A Killing Place in the Sun

by Robert F Barker

  Westgate.

  If there was one person he had neither expected, nor hoped to see, it was him. Sorting out things with Podruznig and the house was going to be difficult enough. To have the Special Investigations Branch man dogging his footsteps, waiting to see if Murray would lead him to what he had failed to find years earlier, would only make it more so. Murray was in no doubt that Westgate’s carefully choreographed reappearance was meant to send a signal. He was back, and wasn’t going away until he found what he was looking for. He was probably hoping that his return might fluster Murray enough for him to slip up, perhaps even reveal what he was after.

  He thought about whether, had he been more upfront with Iridotu to begin with, Westgate’s return might have been avoided. But from what he’d gleaned, the policeman was the sort who played things straight. Whatever Murray had told him, he would still have made enquiries. The outcome would have been the same. As he crossed to where he’d parked under the shade of the jacaranda trees lining the pavement, he thought on what it meant. One thing was for sure. If the time came that he had to do what he still hoped to avoid, he would need to be on his toes. Which would mean keeping track of where Westgate was, and what he was up to. He was still musing on it as he climbed into his jeep and started the engine.

  Unfortunately, Murray’s commitment to stay alert related to the future. Had he applied it at once, he may have spotted the two men in the silver Toyota Rav 4 parked further along the avenue and who watched him get in, start his jeep, then followed as he headed back down to the harbour area.

  CHAPTER 9

  Murray parked in the small car park at the back of the Dive Centre. The middle of the day, its aluminium shutters were down, everyone out on a dive. It was Thursday, which probably meant the Zenobia, the favoured spot for wreck-diving along that stretch of coast. He wrote a quick note, jammed it between the shutter’s slats, then headed down to the municipal lido on the front.

  There, he changed in one of the wooden cubicles before diving off the stone platform into the sea’s crystal waters. After the early afternoon’s heat, the water was wonderfully cool. He swam three, fast sprints out to the safe-swimming marker buoy, before emerging, comfortable and refreshed - apart from Westgate’s smirking face popping into his head every few minutes. After showering and changing, he strolled up Poseidon Avenue to Dorinda’s Place, the deli-restaurant opposite the Aphrodite Hotel.

  In the full heat of the afternoon sun, the blue-gingham-clothed outside tables were unoccupied. But inside, the air-conditioning and ceiling fans were helping ensure good business. Dorinda’s greeting when he walked in was over-the-top, as usual.

  'PEEEter,’ she gushed, deftly manoeuvring her considerable frame between the tables to plant wet kisses on both his cheeks. She turned scolding. 'You are too long not here. Now I must make you a special lunch. And you did not tell me you were coming.'

  'Sorry, Dorinda. If it’s too much trouble….' He made to turn towards the door.

  'PHWA,' she snorted. 'Stupid. You know it is not. Look.' Turning, she pointed to a corner table by the window. He had checked it was free before coming in. 'See? I keep your table, just for you. As always.'

  After sitting him down, she tried to be discreet, turning away so he would not notice. Nevertheless, he saw her right arm lift and her hand dart across her chest in a hasty Sign Of The Cross. A lifelong agnostic, Murray nevertheless appreciated it, conscious of the sad-but-warm feeling the prayer triggered. After the tensions of the morning it felt good to be in a place where, for a little while at least, his biggest problem would be choosing between the seafood, or cooked-meat platters. And deciding which of Dorinda’s delicious cheeses would best accompany his choice.

  For the next hour, Peter Murray, ex-soldier, policeman, father and husband, took simple pleasure in working his way through the ridiculously-large helpings of mussels, prawns, crab and oysters Dorinda kept replenishing whenever it appeared he may be in danger of catching up with Pedro, her Mexican-Cypriot chef. When they were gone, she brought out the meats. Not in the mood for big decisions, he had opted for surf and turf. As the feast wore on, and washed down with glasses of Vasilikon – Murray’s preferred white - it had a surprising effect. Bit by bit, he relaxed.

  Two things helped. The first was Dorinda’s carefully-judged nurturing. Mother to four girls, she knew, instinctively, when her cajoling banter was welcome, and when he needed space. The second was re-living, in a way he had not allowed himself for some time, the sort of experience he and Kathy had used to savour. A warm welcome, with good food and wine in a convivial atmosphere. At that moment, a burst of laughter from a group of women, sitting at a table across the other side of the restaurant and enjoying a leisurely lunch – mainly liquid it seemed - served as example.

  By the time Dorinda brought out the baklava she was known for, followed by coffee along with a brandy bottle - seven-star Greek Metaxa, rather than the local Keo - Murray was feeling mellower than he had in a long time. Now mid-afternoon, the restaurant had quieted, the only customers remaining being a couple of older British tourists, and the group of women - who seemed set in for a long session. When Dorinda appeared in the chair next to his and covered his hand with her own, he surprised himself by not moving it.

  'It is good to see you again, Peter.'

  'And you Dorinda.'

  'How are things?' Suddenly, the showy, front-of-house-manner used to draw in the tourists and locals alike was gone, replaced by an earnestness few beyond Dorinda’s family ever got to see.

  He swirled his brandy, checking out its honeyed depths.

  'I’m doing okay. Thanks for asking.'

  'And the house?'

  'Still working on it.'

  'I hope you can sort it out. You deserve it.'

  'Thanks,’ he said, glad she hadn’t added, After what you’ve been through. ‘I appreciate it.'

  They were still reminiscing when Red and Kishore showed up. They must have found his note. For once, Red had showered the salt off. He’d even run a comb through his hair. Dorinda was in-role as soon as they came through the door.

  'If you think I am going to open my kitchen again just for the likes of you, you can think again.'

  Red growled at her. 'Just bring whatever you’ve got woman. We’ve no time for your nonsense.'

  A couple of the women in the group turned to see what was going on, alerted by Red’s menacing tone. But seeing Kishore’s grin and Dorinda’s mock defiance, they returned, smiling, to their gossip. Making one last show of high dudgeon, Dorinda brought them over ice-cold beers, banging the bottles down along with chunky glass tumblers, which would not be needed. Pausing only to throw Red the challenging look he was due, she retreated into the back to see what she could find. Red turned to Murray.

  'Any luck?'

  Murray shook his head. 'As I expected. The police won’t move unless Klerides complains.'

  'Which isn’t going to happen,' Kishore said. For once, he wasn’t grinning.

  Murray let them swig their beers before saying, 'Westgate was there.'

  Both men froze, bottles to lips.

  'Was he now?' Red turned a thoughtful look on him. 'How did he get involved?'

  'It seems our friendly neighbourhood Superintendent made enquiries about me. Westgate must have heard. Wants to know what’s going on.'

  'Shit,' Kishore said. Red threw him a look.

  'Doesn’t matter,' Murray said. 'He had his chance. If he wants to waste his time hanging around, it’s no skin off my nose. At least not until I decide what to do about the Russian.'

  Red looked less certain. 'I’d rather not have him mooching around thank you very much. It was bad enough last time. I take it he hasn’t changed?'

  Murray nodded. 'I’d guess so. The superintendent was a lot cagier than last time, which probably means Westgate must have blown us out.' Then he added, 'Or just me, maybe.'

  Kishore glanced at Red before asking. 'Did he mention us?'

  Murray shook his hea
d. 'And neither did I. But I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t know you’re here.'

  'Shit,' Kishore repeated.

  'Don’t let it bother you, Kish,’ Murray said. ‘It’s me he’s after.'

  'But if he knows we’re here, he’ll assume we’re back together. He’s bound to start poking his nose around.'

  'So what’s there for him to find? Let him waste his time. He’ll give it up eventually, like last time.'

  'Last time, the operations had ended and he didn’t have much choice. Things are different now.'

  Murray shrugged, surprised to see Kishore so unnerved. Too long missing the sort of action he likes, he thought.

  As Red and Kish supped their beers, Murray helped himself to more brandy. Dorinda arrived with a huge platter of meats, cheeses, breads and salads. She plopped them down between Red and Kishore - ‘THERE. Enjoy,’ - before moving over to join the group of still-chattering women whom she obviously knew.

  'So what’s your next move?' Red said between mouthfuls.

  Murray breathed deep. 'I’m thinking I’ll give the Russian one more try. If that doesn’t work… We’ll see.'

  Red didn’t glance up from his eating, and tried to make it sound casual as he said, 'Want us to come with you?'

  Murray shook his head. 'I’d rather keep things low-key. For the time being.'

  Red feigned indifference. '’Kay.'

  Half-an-hour later, plates cleared, drinks drunk and with work to do, they rose to leave. Murray left money on the table to cover the bill, then wandered over to where Dorinda and her companions were discussing in more subdued tones than before. As he neared, conversation seemed to falter and the sudden outbreak of fidgeting made him think about what - who - they’d been talking about.

  'Thanks, Dorinda,’ he said, resting a hand on her shoulder.

  She rose, reaching up to drape her arms around him.

  'Take care, Peter.'

  'I will.'

  As they hugged, Murray saw sympathy reflected in some of the women’s faces and realised. She had been doing a number on him. Slightly irritated and a touch embarrassed, he struggled to free himself from the clinging embrace. It was then his eyes lit on the woman at the far end of the table and whose back had been to him the whole afternoon. It was all he could do not to react.

  Gina Iridotu - if she wasn’t married - was looking at him in a way that reflected as much interest, as sympathy. Her sparkling blue eyes were narrowed, as if appraising. And the way she wasn’t rushing to acknowledge their earlier meeting made him think she hadn’t yet mentioned it to her friends. He was thinking on whether to let on to her when Dorinda released him. Turning, she presented him to the group.

  'This is Peter. He is nice.'

  The warm smiles and chorus of 'Hello Peter,' confirmed Murray’s suspicions. Dorinda had told them enough to appeal to their motherly instincts - for the time being at least. But as he nodded and returned the friendly smiles, Gina continued to say nothing, regarding him with the sort of look that suggested she at least needed to know more before taking Dorinda’s commendations for granted. He wondered what, if anything, she may have picked up when she walked in on her father’s meeting with Westgate that morning.

  'And I’m nice too.' Appearing from behind Dorinda, Red’s wide smile evidenced he was looking for similar treatment.

  'PHWA,’ Dorinda chided. 'This man is a pig. Do not have anything to do with him.' But the laughter round the table showed they weren’t fooled. As Red registered his protests and the banter between him and the women threatened to delay their leaving, Murray looked up to find Gina’s gaze still on him. He flashed her a neutral smile, but didn’t wait for a response. Grabbing Red’s elbow, he steered him towards the door, conscious of a sudden desire to be gone.

  'See you soon, Dorinda.'

  They were thirty yards down the road, Red still berating Murray for spoiling his chances, when a call - 'Mr Murray?' - made them turn.

  It was her.

  Murray retraced his steps to meet her halfway. The suspicion look he had seen was gone, her face now more inviting, but not that way.

  'I am sorry,' she said. 'I thought it best to not mention having met. It may have raised questions about matters private to you.'

  He tipped his head in thanks. ‘That’s fine, it doesn’t-.'

  'I know a little about the trouble you are having.' He started. ‘And I can imagine what my father has told you.'

  He shook his head, not looking to discuss it with her. It wasn’t like he blamed her father for anything.

  'It’s not a-.'

  He stopped as she held something out to him. It was a business card. He took it. Gina’s Taverna. An address up in the Old Town. A simple map on the back.

  'This is none of my business of course, so please, if you do not like, I understand.' He looked at her, puzzled. 'But if you wish to talk. I am there most evenings. Perhaps I can help?'

  'That is good of you, er… Gina. But I don’t think-' Again she didn’t let him finish.

  'I know my father. Like you, he is not happy with this thing. But he has to show he is doing things the police way. Perhaps there is another?'

  Not at all sure what she was hinting at - if anything - he tried again to speak. As now seemed her habit, she wasn’t interested.

  'I also do a very good Meze. You should try it.'

  And with that she turned on her heels and headed back to her friends. As he watched her go, he thought her catwalk sashay oozed confidence, along with other things.

  As Murray re-joined his companions, Red’s lingering gaze past his shoulder registered suspicion. 'Who’s she and what did she want?'

  Murray turned to look back, but she was gone. 'Just someone I met.'

  Red sent him a long, hard look. There were few secrets between them. Murray sensed what he was thinking.

  'You don’t think I’m going to give you an in with a woman like that, do you?'

  Red and Kishore looked at him uncertainly, before turning to each other, shrugging.

  'Well it’s nice to see you may be thinking of rejoining the land of the living,' Red said.

  Murray said nothing.

  CHAPTER 10

  Not yet eight, the temperature outside was already nudging thirty. In the sleek, black-and-white-and-steel kitchen however, the atmosphere was chill. As Podruznig paced, back and forth, surveying the scene, the other three present waited, not moving. Two of the three were petrified. They had witnessed their employer’s displeasure too many times not to be. The third, Lantzeff, simply waited. He hadn’t been on watch, and although security was his responsibility, he knew he was safe as long as there were others on whom blame could fall.

  Still pacing, Podruznig’s gaze remained fixed on the abomination that, when Lantzeff had seen it last - on his final rounds the night before - had been a pristine, white wall. The Russian either wasn’t aware, or couldn’t give a rat’s shit that with every step, he was walking more of the blood-red paint into the grouting between the Italian floor-tiles that, when Lantzeff first heard their unit-cost, he thought was a joke.

  Suddenly Podruznig stopped. He stared up at the wall one last time before turning to Lantzeff, face contorted, lips trembling and twisted. Lantzeff readied himself, grateful there were no baseball bats to hand. But all that escaped the audibly gnashing teeth was a single, half-strangled word.

  'How?'

  Lantzeff made sure not to be seen to wilt in the face of the anger he knew the man was holding in check until certain who to turn it on. Now was not the time to show weakness. And Lantzeff had his answers lined up. As soon as he’d arrived and seen what had happened - rocketed from his bed by the whore’s wailings - he had wasted no time conducting an investigation. Of necessity it had been quick, but thorough. He knew he only had the time it would take his incandescent boss to calm his hysterical slut-wife. As it happened, ten minutes was enough.

  As soon as he reached the CCTV room in the basement and saw the blank middle screen, Lantzeff
knew exactly where to look. He didn’t stay to listen to the pair of bleary-eyed night-duty guards’ almost blubbering attempts to explain themselves.

  'It went last night,' one of them tried. 'We checked but couldn’t see anything.'

  'We assumed it was the monitor again,' whined the other as Lantzeff headed straight back up the stairs. 'We said the stuff you get here is crap.' Lantzeff wasn’t interested. The two would soon be history.

  In daylight of course, the shattered lens on the camera fixed high up on the South-East corner was clearly visible. The fact that it was so high up and inaccessible, even he probably wouldn’t have seen it at night, was neither here nor there. It wasn’t Lantzeff’s job to defend others’ cock-ups. They were all well paid, housed, and fed for their services. They also knew that mistakes were costly.

  But as Lantzeff turned, searching for the vantage point that would have given the shooter the right angle – the nearest was way up on the hillside, well over a kilometre away, he realised how badly he had underestimated. There and then, Lantzeff resolved not to make such a mistake again. As he skirted the house, checking for signs, he was met by Ivan.

  For once the dark-skinned Mongolian had been quick-witted enough to spot an opportunity to gain some credit with the Big Man – even if it was at the expense of his soon-to-be-ex-colleagues. As Lantzeff had been checking the CCTV, Ivan had double-checked the Alarm station and found the Bypass Switcher-Relay attached to the window of the small utility room next to the kitchen. It was a sophisticated piece of kit, and Lantzeff would not imagine his number one suspect having easy access to it, never mind being familiar with its use - another underestimation.

  By the time he returned to the kitchen, dragging the now wide-awake night men in to confront them with the result of their failure, he had a pretty good idea of how it had gone down - with the exception of the paint. No one was certain yet whether it was from the store under the swimming pool, or if the vandal had brought it with him. It was a detail he didn’t worry about. If necessary he would wing it.