by Andrew Hill
"You know these flimsy whojamaflips, honey...napkins, or whatever you Greek people call them...well, honey, I sure did write it down on one but I can't find it anywhere. Could you do me a favour and get it for me again? Name's Lindon, Robert Lindon."
A few moments later, a real American voice came on the line.
"Gordon & Devereaux, can I help you?"
Chris dropped the false accent.
"Hello, I'm calling on behalf on Mr Lindon. He wanted to know if there were any messages for him."
"Which Mr Lindon is that, sir? Mr R K or Mr C J? We handle both Mr Lindon Senior's and his son's affairs."
"'His son's...'" Chris repeated the words to himself and had to make an effort to hold back his surprise. Bob had never mentioned a family. "Er, no, sorry. Er, just anything for Mr R K Lindon - you know, he called earlier."
"Yes sir. Well, I'm afraid Mr Devereaux is out now and I haven't anything on my desk in that connection. Would you like us to call you back tomorrow morning... you're in Greece, aren't you. Gee, I bet it's beautiful out there. Such a pity about his poor son, isn't it. Still, those doctors over in England can work wonders. They can make him as good as new. Tell Mr Lindon all of us here wish him all the best and we're rooting for him. I'd better take your name, sir..."
Chris did not like to push his luck by asking anything else. He had already found out a lot more than he could have dreamed from just the one chance phone call. Neither could he see any point in inventing a name.
"My name's Christopher Austin. I'm working with Mr Lindon here at the moment."
"Oh right, Mr Austin. Thank you for your call. Did you want me to ask Mr Devereaux to call back tomorrow?"
"Er, no thanks. If you don't mind the charge, it might be easier for Bob, I mean Mr Lindon, to call you when he gets up. Pretty late over here, you know!"
"That's fine, Mr Austin. It all goes on the account, anyway! Goodbye."
Chris forgot the earlier panic after the Michaelis conversation and walked slowly out of the hotel.
"Parakalo! Excuse! Mister...!" The hotel receptionist was running after him. "You pay, you pay!"
Chris turned and apologised, handing the excited man a 5000 bill, telling him to keep the change if there was any. As he wound his way back through the streets he met Tina walking back. He leaned out of the window and squeezed her hand.
"You are a strange man," she remarked. Chris could only sigh in agreement and apology, squeezing her hand once more, gently, before moving off again. The streets were quiet now, except for a few couples returning from the night's entertainment. He knew that tomorrow morning he would have to bring Bob out of himself somehow and that their break on Kos was over.
Chapter XXXVII Harry’s Story
Even if he had avoided being badly hit in the fight, Harry was in a poor state by the time the police arrived and he could only groan in pain as he was lifted onto a stretcher and carried away. Evelyn had seen to that in the few minutes after Collette made the emergency calls. She had neither the strength nor the will to hold back Evelyn's wrath as Harry's pathetic admissions had poured out. He had made a fair bit for himself that had been flying around during the Chris Austin affair and had expected his involvement in some shady side dealings with money owing to a group of dockers to be lumped in with the more spectacular failure of Chris's own activities. He had expected, and desperately hoped, that Chris would be put away and take the blame for the total loss experienced by the pension fund under his control, so avoiding any further questions being asked about the twenty thousand or so that Harry had made for himself. When the court had released him there had been a general backlash amongst those who still held him responsible but none more fervent than the predictable fury of the dockers. They wanted their own form of justice and were, through their own union investigations, getting close to the truth. Harry just could not have coped with the revelation that he, after all, was the one who had had best part of their money and had headed them off his own tail by agreeing to lead them to Chris.
He had invented the story of his own wife's experience at their hands and knew that there was little chance of her ever meeting the others - she did not really have anything to do with them. Harry had, though, vehemently denied having anything to do with the Newlands estate killings. He had never wanted anything like that and it was not part of any of the dockers' plan. He knew Chris had been staying there with Gill but, as no one ever seemed to answer the phone, he had assumed, and the dockers' agents had made enquiries to confirm the assumption, that Chris had moved way shortly after the trial had ended. Even after the first instalment of Evelyn's beating, he had stuck to the same story and, as his head lolled forward onto his chest, barely conscious after the second, it remained the same.
Chapter XXXVIII Coma
Collette stood at the doorway, watching the morning sun rise over Newbury. The hospital doors swung behind her and Evelyn gently slapped her shoulder.
"Come on, young lady," he said quietly. "They're doing the best they can. At least she's alive..."
"If you can call that alive. Honestly, Evelyn, it's horrible. She just lies there. She's so beautiful - hardly a mark on her - and she looks so peaceful, and yet... and yet we don't know if she can hear us, see us or feel us. I mean, look, if she's alive then what must it be like for her? It's not fair..."
Collette tried hard to hold back the tears but failed and sobbed against Evelyn's shoulder. Although the pressure of her intense grip on his arm hurt and made him grimace, he said nothing, just gazed across the park into the distance, sadly turning over in his own mind his own short memory of Gill Chalmers. The polite doctor's words still echoed:
"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't know how long. Patients can remain in this type of coma for a long time. Maybe a month or sometimes more. It is possible that she may never..."
Evelyn forced his attention elsewhere and guided Collette to the car.
At her flat, the phone rang and rang.
Chapter XXXIX Escape
"Damn!" cursed Chris, the tone bleeping in his ear as he tried to get through to Collette. He gave up and went back to a table outside Angelo's cafe bar where Bob was finishing a glass of orange.
"No luck?" he enquired, seeing the annoyance in Chris's face.
"No," replied Chris, sitting down heavily and spreading butter onto a crusty slab of bread, dropping the knife with a clatter. "She must be staying somewhere else - far too early to have got up and gone out. Tried Gill's too, but apparently, she went out yesterday afternoon and hasn't been back. Bit too early to disturb the others..." He stopped, realising Bob wouldn't know what he was talking about.
"Look, Bob," he continued, "I want you to know that I had nothing to do with what happened in Switzerland..."
"I know that, Christopher," said Bob, nodding slowly and reaching out for a coffee. "I know that. Not your style."
"But it's time we did some talking, Bob. Those problems aren't just going to float away. There's all hell breaking loose - again - back home and..." Chris looked Bob straight in the eye and thought how seldom the American would hold his gaze. Sure enough, this time, too, the older man looked away as he stirred his coffee. "...and we're at the centre of it all." Chris stopped for a moment and kicked a chair round beside him, putting his right leg upon it and smoothing the hairs on his tanned skin. He had thought a lot about how to put the next question and knew that he would only get the one chance to catch Bob off guard. He certainly had not planned it for now but, then, he argued with himself, why not? A surprise for himself would surely be a surprise for Bob and no amount of crafty calculation of provoked response or whatever it might be that kept the sixty-year-old American on his toes would do much good now. He picked up a sugar pack, rattled it slowly and poured the contents into his cup, then screwed the paper into a tiny ball. Flicking it between finger and thumb it went spinning off amongst the debris of an earlier breakfast on the next table. Bob's eyes followed it.
"What's C J doing in England?"
&
nbsp; One question. For the first time he had known, Bob froze. The stirring stopped as his fingers just rested on the spoon, standing vertical in the cup, the brown liquid still swirling under its own momentum. His gaze fixed on a point somewhere out to sea. For what seemed an age there was silence. Chris found himself almost frightened to move his head and subconsciously continued to stroke his leg. The movement of passers-by was a coloured blur, like an out-of-focus picture. The background hubbub of the cafe bar and street had, for an instant, practically died but now seemed gradually to return. It started as a distant rumble and hardly noticeable voices. Then one or two particular voices came through, fading in and out of the accompanying, but still quiet, street noise. Slowly the rumble increased to a roar and the voices multiplied. Reaching normal volume as a motorcycle passed, its riders laughing. Chris tried to shake his head to force his concentration to return to Bob, who had now transferred his gaze from the distance to the spoon resting on the table. But the noises continued to increase. Voices now seemed to shout at him, faces looming at him from a distant as if viewed through some grotesque magnifying lens. The blur of colour changed to grey and white, then to red and green only, then purple and yellow. Metallic clangs and the thud of feet on sand jangled and pounded his brain, rising ever louder until his own breathing seemed to him more like a howling gale. Bob's mouth moved but the words were lost. Rising still to a crescendo of sound, it stopped abruptly. A half-second of pure white. Silent brightness. Chris blinked at the sun in his eyes. Movement, volume and colour were normal again. He looked around as if to check he was not being stared at. Bob was talking quietly.
"...straight from the hip, don't you. But Christopher, I figure you'd best find out about your own problems first. Make that call to your folks back home."
Chris was still slightly dazed but, in any event, was not about to push things. Asking at another time might be easier now, after all, he thought. And he did want to talk to someone and get a grip on what was going on. He agreed with a brief "OK", and sauntered over to the hotel across the street.
Gill was still not back and he couldn't get through to Collette. He tried again. No luck. He decided to call Michaelis. This time he got through.
"Michaelis. Hi. It's Chris. Have you heard anything?"
"No, Chris. I was out last night. Did you speak to your friend?"
"I got hold of Evelyn - in his car - and he'd been out with Gill and Collette. I asked him to check if they were OK and said I'd call Collette this morning but I can't get any reply. I guess I'll have to try later."
"OK, Chris. About the events in Switzerland. Is Bob with you?"
"Yes, he's having breakfast."
"Don't think too badly of us. It really is necessary to find out just what that man has up his sleeve. We think you're the only one who can do it. Does he still trust you?"
"Difficult to say for sure but I reckon so. All that TV stuff really shook him but he's not said a word so far about anything. I tell you what I have found out, though. He's got a son and he's in England- pretty crazy, I know, but it seems to be so."
"A son. He's never mentioned that to anyone. Where in England?"
"I don't know. With a bit of luck I'll b able to get some more information during the next day or two. But first of all I want to be sure Gill's OK...and Collette...funny that she should come back into things at this stage. I don't know quite what I'll say to her but I think I'll have another try now."
Michaelis did not volunteer any more views and the conversation was left at that for the time being. There was a lot more that each could have said but the urgency of knowing that there was no danger, and the overall extraordinary nature of the circumstances prevented it.
Chris made another effort to call Collette. The ringing tone was clear. It continued but he held on. "I'll give it four more rings," he said to himself, counting, "one...two..."
"Hello..."
"Collette. It's Chris." He felt strangely nervous, yet relieved to have got through. He could not remember when he had last spoken to her on the phone but her voice immediately sparked recollection of past events and times, and it was only with a very great effort that he managed to avoid continuing with 'I'm sorry...'. Instead, he let her speak.
"Chris. How did you know? I'm so pleased you rang. It's all so sad, Chris...you've got to come home, please. Last night Harry and..."
"Harry!" exclaimed Chris, anger building up inside him. "What's happened?"
"Yes, that bastard Harry and another man followed us back home and tried to get Gill to bring you back or tell them where you were. Evelyn came in - there was a big fight and Gill's hurt..."
"What.. what did they do to her?" Chris was now trembling. "Tell me, please."
"The other man pushed her across the room and she caught her head on something. Hard. She's unconscious still in the hospital. They say she's not physically hurt otherwise but, well, it's like a coma. She doesn't say anything, move or even seem to notice us. Oh, Chris, poor Gill, it's all so sad. Come back. I don't know what to do. We need you."
"Oh my God. What about you? Are you OK?"
"Yes, I was lucky, I suppose. Evelyn was fantastic. He came in - Gill must have left the door open - and practically killed Harry. The other one got away. The police have Harry, now. Well, he's in the hospital but he won't be going anywhere for a long time. They say he had been working with the dockers to try and get you. He hadn't wanted anyone to get hurt like this but it got out of hand. Where are you?"
"I'm in Greece. With Bob Lindon. I think I'm getting close to something but I don't really know if it's all worth it now. Did the hospital say when Gill might come round?"
"They can't be sure if she will come round. They don't know." Collette was crying and Chris cursed the distance between them. "She's such a lovely person and it's just not fair. None of it. I didn't really understand you, I suppose, but I think I do now. She told me a lot and, well, I know how you feel and I'm sorry."
"Collette. You shouldn't say that, but thanks. I was the one that was going to say sorry but I seem to have said it so often that it sounds a bit wet these days."
"Don't think about it."
"I do. I wish I could do something to help you."
"Come back."
"I will. I have to. There's no point staying here. I'll have to figure out a way of getting Bob to come with me. Maybe it's time, after all, that he stood up for the rest of us. Losing money was one thing but, Christ, this is just crazy."
Chris told her to keep in touch with anyone who could look after her and suggested that she stay close to Evelyn, if possible, who would help. Michaelis, too, and, of course, John Tyler, whom she knew pretty well. Curiously, Harry had had nothing to say about the Newlands estate killings so it was essential that she still kept out of trouble and, Chris emphasised, kept an eye on Gill when she came round. He would try and confirm his arrangements for getting back in the next couple of days.
Throughout the conversation, he found himself having to convince himself that he was, indeed, speaking to Collette and not Gill. It was a strange sensation. In their short time together, the two girls had clearly become very close and Collette had picked up a number of expressions that he had always found uniquely Gill's. There was nothing he could put his finger on, just a sense that Collette seemed to have changed. It was the same, tender, young, slightly sad girl he had once known, but now with a new and endearing openness in the way she came across. The two words 'come back' had been expressed to mean so much more.
It was not easy to put the phone down, or even to say goodbye. Collette made no move to end the exchange of words - the first of any meaning for well over a year. She seemed frightened but would cope. Above all she was lonely. She could put on a brave show and had often been surrounded by friends and hopeful admirers but had seldom let her inner feelings show. Finally, Chris promised again to get back and walked lowly out of the hotel into the late morning heat.
"Holy shit!!" he cried, passers-by turning as he stood sta
ring at the table where Bob had been sitting, now vacant, a coffee unfinished and bread lying on a plate. He ran back to their apartment, darting between the cyclists and small vehicles in the narrow street.
Reaching the stairs, he paused for a second, breathing hard after the exertion. The door above flapped open in the breeze. He raced up the concrete steps and looked around the room. His own things lay as before but there was no sign of Bob Lindon, his clothes or suitcase. Chris wheeled round and slammed an open palm against the painted wall.
Chapter XL The Bourbon Run
"Someone's got to bring him back," said Paul. Evelyn nodded and looked around the table at Brian Hawkins, John Tyler, Paul and back at John Tyler.
"How did he take the news about Gill?"
"Don't know. Collette spoke to him. He seemed pretty sound and said he'd return but no one's heard anything since," said Evelyn.
"Trouble is," Tyler said, "we don't even know for sure that he's still on Kos. He could be anywhere in Greece - or even on his way home perhaps. I'd be more than happy to give him a hand bringing old Bob back but I don't think there's much point in running around Europe at the moment."
"Hmm, fair enough," agreed Paul. "Any views, Brian?"
Brian sat quietly. He had paid out a fair bit so far and had not seen much of a return to date on the outlay. Although he did not speak as much as the others, or have the menacing gruffness of Paul, he nevertheless very badly wished to bring Bob to account for his actions and felt guilty about the trouble caused. The news of Gill, still lying silent after all night in a coma, had hit all of them hard but Brian had taken it to heart. Before setting off for the meeting he had spent hours watching the flames in the fireplace at his Lancashire home. Sometimes in the flickering yellow patterns he could make out the laughing faces and plush surroundings that were so often a feature of the London meetings a couple of years before. Paul's question brought him back to the realities of the typically thirties drawing room on the northern outskirts of the city. He stared blankly at the middle of the table, both chubby hands resting on the edge, and blinked slowly, turning his head as he did so, his pale blue eyes focussing on Tyler.