St. Mark’s College, who was in hospital after a heart attack. Two days later, the police had found the car abandoned in a wood; it had run off the road into a tree and was damaged beyond repair. There was no sign of the driver.
Patrick was upset by the loss of his car; apart from the inconvenience, he was fond of it; to him it had personality. It meant, also, a change in his immediate plans to drive across Europe and wander about Greece, an intention already affected by Alec’s illness, for they were to have gone together.
He was still undecided about how to rearrange things when Alec had a second heart attack, and died. Then Patrick made up his mind and booked a flight, for at their last meeting, Alec had asked him to search for a young man who had disappeared.
‘Your godson? Yannis?’
Alec nodded, pale against his pillows, tubes running to him from various machines alongside.
‘You know about the Greeks, how important the relationship is—’
Patrick did. Taking on this responsibility brought with it obligations as great as those of any blood relation. Alec, just down from Oxford, had been in Crete during the war.
‘I’ve had no news of him for well over a year,’ Alec said. ‘He got into trouble some time ago and went to prison. Ilena, his mother, didn’t say why, but it’s not hard to guess with things as they are in Greece today. She hasn’t answered any of my recent letters.’
‘Do you know where Yannis is?’
‘He was working in a laboratory near Thessalonika – he’s got a science degree. But that was four years ago. I don’t know what he’s been doing lately. His mother lives in a village called Ai Saranda, about thirty miles from Heraklion.’
Yannis’s father, Patrick remembered, had been killed during the war.
‘Maybe she’s moved,’ he said.
‘Then why hasn’t she let me know? She may be ill.’
‘Well, I can go to Ai Saranda and find out,’ said Patrick. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were worried about them when we were planning our trip?’
‘I didn’t want to put you off the idea of taking me, I suppose,’ replied Alec. ‘We meant to go to Crete anyway. I’d have sprung it on you when we got there. I wrote to tell Ilena we were coming.’
‘You know I like unravelling puzzles,’ Patrick said, mildly. ‘And if I can’t speak the language of the country I’m in, it’s handy to have a companion who does. Compensates for other problems.’
The quip, as he had hoped, raised a wan smile from the sick man.
‘How shall I talk to Ilena?’ Patrick asked.
‘She speaks a little English – not much,’
‘We
could ring you up,’ Patrick said, inspired. ‘You’ll be well enough to talk to her by then. I expect there’s a telephone in Ai Saranda.’
‘Oh, bound to be, though it’s pretty small. You find little villages all over Greece called Ai Saranda,’ Alec said. ‘It means the Forty Saints.’ His voice trailed away and he looked exhausted. Then he roused himself. ‘I’ve written Ilena’s address down.’ Feebly he pointed to his bedside locker; Patrick opened it and found an envelope there addressed to him. Later, he realised the significance of this, as though Alec had feared he might never hand it over himself, for it contained a brief outline, written in a shaky version of his usual neat script, of what he had just related.
‘You shouldn’t have to put yourself out too much, Patrick. It should only take a day,’ he said.
‘I like to know of someone in a strange country,’ Patrick said, pocketing the paper. ‘It gives one a point of reference.’
Now Alec was dead, and what Patrick had thought of merely as a diversion had become important, for the only thing you can do for the dead is to carry out their wishes.
And so he was going to Crete.
II
In the departure lounge of Number Two Terminal Building, the tide of travellers eddied; nervous people anxiously watched the departure signs, and the less tense sat about drinking or reading newspapers. Patrick looked at them all with interest; there were many nationalities represented. Most of the men in city suits, with brief cases, must be on prosaic business trips, but there were a good many tourists too.
Some distance away on the runway outside, there was a Boeing of Olympic Airways with the coloured concentric circles on its tail. Patrick felt a thrill at the sight of it, and was among the first passengers trooping towards the departure gate when the flight was called. The flock was halted on the way down the ramp to be searched for hidden weapons. In front of Patrick, a woman shaped like a cottage loaf, flat-footed and with unruly grey hair, unpacked her huge handbag laboriously, while a solemn girl inspected every object it contained.
Patrick carried a small holdall which held his shaving kit, four books, three maps, two exercise books and a Greek phrase book. He had a paperback book in one of his jacket pockets, a very small notebook in another, and an array of pens and ballpoints clipped to the inside one. All this surprised his searcher, who looked suspiciously at every item, but eventually, he was allowed to proceed.
The cottage loaf lady had trouble replacing her possessions in her bulging handbag. She stopped suddenly in the middle of the corridor in front of Patrick, bringing him to a halt too, while she struggled with the clasp.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I had it all so neatly stowed away. Still, they’re quite right to be so thorough. You can’t be too careful, can you?’
Patrick murmured some agreement. He did not want to become her friend for the flight, so he walked on and got into the bus. It was still light; they were due in Athens some time after eleven o’clock, and he would have a short wait there before going on to Heraklion.
‘You don’t know what to wear, do you?’ said a voice behind him. ‘It could be chilly when we land.’ The speaker was the cottage loaf lady, now seated near him in the bus.
‘Oh, it won’t be. The heat rises up from the runway at Athens,’ said another female voice. This one was deeper, and held a note of suppressed excitement.
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I am. You’ll see,’ said the second speaker, confidently.
‘You’ve been to Greece before, then?’
‘Oh yes. Many times.’
‘I haven’t,’ said the cottage loaf. Before they reached the plane she told her new friend that she was on her way to stay with her daughter whose husband worked for a company mining bauxite just outside Athens.
‘You’re going on holiday?’ she asked the other woman.
‘Yes.’
The second woman said no more. When the passengers left the bus to get into the plane, Patrick saw that she was tall, with smooth white hair drawn into a chignon at the nape of her neck. She had large brown eyes and there were delicately worked beaten gold drop ear-rings in her pierced ears. She was in her early fifties, Patrick judged; he noticed as she waited calmly for her turn to leave the bus, her hands clasping a holdall, that she wore no rings.
He followed the two women up the steps and into the plane and found that he was already in Greece. Bouzouki music played softly, a limpid-eyed girl, olive-skinned and smiling, wearing the yellow Olympic Airways uniform, stood by the doorway, and a dark young man with crisp, curling hair was in the cabin directing passengers to their seats. Patrick’s was next to the window. In the business of settling into it, he lost sight of the two ladies from the bus.
His bad temper had quite gone by the time the stewardesses had handed round moist, verbena-scented towels so that the travellers might wipe away the traces of fatigue before the journey started.
‘Kalispera, kiries kai kirioi,’ came the swift Greek voice over the loudspeakers.
Patrick sat back.
The magic had begun.
III
The white-haired woman had spoken the truth. As he left the plane and walked down the steps on to the runway the warmth of the night enfolded Patrick, and it seemed that already he could smell the scent of thyme and pines from the surrounding hills. How fanciful, he told himself: in fact the air here must be full of kerosene fumes. He began to wish, as he followed the signs for transit passengers in the Olympic Airways building, that he had arranged to spend a night or two in Athens before going on to Crete. In spite of the clangour of the modern city, it drew him like a magnet. But he was tired. His sister, Jane, had instructed him to spend his holiday soaking up the sun; he was to swim and walk, and keep out of trouble. He was suffering, she told him, from too much work, too many nights spent reading or philosophising, and not enough fun.
‘You’ll turn into a stodgy old bore soon, if you forget how to enjoy yourself,’ she had warned.
Patrick had sought few pleasures outside academic argument for some time. When he was last in Athens, a series of events had begun that had brought him emotional scars, and afterwards he had retreated within the safe walls of St. Mark’s like a tortoise into its shell.
‘All right, so I’m dull,’ he had said to himself, while promising aloud to remember his sister’s words.
Most of the Boeing’s passengers left it at Athens. Those going on to Heraklion collected their new boarding passes and went into the departure lounge; among them was the woman with the white hair. They were searched once more, decorously behind a curtain this time.
Patrick sat near the vast windows and looked into the night. The huge plane they had travelled in was parked just outside. He wondered whether its crew grew bored, shuttling back and forth across Europe as if it were no more than a train journey from Oxford to Paddington. He felt sure that if he were a pilot, the romance of flying over the cities of Europe would never diminish.
The white-haired woman was making a telephone call. He could see her, near the duty-free shop, where there was a bubble-type booth for public use. She spoke animatedly for some time; then, having replaced the receiver, went to the bar and bought a drink.
It seemed a good idea. Patrick followed her example, ordered an ouzo, took Phineas Finn from his jacket pocket and settled down to read until it was time to go.
There were about thirty passengers in the plane for the last leg of the journey, and most of them had joined the flight at Athens. The air hostess handed round glasses of fruit squash and there was a relaxed feeling in the cabin. When they touched down, theirs was the only plane Patrick could see on the runway at Heraklion. He gazed up at the wide, dark sky, so full of stars: surely they shone more brightly here than over England?
As soon as Patrick had passed through the barrier, where the travellers’ names were checked against a file of what must be personae non gratae, he was intercepted by a tall young man with auburn hair who represented the travel firm th
rough whom he had booked, and led to a waiting taxi. He had arranged to stay at a hotel just outside Challika, a small coastal town about an hour’s drive from Heraklion. His plan was to hire a car in the morning, and from this base seek out Ilena Pavlou, visit Knossos and Phaestos, and then decide future movements. He did not favour a prolonged stay in a modern tourist hotel and thought with envy of various colleagues who were spending the vacation in Greece. One married couple was driving round the mainland, stopping where the fancy took them, as he and Alec had intended; two families were sharing a villa in Corfu. Felix Lomax was aboard the cruise liner Persephone lecturing to the passengers. After Alec’s death and the theft of the car he had suggested that Patrick should join the ship instead of travelling alone.
Patrick suddenly felt lonely as he got into his taxi. Perhaps someone else would join him. Ahead, getting into another taxi, he saw the white-haired woman from the plane, and wondered where she was going. The few other tourists were being despatched by different couriers employed by rival agents. Patrick’s young man returned, spoke to the driver, said ‘Have a nice time’ to Patrick, and the taxi started.
How unexpected to meet a red-haired Greek, thought Patrick as they sped along the road. He looked about him, hoping to see something of Heraklion, but the airport was outside the town and their route did not pass through it. The road, straight at first, soon began to wind about among the mountains. The driver kept switching his headlights up and then dipping them to signal their approach as they twisted and turned. A crucifix and some charms hung on the windscreen of the taxi, and a photograph of the driver’s wife or girlfriend. At one point, as they went over a ravine, the driver crossed himself. A notorious black spot, Patrick wryly supposed.
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