Piotr barely had time to turn the engine before the jeep shot past, the man in the cap and glasses glaring at them from the back, though he just had time to register the driver’s ginger hair. By the time they turned the van around, the jeep was already turning left at the other end of the street. Putting his foot down, Piotr raced after while Olaf radioed control, asking if any others were near enough to assist in the chase.
As Piotr made the left turn, he saw the jeep charging down towards the T- junction at the far end, the man in the red shirt and glasses still watching their progress through the jeep’s rear window. Flooring the accelerator, he set off in pursuit.
As the Russians’ van turned at the T-junction and disappeared, Murray raised himself from behind the low garden wall that fronted the houses on the left. He turned his shoulder to ease the pain suffered when his diving roll from the jeep took him into the palm tree in the middle of the lawn. Red had barely slowed when he dived out, while Kishore, wearing an identical shirt, cap and glasses took Murray’s place in back.
As the roar of engines faded in the distance, Murray jogged back towards the house. Although they’d agreed ten minutes would be enough - after which Red would look to shake off his pursuers - he didn’t want to hang around any longer than necessary.
The doors and windows at the front were secure. But as Murray skirted around the side and saw the fly-screen covering the back door swinging loose on its hinges, he knew what to expect. Sure enough, he found the wood around the door’s lock splintered. He only had to push the door lightly for it to swing open.
Stepping into the small kitchen that opened onto the living area, he saw at once that the place had been trashed. Kitchen cupboards had been emptied, their contents spilled, smashed and strewn around the floor. In the living room, the cushions on the sofa and chairs had been slashed, stuffing hanging out, more strewn around. The display-unit-bookcase had been pulled down. His books and the few of Kathy’s knick-knacks he’d chosen to put out lay scattered and broken. But whilst he felt anger towards those responsible, there was little sadness. The house was a furnished let, taken after the funeral while the Sea Caves house was still being finished - and before Podruznig arrived. It had never been anything more than a place to lay his head. Most of his and Kathy’s stuff was still in storage, thank God.
As he stepped further into the living area and looked around, surveying the mess, he saw the message scrawled on the left-hand wall. In large, dripping red letters it read, “BIG MISTAKE.” For several seconds he stood before it, mulling over the significance of its message. Then he turned and headed upstairs.
The upper rooms - two bedrooms and a bathroom - were in a similar, ransacked state with drawers and cupboards emptied. The mattresses had been pulled off the beds and given the same treatment as the sofa. A musky-sweet odour hung over everything and he recognised the cologne Kathy had brought him back from her last visit to her mother in the UK. Sure enough, on checking the bathroom he found it, smashed on the tile floor. But though it was what angered him most - Kathy had always liked it - he didn’t dwell on it.
Returning to the main bedroom, he poked his head into the built-in cupboard. The small safe that had been bolted to the floor had been prised off its anchorages and the door was wide open, the photographs and other documents it contained strewn around. Not bothering to check it, he turned back to the bed. Stepping over and around the clothes and bedding littering the floor, he grasped the bottom of the wooden bed frame - still heavy even without the mattress - and pulled it away from the wall. There was a loud screeching noise, like fingernails on a chalk-board, as the legs scraped across the tiles.
Moving to the headboard he reached behind, feeling for what he knew would still be there when he saw the bed hadn’t been moved. His fingers made contact and he ripped the plastic sleeve away from the duct-tape holding it to the back of the headboard. A quick glance was enough to confirm that its contents - money, passport, other documents - were undisturbed.
Retrieving a hold-all from the back bedroom, he stuffed it with clothes and the few personal effects he didn’t feel like leaving, slipped the plastic sleeve into the side pocket then returned downstairs. After taking one last look around - there was nothing of value he couldn’t replace - he left the way he’d come in. He didn’t bother trying to secure the door. When the letting agents saw the mess, his bond would be forfeit anyway. Before stepping out into the street, he double-checked to make sure there was still no sign of the white van - though if it had returned Red would have rung. Confirming all was clear, he checked his watch. In another minute Red and Kishore would shake off their pursuers. Ten minutes later they would pick him up from the agreed r/v outside the Paphos Beach Hotel along the coast. Just time enough. Swinging the bag over his shoulder, he set off, double-time.
CHAPTER 19
Hunkered in the high-backed chair he’d stolen from the office of a retiring Nicosia police chief, Superintendent Pippis Iridotu studied the English Army Major briefing him on the latest developments. He found it interesting that Westgate only made eye-contact when emphasising a point he deemed important.
Like his tale about Murray supposedly breaking into Podruznig’s house and daubing some sort of message on the wall.
When Pippis showed scepticism - Murray didn’t come across as the sort given to rash actions - Westgate insisted his information was good, but would not reveal its source. When he went on to say it fitted with things he knew about Murray but which, unfortunately, he was not at liberty to share with the Commander, Pippis remained sceptical. He didn’t seek to argue, however, conscious that right from the off, Westgate had always painted Murray as a man with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. It made him recall how, when Murray first came to him to discuss his options for dealing with his house problem, he was open enough to admit that he had left the army on ‘not the happiest of terms’, and that if Pippis chose to dig, he would have little difficulty finding people prepared to ‘diss’ him. Ileana explained that evening what 'diss' meant. Murray also stated that just as many would swear that he had been unfairly maligned. Whilst his work had taken him to some dark places, he was a man who, generally, respected the rule of law.
Murray’s predictions had proven accurate in both respects, which was why Pippis preferred to rely on his instincts. And while he had been forced to revise his early assessment in the light of what he later learned – mainly from Westgate – he still remembered those first impressions. A man with a past that wasn’t free from shadows, but who was basically honest, had been wronged, and now wished to resolve his problem in the least disruptive way possible - preferably within the law. He was also conscious, though it irked him to even let it enter the equation, of what Gina had said, and she was rarely wrong about such things - ex lover-boy excepted.
Nevertheless, he was still prepared to keep an open mind. If Westgate’s accounts contained even a spark of truth, it was troubling. An incident such as the wall daubing he’d described would be bound to provoke a response. Given the Russian’s history, it would unlikely take the form of waving a flag of truce and an invitation to Murray to discuss how they may resolve their dispute, amicably. He also remembered what Ileana had said when she’d let slip about Gina talking to ‘an Englishman’ at the Taverna. One who looked, ‘a bit beaten up.’ The last thing Pippis needed was that sort of escalation. Who knew where it could lead?
He turned his attention back to the army officer, now talking about enquiries he had made with some of Klerides’ workmen, the ones who’d put down the footings.
'When I asked if they had seen anything strange going on while they were there, I got an interesting reaction. At first, I thought they were about to tell me something, but then they clammed up. Like they had been told to keep their mouths shut.'
Pippis snorted. 'These builders. They were not Cypriot?'
'No. They were-.'
'Let me guess. Albanians. Or Syrian.'
Westgate frowned. 'Albanian. Why?'
> Pippis snorted again. Without imported labour, the recently reinvigorated building boom that, alongside tourism, was the mainstay of the country’s economy, would falter. 'They are like the Irish once were in your country. Or perhaps the Poles, more recently.'
'And?'
'Did you enquire as to whether they are here legally?'
'Is that relevant?'
'It is if you are going to read things into why they did not like to speak with you. The developers know what is going on and warn them never to talk to the authorities. I am surprised you got any of them to even admit they speak English. Go back tomorrow and try to find them again. I suspect you will not.'
Westgate shrugged it off. 'You may be right, or not. Either way, it just adds to the overall picture. Believe me, Superintendent, I am sure that what happened to Murray’s family isn’t the only reason he’s so keen to get back into that house.'
Pippis nodded, as if prepared to accept Westgate’s analysis, at least for the time being. After several more minutes spent going over what Westgate either knew or suspected, the meeting wound to a close.
'If I hear any more, I will let you know at once,' Westgate said.
'Thank you, Major, please do that.'
Pippis’ smile was as wide as ever as he showed Westgate to the door. Whatever his uncertainties, it was always as well to keep the wheels on which his relationship with the British Military Authorities ran, well-greased.
In truth, the Divisional Commander was becoming increasingly irritated by Westgate’s transparent attempts to keep him involved and ‘updated’ about the whole affair. He was beginning to think the matter was not one the police should be involved in at all, or even overly concerned about. Unless, of course, Murray or the Russian started trying to kill each other, in which case that would be a different matter. But until then, who cares about the British Army’s problems? In any case, fantastic-sounding stories about missing gold were, probably, just bait aimed at arousing his interest. He reached for the door handle.
As the two men came out Gina, dressed in a startling red and white polka-dot dress, hopped off her perch on the edge of Andri’s desk. When she turned, Pippis saw that his daughter seemed unusually flustered. About to comment - it was such a rare event - the sound of a drawer suddenly banging shut drew his gaze to Andri. She was blushing. They’d obviously been gossipping over something juicy. He suspected that if he now reached down and opened the drawer Andri had banged shut so clumsily, he would find one of those celebrity photograph magazines women read these days, even Maria, his wife. He decided not to embarrass them.
'Miss Iridotu,' Westgate said, in his best Army-Officer manner. 'A pleasure to see you again. You seem to spend almost as much time here as your father.'
Still recovering, Gina returned him the polite smile Pippis recognised as the one she kept for those visitors to her taverna she knew she wasn’t likely to see again. It didn’t take her long to get her voice back.
'He needs keeping an eye on, Major. If he didn’t have Andri and I to look after him, he would never get any work done.' As the two men acknowledged her humour with the polite chuckle it merited, she turned a scolding look on her father. 'Not another meeting about Mr Murray is it Papa? Really Major, wouldn’t you think the Pafos Divisional Police Commander would have better things to do with his time than get involved in property disputes?'
Pippis just caught Westgate’s look of surprise. But even he wasn’t sure which of them Gina’s message was aimed at. He glared at her. But when Westgate turned to him, the innocent smile also seemed at odds with his words.
'Your daughter is obviously well-informed about what is happening around the district, Superintendent. Perhaps I should employ her as my assistant?'
Irritated by Gina’s speaking out of turn and embarrassed by her disclosing knowledge of his affairs, Pippis’s retort was less considered than it would normally be. 'Your money would be better spent on a meal at her Taverna, Major. You would be surprised what sort of people turn up there.'
Westgate’s eyebrows lifted. At the same time Gina’s eyes blazed and a fiery redness came into her face. Too late, Pippis realised what he had said. Westgate turned to her.
'Ah yes. I remember your father mentioning you run a restaurant.'
'A taverna actually, Major.'
He smiled at her. 'I’m not sure I would know the difference. Perhaps I might try it some time. Do you have a card?'
Her clutch-bag was in her hand. She didn’t move to check it. 'I am sorry. No.'
In the silence that followed, Pippis and Gina glared venom at each other. Andri kept her head down. Westgate smiled from father to daughter, before realising his presence was no longer needed.
'I’ll be off then.'
Westgate’s gaze was fixed on the Police Station’s main entrance. It was hot as hell in the car and he was sweating his balls off, but he hadn’t put the air-con on as that would mean running the engine and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself should she appear. He’d settled for rolling the Honda’s windows down. It barely made any difference.
It had taken him only as long as the short walk back to his car for him to run through the several possibilities that flowed from the loaded exchange he had witnessed between the Police Commander and his sparky daughter. All of them interested him.
One thing his investigator’s instincts told him for sure. Gina had met Murray. The way his name came so readily to her lips, it was obvious she’d had dealings with him. Leaving the station, he’d remembered she was around the day he surprised Murray in the Superintendent’s office. Probably invited him to her restaurant – Taverna, snooty bitch – he wouldn’t be surprised. And where might that have led? If his reading of the situation was correct, she’d been irritated to find them still discussing Murray, almost protectively so. Which would hardly be the case if all she knew was what he had fed her father. It was all most interesting.
He’d been waiting for half-an-hour now and was beginning to wonder if she’d left the station via the door round the other side after all. It was the one she would use if she’d walked in from the Old Town. But he’d taken a gamble on her having driven there, in which case her car would be one of the many parked along Ypolohagou Avenue, where most visitors parked. Whatever had drawn her there, he doubted it was a mission that would keep her too long, not the way she was dressed. In which case-.
The striking figure in the polka-dot dress that suddenly rounded the pole-barrier at the station entrance ended his speculation. As she started to walk, quickly, in her high heels up the tree lined avenue towards him, he sank into his seat, thinking on an excuse for still being there should she spot him. His fears vanished as she stopped at the red Mercedes sports convertible that had been top of his list of ‘possibles’, and got in. With only the briefest glance behind – typical Cypriot - she shot out of her space and drove off. Even before she’d covered the hundred or so metres to the junction with Posiedenos Avenue, Westgate’s Honda was where single-mobile surveillance best practice said it should be; two cars behind.
As she turned left, Westgate made ready to follow as soon as he could squeeze past the cars in front. Having picked her up, he didn’t want to lose her, especially not now, with his suspicions still on course to be proved correct.
While waiting he’d used the time to run through the various criteria that would fit with his several hypotheses about why she may have been there, at the exact same time as him. As she’d left the station compound, he’d only had in her plain sight for a few seconds. But it was long enough for him to spot that at least one of those criteria was met.
The package in her hand had looked like a large envelope. The kind that could contain the sort of papers you might find in a police file - or copies. There’d been no sign of anything when he’d come out of Iridotu’s office. The only thing she was carrying was the bag she couldn’t even be bothered to check for a business card - not that he had any real interest in visiting her ‘taverna’. Not as a payin
g customer at any rate.
Of course the envelope could contain anything. It may be nothing at all to do with Murray, or Podruznig. In which case he might be about to waste a whole lot of time - perhaps days - on a wild goose chase. On the other hand…
As he reached the junction and pulled left, prompting a loud blast on the horn from the driver of the battered pick-up behind, Westgate fixed his eyes on the brightly-coloured sports car he could just make out in the line of traffic heading out of town. Pressing his foot to the floor, he headed after her.
CHAPTER 20
It was late afternoon when Westgate eased past the end of the cul-de-sac in the heart of Pafos’s Konia district, just in time to see her pull into a driveway halfway up on the left. He continued on, turned, then parked up where he could see the end of the road if she came out again.
Apart from the fact that most of the houses around were big and expensive-looking - probably subsidised by Daddy - Westgate wasn’t surprised to discover this was where she lived. Konia is popular among those locals whose work involves regular contact with tourists and the ubiquitous ex-pat Brit population. Given that most of the district’s residents are Cypriot, they welcome the break.
Grateful for the opportunity to ease off – however long it may last – Westgate reached into the back for the water bottle and bag of bananas he’d picked up on his travels, then settled down to wait.
Most of the two hours since he’d picked her up leaving the police station had been spent ducking, diving and hanging back while she made stops for groceries, shoes and, presumably - the last being a beautician’s - cosmetics. As far as he could tell, the envelope hadn’t left the car.
As afternoon turned to evening, Westgate stayed alert, checking out the many cars that turned into the estate, bringing those with day jobs home. It wasn’t hard to spot them as locals in their smart Mercs and BMWs - Brits tend to go for SUVs. And there is something about a Cypriot behind the wheel of a car that, even from a distance, distinguishes them from ex-pats.
A Killing Place in the Sun Page 10