by Andrew Hill
This aspect confused almost everyone. No sign was apparent to reveal the fact. One might happily sit at a table for a quarter of an hour, waiting for the man to take an order, assuming all the time that he was busy or just being typically Greek. Eventually the penny would drop and customers would make their way inside, emerging later bearing glasses of beer, plates of unappetising food or whatever. For all its lack of comfort or attractiveness the place had a charm of its own which somehow appealed to Chris. It was somewhere that he could sit, as often he might have had to, for hours, killing time between one flight and the next. Most in a similar predicament would have taken a taxi into the city or to a nearby hotel but that cost quite a lot. Normally Chris had been trying to eke out a few thousand drachmae and objected to what could sometimes amount to pretty exorbitant fares to town.
Nothing ever seemed to change, for all its constant activity, in the place. In many ways, a casual glance round the occupants at any one time would produce a pretty similar picture day after day. One couldn't really become bored at the café. If the arrivals and departures were not in themselves interesting then a comfortable position facing the taxi rank would provide limitless entertainment. The system may be perfectly reasonable in theory. There was a bus shelter affair under which those requiring a taxi should form a queue. On arrival a yellow cab should enter one of the two lanes either side of the shelter and take the person at the front of the queue.
Chris had seldom watched the scene without something going wrong. Most of the time tourists just wouldn't understand the system. It was, for a start, not at all obvious unless an orderly queue had already been formed. There were no comprehensible signs to that effect and all that would happen would be a gravitation of prospective passengers towards the vague area of the cabs. The few who did know the system would, of course, act violently upon any innocent queue-jumping and in order to preserve their position could often be seen working out which of the string of yellow cabs coming along was 'theirs'. Having spotted it they might then cause complete chaos by going back to wherever it reached a temporary halt and throw their bags into its boot and jump in the back which, to a new arrival, gives the impression that one just grabs the first one fancies!
For all the shouting and argument, though, everyone eventually gets away and no one ever seemed to have to wait for long. The vehicles themselves could prove fascinating also. Along with the inevitable Mercedes there were Opel Rekords, Peugeot 504s and some 505s, a good number of Datsuns and Toyotas, mostly the large Bluebird and Corolla models and one or two Granadas. Chris particularly liked to see an ancient but still running Mercedes with vast chrome bumpers and huge radiator gleaming in the sunlight. It might have got a little battered as the years passed but never, unlike many of the others, seemed to rust. All the vehicles had diesel engines which clattered noisily and the newer ones would have door inserts and rear seats covered in thick clear plastic in an attempt to lengthen the life of the upholstery. Each driver was a character. From the old traditional operator in his old grey trousers, scruffy white shirt and greasy hair, looking as if he lived and ate in his car, to the new and becoming quite numerous, members of the younger smart set. Immaculate in their bright white shirts and black, sharply-creased trousers, one could almost imagine them doubling as waiters in the evening. It was easy to tell one from the other way before they actually stopped outside the café. The new set would have windows open and cassette players blasting disco music and each movement of the vehicle would be accompanied by a diving bonnet or boot or screech of tyres. Only the older set used the horns but made up for this being their sole audible trademark by using it on every conceivable occasion. Travellers seldom spoke to one another and unwillingly gave a seat at their table to allow another person to replace their own baggage. Most would bury themselves in a book or newspaper bough from a nearby kiosk at vastly inflated prices to discover what had been happening since they left the country they were returning to or had just left. Chris tried to imagine Bob Lindon walking into the place and in a semi-dream-like vision could make out his features in a new arrival standing at the entrance, peering at the seated occupants in search of a spare place that neither created an invasion of someone's own temporary territory or required the removal of belongings.
Despite his frequent visits over the years, Chris had never been recognised by the waiter or other staff - so different to what would have been the case on any of the islands. This time had been no different as he threw his bag on a chair and walked back to the entrance.
Making a gesture to indicate that he would be back in a few minutes and not even considering the possibility that it may not be permitted to reserve seats in such a way or, of course, the risk of someone going off with his bag - such things just don't seem to happen in Greece, not even Athens - Chris returned to the terminal building. At the strangely-shaped kiosk in the middle of the departure hall he asked the clerk for details of flights due in from Thessaloniki and, ignoring the impatient noises behind him, made every effort to charm the young lady into letting him have some information.
"My friend said he would be on a flight either today or tomorrow." he said. "It would be helpful if you could look at the reservations in a little while and when you see the name let me know. I shall come back in about an hour to check. Is that something you can do for me?" He looked anxious but smiled when he eyes met his own. He knew she shouldn't but also knew she would.
"What is your friend's name?"
"Lindon. L-I-N-D-O-N, R. L., an American passport holder."
The clerk made a note of the name.
"He will not have reserved yet but it should appear in a while . . ."
"OK, sir. I will try. Let me check the times for you."
The small screens became covered with green characters as the massive Olympic Airways computer went into action and the display interpreted the signals received.
"The next flight from Thessaloniki departs at 1420, arriving Athini 1455. After that it is 1820, arriving at 1855 and then tomorrow morning at 0820, arriving 0855 and 1020, arriving 1055. There are some seats on each of these."
"Thank you very much. Efcharisto poli!" he replied, hurrying away before the people behind turned their impatience into anger.
"You're welcome, sir." He hadn't expected that and tuned to wave goodbye but the clerk was already besieged with Greeks waving tickets anxiously - all seeking amendment or refund in connection with a change in arrangements, and all having left it until the last possible moment to do so. The 'same day reservation' desk was always the same.
As he sat back in his chair at the café Chris thought to himself about how he could trace Bob. He swore to himself, causing a few heads to turn amongst those within earshot.
"Damn! They don't need bloody ID for an internal flight!" he muttered. "So there's no way I can be sure he's on a flight unless he uses his own name - and that's unlikely as he's bound to guess that I'll make some enquiries."
Chris resigned himself to having to watch the arrivals from each Thessaloniki flight. Indeed, he would have to allow for Bob merging with another flight arriving from somewhere else at the same time. So from an hour or so's time he would just have to find a comfortable seat within sight of the corridor along which arrivals would have to come. Then another idea occurred to him. If Bob was definitely not on the next flight then he could fly back on the return run and then be in a much better position to spot him or follow if he had headed off elsewhere.
He cursed again for not having thought of the simple move earlier and got up, knocking over the glass of water next to the tiny cup of Greek coffee on the table. Leaving a red hundred drachmae note under the glass he went back again into the throng of people in the building.
The girl smiled at him and was about to check the screen when Chris asked her instead to give him a ticket to Thessaloniki.
"Maybe I go to see my friend - it is not so busy there!" he said laughing.
"There is room on the flight at 1530", she said and wrote o
ut the usual ticket and handed it to him, repeating the words written on the back. "Kalo Taxidi, have a good trip."
"Thanks." replied Chris, as he walked back yet again to the café - for the third time in under an hour! Still no sign of recognition from the expressionless face of the waiter although the cashier did look at him rather strangely and encouraged him to comment to her: "I really like it here so much that I can't get away!"
At the table he had had before the note was still under the glass. He picked it up and replaced it in his wallet, placing the fresh glass and cup in front of him.
"Perhaps this time I can put my feet up for a while!" he thought to himself, doing just that.
Chapter XLII Believe
Tyler turned to Evelyn as the road ahead broadened into an open motorway. "Makes a difference with this stretch open, eh?" he said.
"Mm", nodded Evelyn. "Cuts out the North Circular which was just chaos before. I remember when Keith and I used to come down to Newbury. You know old Keith, always got us lost! And do you remember that meeting in the Midlands in January last year? Craigham 20 miles! Jesus! Nearly finished up in bonnie Scotland!"
Tyler smiled to himself. In many ways he would like to be going with his two passengers on the trip to the States and back. The Audi surged forward and Paul joked about Tyler's lack of respect for speed limits. It was in each of their minds that there was a striking similarity of mood in this trip as was the case when they had set off with Chris some few weeks ago on the road to Switzerland. The M25 wound its way towards Heathrow through the green fields of Hertfordshire and Buckinghamshire and past the sprawl of the western approaches of London suburbia.
The car swept into the setting-down lay-by at Terminal 3 where Paul and Evelyn took their cases and said farewell to Tyler. He shook both of them firmly by the hand and wished them good luck. He watched them walk off into the modern glass-fronted concrete structure - two wide-shouldered men of considerable character and inner strength. An odd pair - Paul with his short and basic approach to anything that arose contrasting with Evelyn's smooth and usually very calm attitude. He seldom lost his temper whereas Paul seldom kept his. Quite how they would get on in the moments between executing their business he wasn't so sure but they exuded a certain confidence and doubtless they'd find some mutual interest on the way.
Tyler drove back to his home and Sally, back on her feet now but bearing the scars of her experience, welcomed him with a wry smile. "When are you going to stop all the meetings and secret stuff, John?" she asked. "You said you wouldn't get involved again and, now, here you are, ferrying people to airports, meetings at all hours and, oh I don't know what . . . " she tailed off in frustration.
Tyler said nothing and sat down in the lounge, reaching out from his chair to press a couple of buttons on the hi-fi set next to him. Picking up a paper and scanning the headlines he settled back with a long sigh.
For a change there were no reports of violence on the Newlands estate. The police had seemed to accept Tyler's story but had no other solution to offer. Not that they would have told Tyler if they had though. Often it seemed the case that if a subject could be left to settle as far as public interest was concerned then the police could then get on with their investigations rather more efficiently. Tyler remained intrigued, though, as to why he had got the call that night and tended to believe Harry's protestations of having had nothing to do with them. That meant someone was still out there. There was a connection with Bob and a connection with Chris. But what was it? And why kill for it? He had hardly obeyed the instructions to keep out of the affair and, indeed, had been duly picked up as a result. The police had never disclosed the source of the tip-off. Tyler concluded in his mind that they themselves didn't know who it was either because the case against him would otherwise have been pretty solid and he would have been charged by now. Clearly they were still in the dark.
It occurred to Tyler that Chris could well be still in danger. They had forgotten that in the course of events since then but he now realised that nothing had really changed. Someone was killing young men on the very estate where Chris had been living and where, to all intents and purposes, he might well return as and when he got back.
"Oh, I guess he knows what he's doing" Tyler muttered to himself.
"What's that, John?" queried Sally, as she brought in a mug of coffee.
"Hmm? Oh, nothing Sal. Just talking to myself." he replied.
"Do you think something else is going to happen?" continued Sally, a concerned look spreading across her face as she sat down gingerly on the arm of the chair and ran her fingers through Tyler's hair. "I mean, are you and the others still involved with something to do with Bob?"
"Pass." came the blunt response from Tyler.
"C'mon John." she persisted. "C'mon. I want to know. God damn it - I think I've got a right to know after all this!" She ran one hand across the marked cheek.
"Leave it, Sal. That was different. We know who caused that. Well, at least, we know why, even if the actual people haven't been caught yet. Bob Lindon's got nothing to do with that. No, I was just thinking about those Newlands killings and wondering whether whoever it is that's behind them is onto Chris."
"I reckon they'd have got him by now if they'd really wanted to." said Sally. "Where is her, anyhow?"
"We don't know," said Tyler.
"Oh don't give me that, John!"
"No, honestly. Last we heard he was in Greece but when Collette spoke to him . . . "
"Collette . . . "
"Yes. Strange isn't it that she's back in the picture after all that time. She spoke to him and he agreed to come back. Not just to see Gill from what I gathered either. I think it's all got pretty heavy for him and, unless something happens pretty soon, I can see everyone just giving up and going home."
"You should have done that long ago." retorted Sally.
Tyler said nothing. However sensible that may have appeared he knew that he wouldn't have done so - and still couldn't. He had to get to the truth - if there was any.
"The truth is what people believe to be the truth," he said without noticing the harsh glare he received from Sally at the remark. The last time she had heard it was when Bob had been staying with them, when their troubles were only just beginning.
"Trouble is,” he went on, "I just don't know what to believe any more."
Chapter XLIII Violet
Violet Lindon placed the decorative mats on the pine table with great care, ensuring that each was in just the right position. The red candles in the brass holder spiralled up to the white wick that would only be ignited when her husband returned. Until that day Violet would continue to set his place, just as he would like it, and to prepare dishes he would approve of. She talked away to herself, chastising herself and praising herself, standing back to admire her work with one thin arm bent at the elbow, hand outstretched, palm upward, as if in a gesture to an invisible observer to take a seat. Her red silk housecoat hung limply from her bony shoulders, barely touching any of the frail body beneath it. On the little side table next to an oversize sofa with yellow cushions was a glass half full of bourbon. Violet picked it up and swallowed a fair dose, smiled to herself in a prim way then replaced the glass exactly where it had been before.
A burning smell from the kitchen made her sniff the air around her and then trundle off at what, for Violet, was a good pace in that direction. Violet Lindon never did anything quickly except finish a glass of bourbon - or a bottle, come to mention it, preferring the more graceful pace to which a lady of her years ought to have become, in her opinion, accustomed.
The little conversation she was having with herself stopped in mid-sentence as the doorbell rang. Almost excitedly she patted her hair in at the sides and tucked a few of the numerous wisps hanging around the odd bun affair perched on top of her natural hair and tried to straighten out the neckline of her housecoat. She padded over to the door, asking in a singsong voice: "Who is it?"
"Special delivery for Mr Lind
on." came the reply from the other side of the door.
"Oh. Coming. My husband's not here at the moment but I'll . . . " She stopped as she opened the door. For a short moment a look of total horror appeared on her face but with considerable, and obvious, effort she controlled it and a thin smile appeared with a nervous ditheriness in her actions as she shuffled her slippered feet and twirled a loose thread on her sleeve.
"Good evening, Vi. Husband out, is he? Out on the tiles again? Fancy leaving a fine young woman like yourself all alone." said Evelyn, beaming broadly.
"Well if it isn't Evelyn. Why hello to you. And Paul . . . you two gentlemen have given this lady an itsy bitsy shock just a-coming to the door like that. I think I might just have a little sip of bourbon. Why don't you come on in now and join me."
"Thanks dear," said Evelyn. Paul grunted. Evelyn continued: "That would be marvellous. What's this then - a quick tipple while Bob's out, eh?"
"The lady has been working very hard today. I answer the telephone, take messages - and you know how important it is to Bob to have things attended to correctly in his absence - I tend the flat and continue to acquaint myself with news in the world that may be relevant to the project. So excuse me, Mr Jones, the lady is entitled to a teeny little light refreshment on occasion." Violet dipped her chin so that she viewed Evelyn over her ancient, thin, black-framed glasses in a disapproving manner. They were the horn-rimmed type and added hostility to her gaze.
"Now that's for sure, Vi. I'll say that for you, my dear, you work hard. Is Bob about?"