by Peter Helton
I was slowly coming around to her way of thinking. ‘In other words, nobody would question it much if I wrapped an old Citroën round an olive tree.’
‘No one would bat an eyelid, especially with the police as corrupt as they’re supposed to be round here.’
‘OK, I’ll drive carefully.’
‘Going somewhere?’
I was. I had played down any worries about being targeted – much like Morva had, in fact – but secretly I had had enough. What I really wanted now was to wrap this Kyla thing up as soon as possible, so I drove back into town. On my useless tourist map I picked out a different route to Kerkyra, longer, more torturously twisted, but at least it would be unexpected, making it less likely that dirty great big lorries were lying in wait for me en route.
Of course, even once I had found Kyla, there’d still be Morva’s spooks to take care of, but at least I’d feel a free agent again. It was pretty obvious to me that firing Margarita would solve many of Morva’s sabotage problems, though there was always the chance that it would make the locals even more hostile. And then who would cook for the students who’d been promised an all-in Greek experience? I shuddered at the memory of Morva’s evil curry. Where would she find a replacement willing to come to this forsaken place? So, keeping her enemies close, Morva kept Margarita on.
The narrow, twisting route forced me to go even more slowly than usual, allowing me to take in some of the sights and smells I had recently ignored due to obvious distractions. When the view opened up across a steep and narrow valley, I stopped and got out of the car. On the opposite side of the valley sat a red-roofed village. It consisted of no more than thirty-odd houses and seemed to float in a turbulent sea of trees. Looking from here, the continuous swell of green appeared to consist of only two types of tree: the ubiquitous olive and the exclamatory cypress. A strong west wind was today working this forest of olives, making the trees flash the silver underside of their leaves towards the sky, turning the vista into a restless, flickering image. Standing here by the side of the road looking across, I could see no people in the village. The smell of burning charcoal and wild oregano travelled on the wind. A sudden romantic impulse made me imagine this tiny hamlet as my home – past, present and future. I could also smell the sea, a sliver of which flickered not far beyond the roofs. Perhaps once the Kyla thing was sorted, Annis and I could visit the place, rent a room, try for a real holiday. I checked on the map in the car but, try as I might, I could not match what I saw to anything on the map. This could only mean two things: it wasn’t marked on the map or else I had managed to get lost in the hills. As I stood by the car looking across, a flash of refracted sunlight caught my eye but was not repeated. It reminded me of the reflection of light from the birdwatcher’s binoculars I had seen at Chlomós; it also reminded me that just because I couldn’t see anybody didn’t mean no one was watching me. I checked all around me and listened, but didn’t see a soul and the only thing I heard was the crow of a distant cockerel. But the mood had changed; the romantic bubble had burst. I drove faster now on my way into town.
Corfu Town felt hot and dusty today and I was glad to escape into the coolness of the post office. I called Tim at work.
‘No, we don’t have to pretend I’m talking about the cat. I came into town to take care of something else. Have you had a chance to check out the names I gave you?’
‘I have, with varying success.’
‘OK, start at the top.’
‘Morton? You can stop being paranoid, or perhaps not. He really is working for your supermarket group, but I can’t find a job description for him. He zips all over the world. Sometimes he stays in the background and sometimes he appears as a spokesman. As he did when some baby food in the States had been contaminated with glass, or when a lot of cats and dogs died from their own-brand pet food. He’s a sort of troubleshooter and spin doctor.’
‘Well, at least he’s real. I never checked with anyone that he was who he said he was. I was just dazzled by the wad of fifties and the turbot on the menu. He could have been anyone.’
‘He seems to turn up whenever something happens that may taint the company image. I suppose all global brands have people like that.’
‘Whole departments of them, I should think. But one employee not returning from holiday . . . how’s that going to harm a company like that?’
‘That depends what she’s been up to, of course.’
‘I suspect that’s what I’m here to find out.’
‘And?’
‘I know she’s been here before; I found a picture of her in a taverna – a holiday pic. And in the same picture was the guy who ran the taverna having a drink with her. But he denied ever having seen her. The other person in the picture was Gloves.’
‘Toyota woman? Is she still following you?’
‘Not for a few days. I think she knows pretty well where to find me if she wants to, so perhaps she’s packed it in. Got anything else for me?’
‘Hang on.’ At the other end Tim shuffled paper. ‘You’ve got a joyous bunch of students up there. Your Rob character – Robert Oxley – he was tricky to find. Unremarkable, except for the fact that he lost every penny he had in the recent financial upheaval. He shouldn’t have: he’s a retired accountant.’
That explained his method of painting at least. Another mystery solved. ‘He must have taken his eye off the ball.’
‘His wife died of something or other around then too, and soon after that your Robert sold his house in Portsmouth and disappeared.’
‘And now he’s found. I always find people I’ve not been looking for. There’s no money in it.’
‘Says here “relatives are worried about his mental state”.’
‘They can stop worrying – he’s fine. Though I’m not really sure it’s our job to tell them that. If he wants to be disappeared, then that’s his business. It doesn’t say there he’s a specialist in reptiles, does it?’
‘Reptiles? No. Why? Oh no, don’t tell me you’ve got snakes out there . . . I hate snakes.’
‘Snakes? In Corfu? No, it’s like Ireland here – no snakes at all.’
‘That’s all right, then. I can’t be having with snakes.’
‘What else have you got?’
‘OK, let’s see . . . ah yes, another cheerful character – Sophie Little. Found loads on her. Quite a story. Her son died on a holiday down there and she’s refused to leave the island ever since. Her husband stayed with her in Corfu for a while, but then decided enough was enough and went back to work in England. They’re from Lincoln. I think she had some sort of breakdown and doesn’t want to believe her son’s dead.’
‘I heard. I know all that.’
‘Did you know her son had tried to kill himself before that?’
‘No one mentioned that. So it could have been suicide. He could have gone diving and stayed down there on purpose. While his mother was waiting for him in the boat.’
‘Cheerful thought.’
‘I think mentally she’s still sitting in that boat.’
‘Well, perhaps she should row ashore sometime soon. She’s got a fifteen-year-old daughter back here.’
‘Shit – no one mentioned that, either.’
‘None of my business, but perhaps someone should remind her?’
‘Any more skeletons rattling about?’
‘Oh yes, your last student also has an unusual past.’
An image of Helen painting naked among the ruins intruded on my mind. ‘Her present isn’t exactly standard issue, either. Let’s have it.’
‘She’s got form.’
‘The beautiful Helen? Just tell me it wasn’t manslaughter.’
‘She did a full four-year stretch for embezzlement. She only got out quite recently, too.’
Prison. Perhaps that’s what she meant when she said she had lived in a small community and not cared for it much. ‘Four years? Isn’t that rather a lot? Must have been one hell of an embezzlement.’
‘It was. She worked for a big finance company and defrauded her employers for ages.’
‘Still – four years? You’d get less for mugging little old ladies.’
‘No early release, either. Because she refused to reveal where all the money went. They think she has lots of it stashed away somewhere.’
‘And what better way to spend your loot than on perpetual painting holidays in the sun?’
‘Oh, one or two spring to my mind. Anything else I can help you with today, sir?’
‘Was there another name on the list?’
‘Yeah, that Kladders or Kludders bloke – you didn’t know how to spell him – but I couldn’t find anything on him at all.’
Somehow I hadn’t really expected Tim to find Kladders whose name I couldn’t spell. There’d been something about him – the extremely self-assured manner, perhaps – that made me suspect he would be difficult to pin down.
I had one other business to take care of in town. It took me a moment to get my bearings but, remembering a few of the left turns I had taken last time, I soon found it again, between the stationer’s and the draper’s.
Inside, I deeply inhaled the kind of aroma you can only produce by continuously brewing coffee and displaying an awful lot of cake in the same room. The selection behind the glass of the counter was dizzying.
My Greek wasn’t quite up to the task so I resorted to pointing. ‘Aftó, kaí aftó and – what the hell – aftó as well.’
The table right outside the door was free and I chose a chair facing the street junction to settle down for some people-watching. The architecture still looked Italian to me, but the faces and voices were different. Corfiots dressed far more simply then their Italian counterparts did, though naturally by far the worst-dressed around here were the tourists. To a certain degree, I had to include my lightly crumpled self in this, having long cultivated an allergy to steam irons, but at least I wore the same clothes I would back home, while here I saw many an outfit the owner wouldn’t dream of wearing down his own high street.
The waiter unloaded shiny chocolate cake, kataífi encrusted with pistachios, baklava glistening with honey syrup, coffee and iced water from his tray, and the little boy inside me – the one that always thinks it’s other people having all the fun – stopped whining. As I sunk my fork into the shredded puff pastry of the pistachio-bejewelled kataífi, I couldn’t help thinking that even being a self-employed, piss-poor private eye did have its moments. At least, I thought, I didn’t have to run around in a suit and tie in this heat, like that poor chap coming round the corner just then. Looking straight at me. Coming straight towards me. Pushing his sunglasses more firmly up his nose. Walking right up to my table. My fork froze in mid-pastry-piercing.
‘Mr Honeysett.’ It wasn’t a question. He had spoken my name softly and in a tone of disappointment, as though ‘What have I always told you about eating foreign cakes?’ could well be his next words.
I quickly forked some pastry in my mouth in case they were. ‘It is. Who are you?’
He sat down opposite me without my invitation. He was pale. His hands showed a slight tremor that seemed to run through the entire man. Every inch of him appeared to sweat. Was he ill? Or was he scared?
Neither. When he took off his sunglasses, I could see he was in the grip of one hell of a hangover. ‘My name’s Fletcher. Mr Morton sends me. Your help is no longer required; the matter has now been resolved. I’ve been instructed to settle up with you.’ With a tragic effort, Fletcher tried for a smile, but he fluffed it and half smirked, then gave up. He fumbled a manila envelope from his pocket and found space for it between the cakes on the tiny table.
‘What does “been resolved” mean?’ I asked, spearing more pastry. ‘Has the woman turned up?’
‘All some sort of misunderstanding, I believe. I don’t really know much about it.’ He nudged the envelope another half-inch towards me.
‘She’s back in Bath, then? Back at work?’
‘I believe so. Though I’m told she’s transferring. Abroad. Canada, probably.’ Fletcher started to nod reassuringly, but hangover pain flickered across his eyes.
‘Canada. Nice big place. I haven’t yet worked out how much you lot owe me.’
‘There’s four thousand there. Mr Morton trusts that will cover it.’
‘Does he?’ His trust was well founded. Even at the rate I was going, four grand would allow me to stay at this table eating baklava all summer. It was roughly twice the amount I’d have charged and I was sure Morton must have known that. Then, why? People don’t usually get paid bonuses for not getting results. Unless, of course, getting no results was the desired result. I lifted the fat envelope and popped open the flap. Fifties. Also not the usual way supermarkets paid their employees. Something wasn’t right, though in quite an acceptable, carrot-cake sort of way. I stuffed the envelope in my jacket without counting the notes, skewered more pastry and smiled benignly at the sweating Fletcher, who looked as if he was fighting the urge to throw up.
‘I expect you’ll be driving back to England soon?’ he asked weakly.
‘Yes, almost immediately. I’ve had enough of this place.’
‘Good, good,’ he said, with genuine relief in his voice. ‘Well, I’ll say goodbye, then.’
‘Will you? Back to . . . the office? What’s your job description?’
He was already turning away. ‘Oh, I just happened to be in the area. Goodbye, Mr Honeysett.’ He disappeared into the tourist throng.
I called into the shop for more coffee so they’d know I wasn’t doing a runner, then walked to the corner around which Fletcher had disappeared. At first I thought he’d vanished, but then I just managed to catch a glimpse of him getting into the back of a silver Mercedes which drove off the instant he’d pulled shut the door.
Back at my little table I sipped coffee and nibbled through the last of my cakes. So, job over, and for once I’d got paid and promptly and in cash. No receipts required, I noticed; probably petty cash to them. I breathed in deeply. Here I was, full of cake, on a beautiful Mediterranean island. My lover was here, summer was on its way, I had a few grand in my pocket, the euro was wobbling and the exchange rate was good. So what if the Kyla thing was a bit weird and I never found her – you couldn’t win them all, so why worry about it?
I worried about it all the way back to the post office. Dialling Morton’s number, I steeled myself to fight my way past his secretary. ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognized’ was all I got, no matter how carefully I dialled the numbers Morton had given me at the restaurant back in Bath. Eventually, I gave up and called Tim again.
‘Next time you have a moment, go to Kyla Biggs’s address in Marlborough Buildings. See if there’s any sign of life. On the ground floor lives an old lady called Walden. She’s friendly with Biggs. Tell her you work for me and ask her if Kyla Biggs has been back.’
What possessed me? I had been paid and told everything was fine, I was free to spend the loot on a sunny island and perhaps even get some painting done, and what did I do? I got in the car and headed for trouble.
NINETEEN
‘It is a beautiful island, you have to admit.’ I was feeling defensive all of a sudden.
‘I never said it wasn’t. But there’s just too much weirdness going on around here to make for a relaxing holiday. At least now that you’ve been paid, let’s rent a room somewhere. Somewhere less . . . weird.’ Annis waved her arms at the abandoned village from her vantage point on top of a low drystone wall.
I was sitting nearby on a bald rock, making rapid sketches of anything that caught my eye – collapsed sheds, broken wells, olive trees, and now grasshoppers . . .
I gave up on the grasshoppers. ‘It would feel like we’re abandoning Morva.’ I felt guilty for secretly having entertained the same thoughts of escape on the drive home while the money was trying to burn a room-with-seaview-shaped hole in my pocket.
‘But you did tell her we think Margarita is behin
d all the weird stuff going on.’
‘I did, but . . .’
‘But she said she’s not sure and, anyway, better the devil you know and who’s going to do the cooking?’
‘Almost word for word.’
‘I know, I was listening at the door. So what do you think we’ll be able to do for her by staying on? Apart from making her feel less alone – OK, that’s obvious – but we can’t hang around for ever.’
Stay the summer. Hang around. Hell, stay.
‘Well, if you heard all that, then you must know how she feels. She’s sunk all her money and hopes and whatnot into this project.’
‘It’s the whatnots that worry me. I also heard that you didn’t tell her what you really think.’
‘What do I really think, I wonder?’
‘That buying a house in the back of beyond wasn’t such a bright idea, no matter how cheap.’
‘I think she’s long come to that conclusion herself.’
‘Also, that not all amateur painters caught the Van Gogh virus and want to stay in monastic cells with only a DIY communal shower.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Which produces one minute of hot water in every hour.’
‘Perhaps . . .’
‘And use a long-drop toilet with enough mosquitoes inside to turn you anaemic.’
‘Bit of fly spray . . .’
‘And a certain lack of nightlife . . . There’s someone coming through the trees.’
Through the deep midday shadows under a group of olive trees stumbled Helen. Stumbling, because she was constantly looking behind her as though afraid of being followed. In her right hand she clutched a rock the size of an orange.
‘What’s up with her?’ Annis sat up on the wall. ‘Helen? Over here!’
‘Oh, hi, it’s you.’ She looked behind one more time, then walked towards us.
‘Don’t they say “Beware of painters bearing stones”?’ Annis murmured.
‘No.’
‘They do now.’
‘Hi,’ Helen said again as she walked up, looking relieved but still tense. ‘Mind if I join you for a bit?’