The Tomb in Turkey

by Simon Brett

  ‘Well, that’s not a bad call, Jude. I love the old New Zealand whites. Particularly the Marlborough Sauvignons.’ He produced the relevant bottle from the fridge. ‘This one’s a beauty. Crisp as a new apple. Still a large one, is it?’

  Jude nodded.

  ‘And do you think Lady Muck from High Tor will change from the Chilean Chardonnay too?’

  ‘I doubt it. I can’t see her wanting to do anything I do.’

  ‘What’s this then? Rifts in the lute? Less than perfect harmony between neighbours?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just, as I said, Carole being Carole.’ And Jude gave Ted a precis of Carole’s recent dithering over the Turkish holiday.

  ‘If she’s behaving like that, I’d have thought you’d be well shot of her. When Carole gets grumpy …’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but Jude picked up the reference. Incongruous though it might seem, Ted Crisp and Carole Seddon had at one point had a brief affair. And it was no doubt during that that he had experienced Carole getting grumpy. ‘Can’t you just go on your own? Or isn’t there one of your many lovers around who …?’

  ‘I don’t have many lovers, Ted.’

  ‘According to Carole you do.’

  ‘She just exaggerates. For someone who claims to have no imagination, she’s extremely inventive when it comes to her view of my love life. She thinks every man I speak to must have been one of my lovers at some point.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather flattering?’

  ‘I’m not sure that it is, actually, no. Anyway, there are other friends I could ask – ones I don’t actually go to bed with – but I can’t do that until I get a definite yea or nay from Carole.’

  ‘Why’s she messing you around like this?’

  ‘It’s just her nature. It’s how she is. Before she does anything she has to go through great rigmaroles of decision. She has to assess all the negatives before she gets near to a positive. Basically, she’s just afraid of anything new. She hasn’t been to Turkey before. So she’s scared she’ll make a fool of herself in unfamiliar surroundings.’

  ‘I think you’re right. How’s the Sauvignon?’

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘I thought you’d agree. They do some very clever things with their wines in New Zealand. Anyway, how come you’ve got this holiday coming up?’

  ‘A friend’s offered me the use of his villa in a village called Kayaköy.’

  ‘Useful friend to have. Or was this for “services rendered”?’ Ted suggested roguishly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Another of all these ex-lovers that Carole goes on about?’

  ‘No,’ Jude lied. ‘He’s a guy called Barney Willingdon.’

  ‘Oh.’ Clearly, the name meant something to Ted.

  ‘Property developer,’ said Jude.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘You’ve met him?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, actually, but I’ve heard a lot about him.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘One of the advantages, Jude – or disadvantages, according to your personality – of being a pub landlord is that a lot of people talk to you.’

  ‘And in your case is it an advantage or disadvantage?’

  ‘Depends who’s doing the talking. You do get some interesting people passing through. You also get your regulars who bore you to death with the same moans every night. Hazard of a publican’s life. I’ve got a mate who runs a pub in London. He has his end of the bar where he always stands when he’s not serving, and over it he’s got this big sign saying “NO SYMPATHY CORNER”.’

  ‘Ooh, I love that. Maybe you should do the same, Ted?’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of it.’

  ‘Anyway, what’s this got to do with Barney Willingdon?’

  ‘Ah, well now, you see, his name is heard quite often round here.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There’s a guy who used to work with him who’s one of my regulars.’

  ‘One of the interesting ones or the moaners?’

  ‘Can’t you tell from my tone of voice?’

  ‘Yes, I certainly can.’

  ‘Name of Fergus McNally.’ Ted Crisp looked at his watch. ‘He’ll be in here soon. On the dot of six every night. You’d recognize him. But you’re not often in here at six. Nobody is, so I’m the one who gets buttonholed. Talk about a captive audience. It’s like I’m nailed to the bloody bar with Fergus till I get a few more customers in.’

  ‘So you never escape?’

  ‘Only if I can fob him off on some other poor bugger and let him bore them to death instead.’

  ‘Ted, this may sound a strange request, but could I volunteer to be “some other poor bugger”?’

  FOUR

  Fergus McNally contrived to look like a rougher version of Barney Willingdon. Both were in their fifties, large and bearded, but whereas the owner of Chantry House glowed with success, around Fergus McNally hung the sour aroma of disappointment. Even if Ted Crisp had not prepared her, and before the new arrival had even opened his mouth, Jude would have identified him as a moaner.

  He ordered ‘the usual’, and Ted pulled him a pint of Sussex Gold. Fergus’s accent was also Sussex, quite similar to Barney’s. Maybe they were both local boys.

  Then, still with a residue of bewilderment at Jude’s request, Ted Crisp introduced them.

  ‘Do you live in Fethering too, Fergus?’ asked Jude.

  ‘Oh yes. One of my rules of life has always been: live near enough to a pub so that you can walk home, whatever state you’re in.’ For no very good reason he let out a hearty chuckle. ‘You imply you do as well.’

  ‘Yes. Down the High Street.’

  ‘Oh, I probably know the house …?’ suggested Fergus.

  But Jude didn’t pick up the cue to volunteer any further information. She’d already identified Fergus McNally as the kind of man it might be difficult to shake off. Ted Crisp, glad to be off the hook, sidled down to the other end of the bar where he picked up a cloth and started assiduously drying dry glasses.

  Fergus had perched on a bar stool, so Jude also drew one up and sat beside him.

  ‘Ted said your name’s Jude. Jude what?’

  ‘People just call me Jude.’

  ‘Well, everyone calls me Fergus. Fortunately, nobody’s ever tried to shorten it. I don’t fancy going through life called “Gus”.’

  ‘Or “Fer”.’

  ‘Nobody’d ever call anyone “Fer”,’ he said, slightly puzzled. Jude got the impression that a sense of humour was not one of his major qualities. ‘Well, this is a nice surprise,’ he went on.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Meeting you. Normally, when I come in of an evening I have to put up with Ted’s moaning. God, he does go on about stuff. It’s not often that I’m introduced to a dishy woman.’

  There was something stiff and clumsy about the way he made the compliment. Whether or not he realized it, Fergus McNally was not a natural ladies’ man.

  ‘Do you work round here too?’ he went on.

  ‘I work from home. I’m a healer.’

  He looked duly surprised. ‘Right. So if I’m suffering from some ghastly illness, I come to you and you lay your hands on me, do you? Sounds rather good.’

  Jude didn’t like the way he said ‘lay your hands’, so she moved the conversation on. ‘What do you do, Fergus?’

  ‘Very little, I’m afraid, at the moment,’ he replied, moving into self-pitying mode. ‘I used to be in property.’

  ‘What aspect of property?’

  ‘Development. Had my own company. But then the recession came, and …’ He shrugged and downed the remains of his pint. It hadn’t lasted very long. He gestured to Jude’s glass. ‘You ready for another?’

  ‘Just a small one to top it up.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Jude had to stop the instinctive reply of ‘Chilean Chardonnay’ and said, ‘A New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.’

  Fergus summoned Ted from his redundant glass
polishing and gave the order. While he served the drinks the landlord flashed a covert, ‘What did I tell you?’ look to Jude. Then he escaped back to the other end of the bar.

  They moved to a small alcove to sit, and Jude picked up the conversation where they’d left off. ‘Yes, the recession was tough on lots of small businesses, wasn’t it?’

  But that offended Fergus. ‘Mine wasn’t a small business. It was international. I’d got developments all over. And would have had a lot more if it hadn’t all gone belly up.’

  ‘What was the problem? Banks refusing to give you credit?’

  ‘Well, it came to that in the end, of course. But it wasn’t what started the rot.’

  Jude was silent, confident that she was going to get Fergus McNally’s long sad saga whether she wanted it or not.

  ‘No, basically I was shafted,’ he went on. ‘Should have stayed on my own.’

  ‘You went into partnership with someone else?’ asked Jude, rather suspecting she knew in which direction the conversation was moving.

  ‘Yes, and he turned out to be a complete bastard.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Screwed me totally. Ruined my life. At the end of it I was bankrupt and my marriage had broken up. Had to sell the big house and all our personal property abroad. That’s why I’ve ended up in a tatty rented flat in Fethering of all godforsaken places.’

  There was an inevitability about what was about to be said, so Jude asked the question sooner rather than later. ‘What was your partner’s name?’

  And sure enough the reply came: ‘Barney Willingdon.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You sound as if you know him.’

  ‘We have met, yes,’ replied Jude, offering no further elaboration.

  ‘Well, when you next see him, you can tell him from me that he’s a total bastard and I’ll get my own back on him one day!’

  ‘I’m unlikely to see him again,’ Jude lied. ‘What actually happened?’

  ‘Barney and I had known each other from kids – even went to the same bloody primary school in Worthing. Separate ways after that, but we both ended up in the property business. Both started out locally, Barney buying up big houses and turning them into retirement homes, while I was developing student accommodation in Brighton. We’d bump into each other occasionally, all perfectly pleasant. We were kind of rivals but not really, because we were in such different areas of the business. Just a bit of one-upmanship about which one of us was making more dosh. And we were both doing all right back then. Late eighties, early nineties it was hard to go wrong in property. And then Barney and I both got involved abroad. I was building holiday villas in Spain, he was more Eastern Mediterranean.’

  ‘Turkey?’

  ‘Yes. He started there, building in the Fethiye area. He flew me out a few times to see if I wanted to invest. Sadly, at that point I didn’t have any spare cash. Otherwise I would have done quite well out of it. But Barney’s kind of restless when it comes to his business, he always wants to be moving on, always thinks there’s a bigger pay day just around the corner. So he started to get involved in Northern Cyprus. He said it was a free-for-all out there, everyone coining it. And then one day Barney asked me out for lunch and put a proposition to me.’

  There was a silence. Jude waited.

  ‘It was on a completely different scale from individual villas on the Turkish mainland. Barney had this really big scheme in mind, whole valley full of holiday apartments to the east of Kyrenia. He’d got local Turkish partners – you can’t do business out there without that – but he needed more investment. And at that lunch I tell him my business has really taken off and this time, yes, I might have some cash to invest.

  ‘Next thing I know I’m being flown out to Northern Cyprus, put up in one of his luxury villas. I’m meeting Barney’s local partners, I’m shown the apartment builds they’ve already done, I’m looking at the site where the new development’s going to be. I’m meeting British expats who’re telling me what a fabulous lifestyle they have out there. And it is a great place, proper Mediterranean holiday island. Lovely beaches, restaurants, diving, other sea sports – great. And enough archaeological sites for people who like that kind of thing. These bloody great Crusaders’ castles. It’s a fabulous place, and property’s a lot cheaper there than it is in other parts of the Med.

  ‘Well, it all looks bloody rosy, I can tell you, and pretty soon I announce to Barney that I’m in. I accept his deal, it all goes to the lawyers, everything sorted out, we’re partners.’

  ‘What, the two companies merge?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t like that, but it was a closer arrangement than me just investing in his mainland villas. We’re partners on the one project, the Northern Cyprus development, that’s it. And at first everything goes fine. Building work starts – and with it a blooming great marketing campaign, selling the apartments to the Brits.’

  ‘Always the Brits. No Turkish?’

  ‘No, Turks don’t want to live in places like that. This was strictly holiday accommodation, and if you can fill it you’re on to a real money-spinner. Anyway, these apartments are being snapped up off-plan like there’s no tomorrow. Future’s looking even rosier for Barney and me.’

  Gloom encroached further on to his face. Jude noticed that his glass was empty. ‘Get you another?’

  Fergus McNally consented, too preoccupied to realize it wasn’t strictly speaking her turn. At the bar, as he filled clean glasses for them, Ted Crisp murmured to Jude, ‘Got on to the subject of his business partner yet?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Then you could be there a while. I’ve got a camp bed out the back if you find you need it.’

  She returned to the alcove, handed over Fergus’s pint and encouraged him to continue.

  He was more than happy to pick up the cue. ‘Well, what we get next is political problems. I mean, I don’t know if you understand the status of Northern Cyprus, as it were, internationally?’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘The place is not quite a rogue state, but it’s as near as dammit. It’s only recognized by Turkey. Lot of Turkish soldiers stationed there. This all happened after an invasion by the Turks – 1974 I think it was. Before then there’d been a mix of Greek Cypriots and Turkish Cypriots in the area. After the invasion, most of the Greeks went south to the bit that’s part of Greece and a lot of Turkish Cypriots came up north. So there’s now two states with a border between them – well, actually there’s a United Nations buffer zone that goes right through the middle of Nicosia.

  ‘I don’t want to bore you with politics, Jude, but there’ve been lots of initiatives to get Cyprus reunified. And they’ve got stronger as Turkey’s become keen to join the European Union. The existence of this unrecognized state of Northern Cyprus has been a bit of a stumbling block there.

  ‘Needless to say, the uncertainty over the place’s future has an effect on everything, particularly the property business. There are disputes over ownership of a lot of land there. The Greek Cypriots were turfed out, see, but if there is reunification there’s a strong possibility they might come back and claim their old property. And when we talk about property we’re talking about the land, regardless of what’s been subsequently built on it. Foreign buyers could find themselves owning a property but not owning the land on which it’s built. So, you see, there’s a lot of confusion over who owns what – or who will own what in the future.’

  ‘So is the land where you and Barney were building your apartments disputed territory?’

  ‘Potentially, yes. Not, of course, that he told me that when he’s all chummy trying to get me involved.’

  ‘And is that why the whole thing went belly up?’

  ‘One of the reasons. First, there’s something in the news about an English couple who’ve bought on Greek-owned land and face the prospect of having their property demolished, and that’s the kind of rumour which doesn’t do a lot for public confidence. It’s not exactly an incentive for peop
le to buy in Northern Cyprus, is it? And then, of course, you get the financial crisis and the banks stop lending and nobody’s got any money and …’

  ‘But surely,’ said Jude, ‘Barney Willingdon would be suffering from all that just as much as you did?’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But oh no. He’s a shifty bastard, and his lawyers are even shiftier. And there was something dodgy going on with his Northern Cypriot partners too. Result of it all is that Barney gets out of all responsibility for the development of the apartments, and I’m landed with the full costs for everything.’

  ‘But that must’ve been illegal, mustn’t it?’

  ‘Not as it turned out, no. Like I say, he’s got very shifty lawyers. And mine, I regret to say, were way too honest. And slow. And, now I come to think of it, bloody stupid. Couple of clauses they didn’t pick up on, and there am I, shafted – but totally legally. I have no redress through the courts. I just have to face the music on my own. Which led to me being made bankrupt, losing my house and—’

  ‘Yes, you told me everything that happened.’ Jude’s sympathy for Fergus McNally was not total. She got the impression that, given the opportunity – and brighter lawyers – he’d have been quite capable of pulling the same kind of deception on Barney. But nonetheless she did say, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I – bloody sorry! And in time Barney Willingdon’s going to be bloody sorry too!’

  ‘But you say he didn’t do anything illegal?’

  ‘No, no, he’s far too clever for that. Like I said, I can’t get at him through the courts. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be revenged on him somehow.’ Fergus took a long swallow of beer and then said, with almost frightening intensity, ‘I’ll get the bastard.’

  ‘Are you talking physical violence?’ asked Jude.

  ‘No. I hope I won’t be reduced that that. Not that I wouldn’t take great pleasure in bashing the bastard’s face in. But I’d rather get him to experience the kind of public humiliation I’ve had to go through.’

  ‘You don’t have the means of bankrupting him, do you?’

  ‘No. I’ve been doing some research into his background, though. The Northern Cyprus apartments aren’t the first dodgy deal he’s been associated with.’