by Simon Brett
Spiro stood in the doorway with his back to them, but over his shoulder could be seen the man in uniform. His face was now squared-off by the peaked cap and his expression was stern.
Joyce Dover was staring fixedly at him, mouthing soundlessly. She looked as if she had seen a ghost.
chapter
SIX
* * *
It was over within seconds. No one except Mrs. Pargeter and Larry Lambeth noticed anything amiss. Mr. Safari Suit was busily ordering Mrs. Safari Suit to look more relaxed for a holiday snap. Linda from South Woodham Ferrers was trying to get Craig off to sleep again, while Keith from South Woodham Ferrers, who kept saying how great it felt to be away from the office, was punching at his calculator, working out how the price of Greek white wine compared with the Lutomer Riesling from Sainsbury’s that they liked so much. The Secretary With Short Bleached Hair and the Secretary With Long Bleached Hair leant close over their lager glasses, planning their fortnight’s campaign of sexual conquest.
The man in uniform was also unaware of the effect he had had. By the time he had been clapped on the shoulder and waved on his way by Spiro, Joyce had rushed from the table to the edge of the sea, where she leant over the water, shaking convulsively.
Mrs. Pargeter was quickly by her side. Joyce had emptied her stomach, but still shuddered with dry retching.
“There, there, love,” said Mrs. Pargeter, putting an arm round her friend’s shoulders. “You all right?”
Tears, induced either by nausea or emotion, coursed down Joyce’s cheeks, negating the vigor with which she nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
“Did you see something that frightened you?”
“What?” A wariness came into her eyes. “No, no, I didn’t see anything. Must be something I ate on the plane. Airline food’s always pretty dodgy.”
“I had the same, and I feel all right,” said Mrs. Pargeter evenly.
“Something I was allergic to perhaps.” Seeing the discreet skepticism that greeted this, Joyce tried another tack. “I’m sorry, since Chris died, I’ve just been in such a nervy state, it doesn’t take much to set me off. You know, you think you’re in control and then suddenly you’re reminded of something or you see something, and the pain of loss is right back with you.”
“Yes, I know, Joyce love.” The soothing voice hardened a little. “And what were you reminded of just now?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Did you see something just now that set you off?”
“What? No, no, I was just using that as an example. I just had a thought about Chris and . . . you know, the fact that I was on holiday without him and . . . the emotion just got the better of me.”
“Yes, of course. I see,” said Mrs. Pargeter, as if the explanation satisfied her.
“Erm, is there anything I can do to help?” Larry Lambeth, who had been hovering at a discreet distance, stepped forward to the couple at the sea’s edge.
“No, thank you,” Mrs. Pargeter replied. “Joyce is just not feeling very well. I think we’d better find our villa and get her to bed. Don’t you think that’d be a good idea, Joyce?”
“Yes, yes, thank you, Melita.” Joyce Dover pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket, wiped her face and blew her nose noisily.
She turned back with some trepidation to face the taverna, and seemed relieved that the policeman had disappeared. Resolutely she walked back to their table.
“I’ll just go and see Ginnie, find out exactly where the villa is,” said Mrs. Pargeter.
Again the atmosphere inside the taverna seemed to come from another culture, but this time without the same sense of threat. Maybe it was the police uniform which had struck the previous sinister note.
Ginnie was in conversation with the balding man. Though Mrs. Pargeter couldn’t understand a word, the tone of his voice suggested that he was tearing the rep off a strip. She kept trying to remonstrate, but never got much further than the name “Georgio.” The man became aware of Mrs. Pargeter and stopped speaking, gesturing her presence to Ginnie with his eyebrows. He went back to his ouzo as the girl turned round. She looked flushed and upset. Older, too. The rep was well into her thirties.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Ginnie, but my friend Mrs. Dover isn’t feeling very well. I think we’d better make our way to the villa now, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” Ginnie stood up. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Oh no, just a bit of gastric trouble. Sure she’ll be fine in the morning.”
“Yes. The villa’s only a couple of hundred yards away. I’ll walk you up there.”
“Thank you. I’d better just settle up for the meal . . .”
“Spiro!” Ginnie shouted, the name prefacing a torrent of Greek. Georgio added his own incomprehensible views on the subject.
Spiro appeared from the kitchen, his broad smile already in place. He flashed something in Greek, which sounded almost like an order, to Ginnie, then turned his beam on Mrs. Pargeter. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d just like the bill, please. My friend’s not feeling too well, so I think I’d better get her into bed.”
“Yes. I hope she soon be better in the morning. It is a very healthy island, Corfu. The air is good, soon make her . . . right as rain.” He pronounced the idiom with considerable pride.
“I’m sure it will. So, if you could just tell me what I owe you . . . ?”
His hands dismissed the idea. “No, please, I can’t work it out now. Too much trouble. You pay me next time you come to Spiro’s.”
“Oh, well, if you’re sure . . . ?”
“Of course. No problem.”
What a nice gesture of trust. Then came the little cynical thought that of course it wasn’t just a gesture of trust; it was also a way of ensuring that nice honest English people would return to eat at the taverna again.
“Can we go now? I feel dreadful.”
It was Joyce who had spoken. She leaned weakly against the doorway.
“Yes, love. We’re sorted now and—”
Mrs. Pargeter stopped. Once again Joyce had gone into her trance of horror. She was gazing over towards the bar counter. Behind it, the silent dark-haired woman now stood, mixing Nescafe into coffee cups. She did not register Joyce’s presence, but moved across the room to hand the cups to Yianni, who swirled past to deliver them to customers outside. Then the woman retreated into the kitchen. Spiro, who did not appear to have noticed anything odd, followed her.
Joyce still gazed fixedly ahead, her face a white mask of terror.
“Come on, love,” said Mrs. Pargeter, taking her friend’s arm and marching her firmly out of the taverna. “You need to get to bed.”
Larry Lambeth still lurked protectively by their table. “Anything I can do, Mrs. Pargeter?”
“No, really. We’ll be fine now.”
“Look, here’s my address and phone number.” He thrust a piece of paper into her hand. There’s an ansaphone there, so don’t hesitate to get in touch, you know, if there’s the smallest thing you need . . .”
“Thank you, Mr. Lambeth.”
“Please call me Larry.”
“Very well, Larry. Thank you.” Mrs. Pargeter had a sudden thought and moved closer to him. “There is something perhaps you can tell me . . .”
“Yes?” Larry Lambeth dropped his voice to a matching whisper.
“The man in uniform who was here earlier . . . ?”
“Mm?”
“Do you know who he is?”
“Sergeant Karaskakis. From the Tourist Police.”
“Ah. And perhaps you can also tell me—?”
“Right, are we set?” Ginnie bustled towards them. “The villa’s only a couple of minutes away and—” It was the sight of Larry that stopped her in midsentence. She looked at him with undisguised distaste.
“Well, er, better be on my way now,” he said awkwardly, and scuttled off into the warm night.
“That man wasn’t troubling you, was he
?” asked Ginnie.
“No. No, actually, he was being very helpful,” Mrs. Pargeter replied.
“Oh. Well, keep an eye on him. Apparently he has some kind of criminal record back in England.”
“Really?” said Mrs. Pargeter, her eyes wide with naive amazement.
“Yes, and you know what they say . . . once a thief, always a thief.”
“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” said Mrs. Pargeter righteously.
chapter
SEVEN
* * *
The walk from Spiro’s to the Villa Eleni was magical. From the flat seashore strip, along which the tavernas and few shops of Agios Nikitas clustered, the hills rose steeply and out of their olive-, cypress- and brush-clad slopes the square, white outlines of buildings rose. By night only the villas’ soft lights could be seen, pale orange-tinted rectangles in the thick blue velvet darkness.
The road which led up from the tavernas divided after about fifty yards. One branch went straight up the hillside, the other took a more oblique route. Ginnie indicated the second with her torch. “We’ll go this way. Not so steep.”
It was still quite a marked incline, and Mrs. Pargeter started to puff a little as she pulled her substantial bulk upwards. At a point where the track turned sharply, she stopped for a breather and looked back. Pinpricks of stars in the sky and dots of light from boats gleamed back at her. Then, over the sea, sudden triangles of light raked out across the water from the further shore.
Ginnie turned back at that moment and her torch found Mrs. Pargeter’s puzzled face. “Searchlights from Albania,” she explained.
“Really?”
“Oh yes. They come on most nights.”
“What are they looking for?”
The outline of Ginnie’s shoulders shrugged against the night sky. “No idea. Nobody knows much about what goes on in that place. Come on. Not far now.”
“Right.” Mrs. Pargeter readdressed herself to the steep track of broken white stone. “It’s times like this that I really am determined to lose some weight.”
But it was said more for form than anything else. Mrs. Pargeter lived at peace in her plump body. Her outline had always been generous and, as she grew older, that generosity had begun to verge on prodigality. But the late Mr. Pargeter had never complained. Nor had anyone else, come to that.
She saw a tiny spot of light appear suddenly and move in a hazy scribble above the scrub to the side of the path. As suddenly it disappeared. Then another showed. And another.
“What on earth are those, Ginnie? I don’t think I believe in fairies.”
“They’re fireflies.”
“Really? God, this place is so beautiful, isn’t it?”
“So beautiful,” Joyce echoed. Then her voice was broken by a sob. “What a beautiful place to be alone in.”
“You’re not alone, Joyce. I’m with you.”
“I know, Melita, but . . .” More sobs came. “I mean, Chris isn’t here. Chris’ll never be anywhere again. I don’t think I can manage without him.”
“Of course you can. It’ll take time, but you’ll do it, Joyce. That’s what Chris would want you to do.”
“Oh God, Chris wanted me to do so many things. Even now he still wants me to do things. He’s left me a letter with great lists of instructions. I just don’t think I can cope.”
“You can cope. You’ll—”
Mrs. Pargeter stopped at the sound of a door closing ahead and hurrying footsteps approaching. The beam of Ginnie’s torch moved up from the ground and briefly illuminated the impassive face of the woman from Spiro’s kitchen as she almost ran towards them.
“Kalinikta, Theodosia,” the rep said.
Without any response, the woman pushed past them and, using the direct path which their curving one had now rejoined, hurried on down the hillside.
Mrs. Pargeter flashed a look across to Joyce, to see if the silent Greek woman’s appearance had repeated its traumatic effect, but her friend just looked weepy and preoccupied.
“What have you done to offend her?” Mrs. Pargeter asked Ginnie.
“Nothing. Theodosia can’t speak. She’s dumb.”
“What? But—”
“Here we are—the Villa Eleni.” Ginnie accompanied the interruption with a sweep of her torch across the frontage of the building ahead of them. A low white-painted rectangle with a shaded veranda at the front. Under this, either side of a front door, were double French windows, closed in by louvered shutters.
“She could have left a light on,” muttered Ginnie.
“Who?”
“Theodosia.”
“You mean she had just come from here?”
“Yes, she was checking it was tidy before you came in.”
“I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”
“Theodosia is the maid for the Villa Eleni,” Ginnie explained patiently. “She’s Spiro’s sister, you see, and he owns the place.”
“Oh, does he?”
Ginnie pushed open the unlocked door and switched on some lights, illuminating a central living area. A couple of wicker armchairs were placed near the entrance and at the far end, by the doors leading to the kitchen and bathroom, were a dining-room table and chairs. The bedrooms ran the length of the building, one each side of the central area. Ginnie opened the windows and shutters at each end of Mrs. Pargeter’s room. “Sea view at the front, and at the back you get a lovely outlook onto the garden.”
Mrs. Pargeter joined her on the low balcony at the back of the bedroom. Light spilled onto flowers and shrubs in pale-blue-painted oildrums.
“Can’t see much in this light,” Ginnie apologized, “but you wait till the morning. The flowers are really fabulous this time of year.”
“I look forward to it,” Mrs. Pargeter said.
She gazed back into the bedroom with satisfaction, approving the neat twin beds with their white sheets, the functional wooden bedside furniture, the gleaming marble floor. Though self-catering was not her usual style, this really could have been a lot worse. Not lavish, but comfortable and well-maintained. Yes, if she could only manage to cheer Joyce up a little, she was set for a very enjoyable fortnight.
When Mrs. Pargeter and Ginnie went back into the living room, there was no sign of Joyce, but the sound of running water could be heard from the bathroom.
“Well . . . if you’ve got everything you want,” the rep said, “I’ll be off.”
“It all looks fine, thank you. Very comfortable.”
“You’ll find there are sort of basic supplies in the fridge. We always stock our clients up with a bit of food and a couple of bottles of wine. Or there’s mineral water if you want something nonalcoholic. That’s probably safer than the tap water.”
“Mineral water’ll be fine. I feel quite parched.”
“Yes, everyone gets dehydrated in this heat. You must make sure you keep up your fluid intake. Would you like me to get you a glass of mineral water now?” asked Ginnie, suddenly solicitous.
“No, no, I’ll manage.”
“Right. As I say, it’ll be in the fridge. Now, what else should I tell you . . . ? The minimarket opens at nine in the morning, and fresh bread’s delivered there round nine-thirty. Spiro’ll change traveler’s checks, or you can do them at the Hotel Nausica—though Spiro’s rate tends to be better. I’ll be in the taverna between twelve and one tomorrow, if there’s anything you want to check with me, and emergency numbers are in the villa guide on the table over there.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, I hope you’ll be comfortable . . .”
“Sure we will be.” Mrs. Pargeter, hostesslike in her new home, held the door open for her guest. “You have far to go, do you?”
“Not far,” Ginnie replied uninformatively.
“Well, good night.”
“Good night.”
The rep did not bother to switch on her torch, the path familiar to her from many such visits. Soon her outline vanished into the darkness. Mrs. Par
geter watched a couple of fireflies ignite and extinguish themselves, then closed the door.
She checked the contents of the fridge and found them more lavish than she had expected. Bread, cheese, jam, some ham and sausage. Long-life milk, a couple of bottles of white wine, the promised mineral water. And a bottle of ouzo.
For a moment she contemplated hiding this, but decided that she couldn’t. Joyce might have seen it, for one thing, and she was a grown woman, after all. If she really was going to be helped out of her current state, the approach must be cautious and tentative. But Mrs. Pargeter felt quietly confident that, with the unforced help of the sun and the sea, she could achieve much for her friend in two weeks of gentle therapy.
She poured herself a large glass from the square plastic bottle of mineral water and went through to her bedroom to unpack. The cases, she noted with satisfaction, had been delivered to the right rooms. In fact, apart from the delay at Gatwick—a circumstance beyond the tour operators’ control—all of the arrangements had been commendably efficient. She heaved a suitcase up onto one of the beds and put the key into its padlock.
It was at that moment she realized, with annoyance, that she had left her flight bag down at Spiro’s. She remembered taking it off the coach and putting it under her seat at the taverna. Then, in the confusion of Joyce’s sickness and their hurried departure, she had left it there.
Oh well, never mind. Her flight bag always contained toothbrush, face cloth and makeup in case of airport delays, but she had others in her main luggage. Passport, credit cards and traveler’s checks were in her handbag which she had with her, so at least her valuables were safe. And, Mrs. Pargeter thought as she stifled a yawn, she certainly didn’t fancy walking down that steep path and back up again.
No, the flight bag would come to no harm overnight. She’d pick it up in the morning. And, even if it did get stolen . . . well, that would be a nuisance rather than a disaster.
She heard movement from the living room and went through to see what state Joyce was in.
The answer, immediately apparent, was not a very good state. Joyce, hair wet from the shower, sat at the table, with a dressing gown wrapped around her, facing two glasses and the ouzo bottle from the kitchen. One of the glasses contained clear water, the other already showed the clouded white of diluted ouzo.
