He bent the stem of the angle-poise-lamp so that its single spot shone down on the images he’d requested, forty-eight hours before. They were even better than he had expected. Much clearer than the Google Earth images he’d browsed on his laptop, and they weren’t bad. The pictures showed the house and land around in remarkable detail. He could even tell that the figure relaxing by the kidney-shaped pool was a blond woman. She would be the model-wife. The one whose early pictures he’d seen, but had been disappointed not to find any more recent.
Pulling his notepad towards him, he cast his eyes down the list of dates he’d noted after going through the papers again. They included those from the file he’d recovered from SIB Headquarters in Berlin, as well as the ones the helpful young lady in Nicosia’s snowed-under Land Registry had faxed through to him. He’d been more than a little surprised, but most grateful, when she actually rang back to say she’d managed to find the plans he’d enquired about.
The dates were only a rough guide, of course. There were still some variables his earlier investigation had never been able to resolve. And knowing the vagaries of Cyprus bureaucracy, he knew he should not place too much store on the dates shown in the documents submitted by the builders, either. Nevertheless, there were some interesting correlations. It didn’t take too much imagination to see the possibilities. And Glyn Westgate was nothing if not imaginative.
The Army Investigator smiled as he sipped at his gin, savouring both the tangy aftertaste and the feeling that had been growing in him these last couple of days. It told him that this time, his efforts stood a much better chance of bearing fruit than before.
He surveyed the photographs again. Nothing jumped out at him especially. He hadn’t really expected it would. Nevertheless, they gave a good enough idea of the overall layout so that when the time came, he wouldn’t have to mess about getting his bearings. He wondered how long he would have to wait? Although the instructions from his bosses were open-ended, he knew there would be a limit. After last time, those above would be watching closely and he didn’t want to let himself be seen to be hanging around, just waiting for things to happen. He wondered if maybe he ought to start being even more proactive. From what he’d seen and heard, things were already pretty stirred up. It would not take much to stir them even more.
But before that, he needed to latch onto Murray again. He’d driven by Murray’s rental in Kato Pafos’s Limnaria district several times the last couple of days, and though he’d clocked the two Russians in the supposedly nondescript white van staking out the place, he’d seen no sign of Murray. He’d obviously gone to ground. Westgate wasn’t worried. He had a good idea where he might be holed up. Even if he was wrong, Pafos wasn’t the sort of place where you could lay low long. Especially if you had things to take care of that meant putting yourself about, as he was certain Murray needed to.
Westgate allowed himself a self-satisfied nod of congratulation. His efforts so far had started some of the balls rolling. It shouldn’t be hard to get the rest moving as well, particularly if he helped things along with a little push here and there. He drained his glass, then headed back to the kitchen for a refill.
CHAPTER 17
Klerides sounded apologetic -genuinely. 'I rang straight after he’d gone, Mr Murray but could not get through on your mobile.'
Murray watched as the regular, Friday morning BA flight to Gatwick climbed out over the sea before making the right turn that would take it North-West along the coast, the first leg of its fifteen-hundred mile journey.
'Not your fault Nik, I was otherwise engaged. Tell me again what he was after.'
'He wanted details from your property file. Copies of our agreements, letters, correspondence, that sort of thing. He seemed very interested in dates.'
'What did you give him?'
'Nothing. I told him everything was with our solicitors, to prepare our case, and he would have to go through them.'
'Good answer. Anything else?'
'He said he knew of the trouble I’d had with Mr Podruznig and that he would protect me if I cooperated.'
'And what did you say to that?'
'I said I did not know what he was talking about and did not need anyone’s protection.'
Murray nodded. For a property developer, Klerides was remarkably principled. Some would have leaped at the chance to ingratiate themselves with the British Armed Forces. He hoped things wouldn’t soon blow up in a way that would cause him and his brother problems. He bore no grudges.
Before ringing off, Murray thanked him for the update and asked Nik to keep him informed on any other approaches. He said he would.
Murray turned to Red, sat under the faded, Coca-Cola sun umbrella.
'Westgate. He’s asking about the house. Checking dates.'
Red’s face remained impassive. 'He’s becoming a bloody nuisance.'
'But not one we can do anything about, unfortunately.'
'Oh I don’t know….'
Murray read the message, but remained non-committal. He still liked to think that the Westgate problem would disappear on its own, eventually. Deep down, he knew he was being wildly optimistic.
Superintendent Pippis Iridotu was angry. And he hated being angry. Especially with either of his two daughters. He didn’t mind so much when it was their brother, Chris. Boys are supposed to be shouted at, how else do they learn to be men? And he always felt worse when the source of his anger was his eldest. Gina had a habit of reacting as if nothing had happened. It was infuriating.
'I don’t see what there is to get upset about, Papa. He had a meal, paid for it, and left. Just like everyone else.'
Pippis wasn’t going to let her get away with such an obvious lie for a single moment. 'So you sat at other customers’ tables talking for three hours also, did you? It must have been a very long night.'
Surprised by his knowledge, Gina thought quickly. She would speak to his informant when she got home that evening. At nineteen, Ileana shouldn’t need lessons on the importance of sisterly discretion.
'Why shouldn’t I talk with him? He was a customer. I talk with all my customers. You know that.'
Pippis’s voice rose. 'BECAUSE I TOLD YOU NOT TO. That is why.'
'You told me not to get involved with him. Talking is not getting involved.'
'Then why do you now come to me asking questions? Is that not getting involved?'
'I am just curious that is all. He did not seem to me as you described him. Such a man does not shed tears when he speaks of his family.'
Pippis exploded. 'HOW CAN A POLICEMAN’S DAUGHTER BE SO NAIVE?’ His arms windmilled as he spoke, hands emphasising every word. 'A man puts on a show of being sad, and instantly you want to mother him.'
'Do not be ridiculous, Papa. Do you not think I can tell when a man is putting on a show? Like I said, I was just curious.'
Pippis gave a derisory snort. 'I seem to recall someone else who aroused your curiosity. How many wives and children was it? Three, and seven? Or was it eight?'
'That was only because I wanted to find out the truth about him.'
'And what an excellent job you made of doing so.'
This time, Gina thought carefully before responding. The incident when, to her father’s embarrassment, the police were called to deal with the man’s second wife who turned up at Gina’s apartment late one night, hurling abuse and invective that made even the two young policemen who came to arrest her blush, was not easy to brush aside. Still, she did her best.
'I am not a child Papa. I knew exactly what I was doing then, just as I do now. I am not in a relationship with this Mr Murray. I simply want to know if his story about this Russian stealing his home is true or not. You always say yourself that we must watch out for these Pontians.'
'Meaning that it is my business as a policeman, Gina. I do not intend that all the women in my family become Miss Marbles and start investigating gossip. When I want gossip I will ask your mother. Or that Dironda everyone seems to listen to.'
<
br /> Despite her father’s fierce manner, Gina had to suppress a smile. Apart from mispronouncing the famous detective’s name - the old, English TV series was running on PIK1, horribly sub-titled of course - she had not realised that Dironda’s reputation had spread as far as the local Chief of Police himself. Realising that unless she altered course she would never succeed in her mission, Gina switched tack. A buff folder lay on the side of his desk. She wondered if it was the one.
'Let us not argue, Papa. I am sorry if I caused you any alarm. But I can assure you, I have no plans to see Mr Murray again, unless it is as a paying customer.' Mentally she crossed fingers. If he spotted the distinction between current arrangements - none - and future intentions - lots - she could be in trouble. He didn’t.
Still, he was suspicious. His eyes narrowed. 'You could refuse to serve him if he turns up again.'
She made a, Don’t be stupid, face. 'Business is not so good I can afford to turn away good money. ‘ She sidled up to him, kissed his cheek. 'But I promise not to raise the subject again.'
'Good.' He glanced at her but didn’t return the kiss. He needed to cement victory first. Even so, he signalled his willingness to bridge-build. 'That is more like what a father is entitled to expect from a dutiful daughter.'
She turned to go. 'See you tonight, Papa.'
After the door closed, Pippis Iridotu spent a long time looking at it. He turned back to his desk. The folder he had been going through - again - when she walked in was still there. For some reason he felt the sudden urge to put it somewhere safe. He went to his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and dropped the folder in before looking back up at the door. His eyes narrowed. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he took out his keys, reached down, and locked the drawer.
The nagging urge momentarily satisfied, he sat at his desk and pulled towards him the in-tray he needed to get through before he could finish up. He bent his head and started reading. But after a few minutes he realised he was sitting upright in his chair, looking at the door again, wondering about her abrupt departure. He looked down at the drawer again. It was still closed. Still locked. The folder safe from prying eyes.
He knew he was missing something. He wished he knew what.
The other side of the door, Gina perched cross-legged on the desk, smiling down, warmly, at Woman-Sergeant Andri Pahiti. Andri didn’t return it.
Instead, the sergeant was sitting back in her chair, arms folded, regarding Gina with a look that was intended to convey this would be the last, the very last, time. She was also trying to come to terms with what she had just agreed to do. But she knew the pull Gina had with her father. She also knew the man she worked for and his opposite number in the adjoining Limassol Division, where Andri’s husband, Laslo, worked shifts, were good friends. It took Laslo a good hour or more to get to work, and back, each day from their home in Peyia village, the wrong side of Pafos from Limassol. Superintendent Pippis was known for the pride he took in not interfering in posting decisions involving friends and family of those close to him. He had spoken, many times about how he abhorred the sort of patronage he’d witnessed coming up through the ranks. Too often, it led to officers landing jobs for which they were ill-equipped. For that reason, he always left such matters to his Chief Inspector second-in-command. But Andri knew enough about her boss’s eldest daughter to be in no doubt. If Gina said she could get her father to make an exception in Laslo’s case, she believed her.
'Thank you Andri,' Gina said. Knowing a reply wouldn’t be forthcoming, she didn’t wait, but simply turned and wooshed out of the ante-office, as was her fashion.
As she gazed at the doorway through which Gina had vanished, Andri had no way of knowing how closely her wary musings mirrored those of the man the other side of the door. Not for the first time, she wondered whether it was time she gave up her privileged position as the Superintendent’s gatekeeper, and returned to the sort of police work that, in truth, she no longer had a great hankering for but at least would allow her to sleep nights. Then she thought about how much easier things would be if Laslo worked from Pafos Divisional Police Headquarters rather than Limassol. Tucking the dilemma over her own future away for consideration another time, she started to think about where she had tucked away the box containing all the spare keys she had managed to gather during the two years she had worked for Pippis Iridotu.
CHAPTER 18
The men’s names were Piotr and Olaf. Georgian by birth, like Lantzeff himself, they had been specially chosen for their assignment. A twenty-four-seven house watching job calls for a certain single-mindedness. Especially when the only relief comes in the form of a once-a-day thirty-minute swap-out for a proper toilet break - the plastic bottles in back having to suffice between times. Fortunately, single mindedness is an attribute Georgians are reputed to possess in ample measure, or so Lantzeff always claimed. Which was why, presumably, he had chosen them. And carrying out the second part of the assignment - bringing the Englishman in if he showed himself - called for the sort of other attributes for which the former pair of Spetsnaz were noted. Fearlessness, strength, and well-honed combat skills.
So far, the men’s dedication to their task had helped maintain the state of alertness Lantzeff had assured them was necessary if they were not to incur both his wrath, and that of Podruznig himself. The result was that after three days, their tally of ‘false alarms’ ran to two frightened postmen, an Electricity Authority meter-reader, and a holidaying couple from the UK who, most unfortunately for them, had the wrong house-number for the old friends they were seeking to surprise with an unannounced visit. Following Piotr and Olaf’s frightening interrogation, the Brits didn’t hang around to try to confirm the right address, but left as quickly as their hire car would take them. And credit to the two Georgians, during their long periods of observation, they had noted other occurrences they thought may be relevant to their task, but weren’t quite sure.
Like the grey Honda.
Having been absent attending to another ‘persuasion’ mission’ the past week, the pair had no first-hand knowledge of the events that had led to their present assignment. What they did know was that during their absence, every member of the team had been spoken to, personally, by Lantzeff, as were they on their return, and given clear warning as to what would happen if they let their guard slip over this particular problem. They also knew that the man they had been told to watch out for was connected with the incident in the kitchen they heard about the night they got back. And though no one had said as much, they assumed he was the same man who - so rumour had it - escaped a run out to the wilderness. True or not, it still had everyone talking. They had since discovered that Nikolas hadn’t returned from that trip either. Which, he being a fellow Georgian, was a shame. Finally, they were aware also that the two Siberians who had been on watch the night of the kitchen incident were no longer around either. The official word was that they had been, ‘sent home’ - but everyone liked to think they knew what that meant. Several members of the team had seen them getting into the four-by-four that was to take them to the airport. Lantzeff drove, accompanied by two more of his longest-serving team members. The word around was that the three returned in far less time than an airport run would have taken.
Piotr and Olaf didn’t find such rumours particularly disquieting. In their line of business these things happen. But it did make them determined not to suffer a similar fate to that of the Siberians - whatever it was.
Which was why they had noted the details of the grey Honda that had cruised past the target premises on the first day, and twice again since, even though the ex-military-looking driver clearly wasn’t the man they were waiting for. True, their report back to Lantzeff didn’t mention the fact that the driver also appeared to have spotted them. And when word came back that it traced back to British Sovereign Forces registration, they had wondered if, perhaps, there were a few too many things about which they had either not been informed, or did not fully understand. They just hoped the f
act of their being seen wouldn’t prove significant in a way that would bounce back on them.
It was early afternoon on the third day - they were just finishing the baguettes and coffee that had been brought to them by the elderly Asian vendor who ran the kiosk on the main road - when they saw the jeep. It did not match the details of the one they’d been told to look out for, but given the way it slowed as it drove passed the house – it had come from behind, passing them on their right, they both came instantly on alert.
They watched it turn at the bottom of the street, before coming back and slowing to a stop outside the house. Neither man said anything, but adrenalin started pumping the moment the man in a bright red-shirt and wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses stepped from the passenger side, rounded the Jeep’s bonnet and crossed the narrow pavement to the front door.
Despite his attempt at disguise, their training meant they had little trouble matching the Englishman to the photograph they’d been given. Dropping their Styrofoam cups on the floor, they shifted in their seats, waking the muscles that had lain dormant for hours, readying themselves to act.
The man in the red shirt lifted a key to the lock but, about to insert it, he paused as if some sixth sense had alerted him to danger. Looking round, he stared at the white van parked thirty metres further up the street. For a moment, time froze, the man in the baseball cap looking straight at them, Piotr and Olaf wishing themselves invisible.
Suddenly, their quarry exploded into action. Spinning round, he dashed back towards the jeep which hadn’t moved, its engine still running. They heard him yell, “GO, GO, GO,” then he was diving into the back just as, with a squeal of tyres, it leaped forward.
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