by Simon Brett
But no, that didn’t work. The circumstances of the murder, its disguise as suicide, suggested a degree of premeditation which was at odds with that scenario.
Mrs. Pargeter felt certain that whoever had entered the Villa Eleni during the night had intended to kill Joyce. And also to find something that Joyce had brought with her to Corfu. Whether the murderer had been successful in the second part of his or her mission, there was no way of knowing.
Mrs. Pargeter was grimly thoughtful as she dressed. She would have liked to take a shower, but didn’t want to risk disturbing any evidence. Though uncertain how sophisticated forensic investigation would prove to be on Corfu, she knew that the less she touched the better. It went against her notions of hygiene, particularly after the sweatiness of the long day before, but, in the cause of criminal investigation, she confined her toilette to copious applications of deodorant and Obsession.
She couldn’t even use mineral water to clean her teeth, so she forced the toothpaste round with her tongue. Fortunately, she always kept a little breath spray in her handbag, and a couple of puffs from that gave her the confidence to go out and speak to people.
She did one more slow circuit of the villa, to check that she hadn’t missed anything. She gazed for a long, sad moment at Joyce’s body, which seemed distanced and shrunken in death. Then she looked outside at the front and back for signs of the murderer. Entering the premises would have presented no problem—in a climate like that, French windows were almost always left open at night—so she had no hopes for signs of forcible entry, but there was a distant possibility of a footprint in the dust or sand.
Nothing. Whoever had tended the garden had swept the cement paths too diligently for any trace to remain. That of course raised the question of who the careful gardener was. Had the watering and sweeping been part of some regular daily routine, or were they done that morning on special orders? As he or she swept, had the gardener been aware of the horror that lay a few yards away, hidden only by flimsy net curtains?
Such questions would have to be asked. And answered. But, Mrs. Pargeter told herself firmly, they were questions for the Corfiot police. Though the tragedy came so close, there was no reason for her to become involved in its investigation.
She tried to clamp a lid firmly down on the seething broth of inconsistencies and possibilities that boiled inside her mind, and set off to report the death.
Almost directly overhead now, the midday sun was ferocious and enervating, but the direct track to Spiro’s did not seem so steep as it had the night before. Partly, of course, that was because Mrs. Pargeter was going down rather than up, but, as she looked across in the daylight at the other, curving path she had taken with Joyce and Ginnie, the longer route appeared to be at least as steep and, here and there, even steeper.
Mrs. Pargeter crammed the lid firmly down on that speculation too.
The taverna was open, but there were not many customers. It was not yet one o’clock, and the lunchtime trade wouldn’t really get going for another hour. The Secretary With Short Bleached Hair and the Secretary With Long Bleached Hair sat over glasses of Sprite. Both wore bikinis that constricted their plump flesh like rubber bands; and already their white curves blushed from incautious exposure to the Mediterranean sun. They were engaging in a little come-hither banter with the beautiful Yianni, who was being polite, though clearly uninterested, as he swept round the tables with a broom made of bunches of twigs.
At another table sat Ginnie, doing her promised problem-solving stint. Mr. and Mrs. Safari Suit, dressed exactly as they had been the day before, were the ones with problems, and they appeared to be bending the rep’s ears unmercifully. Ginnie, Mrs. Pargeter noticed with interest, had a scratch on her face and the beginnings of a black eye, which had not been there the night before. On that detail too Mrs. Pargeter did not allow herself to speculate.
She looked cautiously towards the table where she and Joyce had sat. It was on the edge of the eating area and had not yet been reached by Yianni’s broom. She saw with relief that the flight bag still remained under her seat. Casually, she moved across, as if to look out over the bay, and picked it up.
She had not yet decided who should be the first recipient of her dreadful news. The person she wanted to tell was Larry Lambeth. He was the most sympathetic contact she had on Corfu and she needed to share some of the emotions building up inside her. Also, his background would make him a useful sounding board for conjecture about the crime.
But this was a murder case and protocol must be observed. The local police should be notified as soon as possible. (Mrs. Pargeter had always been a great believer in keeping the police supplied with as much information as she reckoned they could cope with.) Spiro was the one with a telephone, so presumably at some point he must be involved in contacting the police, but Mrs. Pargeter decided that Ginnie should be the one to know first of Joyce Dover’s death.
Mr. and Mrs. Safari Suit, however, appeared to be settled in for a long session of complaint. “I mean, the brochure,” Mr. Safari Suit was saying, “didn’t indicate that the Villa Ariadne was so far up the hill, and it’s not as if my wife doesn’t have her varicose veins to contend with. I really think the tour operator should move us into another villa nearer to sea level and my wife and I are also very disappointed that the crockery supplied in the . . .”
If ever Mrs. Pargeter had had news that would justify breaking into a conversation, now was that moment, but it was not her style to create unnecessary shock and distress. No, she would bide her time, wait until Ginnie was free, and then break the news to her discreetly.
So she sat down at an adjacent table, ordered a coffee from Yianni (a Nescafe—she couldn’t take that gravelly, sweet Greek stuff), and waited.
Mr. Safari Suit went on at inordinate length, but eventually, unable to think of anything else to complain about, set off to take some photographs of Mrs. Safari Suit against a background of fishing boats.
Mrs. Pargeter moved across to the next table and Ginnie gave her the professional smile of someone who had just coped with one wingeing nitpicker and is fully prepared to face another. “No major problem, I hope?” she asked breezily.
“Well, yes, I’m afraid there is. It’s Joyce.”
“Oh dear. Still unwell, is she?”
“Rather worse than unwell, Ginnie. Joyce is dead.”
“What?” There was a fraction of a second’s pause. “Oh no. That’s the holiday rep’s nightmare. I’ve been lucky, I’ve never had one of my client die on me before. Oh, how dreadful. What happened?”
It was what had happened in the pause after Ginnie had said “What?” that interested Mrs. Pargeter. There had been a grinding gear change in the girl’s reaction, and after that gear change she had been back in control. She had responded with appropriate concern and, if that concern had been selfish rather than compassionate, it had still been the proper response of a professional faced with a professional problem.
But her first reaction, the one expressed in that almost breathless “What?”, had been one of naked fear.
The fear of someone who had just had her worst imaginings realized.
chapter
ELEVEN
* * *
Mrs. Pargeter did not use the word “murder.” She just described, as impassively as she could manage, the scene that she had encountered in Joyce’s bedroom.
Ginnie, whose professional control had firmly reasserted itself after that one brief lapse, nodded grimly. “I’ll see that the proper authorities are notified,” she said, and disappeared into the taverna, instructing Mrs. Pargeter to wait for her. The rep was gone for some time.
The area under the awning started to fill up with minimally clad tourists, the level of whose tans showed, to the precise day, how far they were into their fortnight’s packages. Drinks were ordered, then the waiters came with their paper tablecloth routine, and plates of food started to appear.
Mrs. Pargeter didn’t feel hungry, and thought that it
might be quite a while before she ever felt hungry again. She ordered a bottle of retsina from Yianni, but the wine tasted metallic and emetic on her tongue, so after a few sips she gave up.
Meanwhile, in spite of the iron discipline she was trying to impose on herself, thoughts continued to seethe and bubble up in her mind.
Ginnie came back after half an hour, accompanied by Spiro. His eyes were even darker with concern, as he sat down beside Mrs. Pargeter. “I am so sorry, lady, for what has happened. It is very sad, your friend, very sad.”
“Yes.”
“The police will be along to the villa soon, Mrs. Pargeter,” said Ginnie. “Obviously there’s no way the other holidaymakers aren’t going to find out what has happened eventually, but I’d be grateful if you could keep quiet about the death for as long as possible.”
“That goes without saying.”
The rep picked up her shoulder bag. “I must go back to the office in Corfu Town. There’s going to be a lot to sort out, informing next-of-kin, that kind of thing.”
“Joyce just had the one daughter. Conchita. I think I’ve probably got her address somewhere if . . .”
Mrs. Pargeter was saved the trouble of riffling through her handbag. “It’s all right. We’ll have all the details in the office.”
“Oh, very well.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, Mrs. Pargeter? I mean, I could easily call a doctor if you want some sedation or . . .”
Sedation is the last thing I want after the night I’ve just had, thought Mrs. Pargeter, but all she said was, “No, I’ll be fine, thank you.”
“Spiro will keep an eye on you. Won’t you?”
“Of course, Tchinnie. Will you have something to eat, please?”
It was interesting, Mrs. Pargeter noticed as she refused Spiro’s offer, that the Greeks couldn’t pronounce the “J” sound at the beginning of “Ginnie.” The consonant came out as a kind of “tch.” “Tchinnie.”
“Mrs. Pargeter, obviously you won’t want to stay in the Villa Eleni . . .”
“I hadn’t really thought about that, Ginnie. I mean, I don’t mind. I’m not squeamish.”
“I was thinking maybe you’d want to go straight back to England . . .”
Oh no, not yet. Mrs. Pargeter was very firm in her mind about that. She wanted to wait at least until the police investigation was underway. She wanted to be sure that her friend’s murder was getting the attention it deserved. And if it wasn’t, she didn’t rule out the possibility of doing a little mild investigation herself.
In which event, she would be well advised to stay at the Villa Eleni. Murders are much easier to investigate if you’re actually on the scene of the crime.
“No, I think I’ll stay around for a while,” she said coolly. “Probably find it easier to relax and get over it out here than back in England.”
“Very well, if that’s what you feel. I’ll arrange to book you into the Hotel Nausica and have your belongings moved there.”
“I think I’d rather stay in the villa.”
“That would not be appropriate,” said Ginnie firmly.
“No,” Spiro endorsed. “The police will want as little disturbance as possible. They will need to do very thorough investigation of this suicide.”
Well, it won’t be thorough enough if they start from the premise that the death was suicide, thought Mrs. Pargeter, but all she said was, “I should think having my bags moved to the hotel would cause quite a bit of disturbance.”
“That will of course be done under police supervision,” said Ginnie. She looked at her watch. “I’ll ring through now to sort out the hotel, and get a message to you there when I know how long your bags will take.”
“Thank you. I can manage overnight with what I’ve got here, if necessary.” Mrs. Pargeter tapped her flight bag. As she did so, she remembered what else it contained. Yes, she looked forward to opening the package that Joyce had given her at Gatwick.
“Good,” said Ginnie. “There’ll be no problem with the hotel—they’re not fully booked—so you can go up there as soon as you like. Spiro’ll show you the way.”
“Of course. I drive you if you want.”
“That’s very kind.”
“Right, I’ll go and sort things out,” said Ginnie, unable to erase from her voice all traces of resentment at the inconvenience she was being put to. Then she disappeared into the taverna to phone the hotel.
“Very sad,” said Spiro, his melancholy black eyes moist with compassion. “Sad when someone feels so bad to do this to themself.”
“Yes, if that’s what happened . . .” Mrs. Pargeter hazarded.
Spiro looked shocked. “What you mean—if that is what happened?”
She shrugged. “Well, I’m sure the police will find out the truth.”
“Of course. Yes, of course.”
They seemed to have run out of conversation. “Look, I’ll be fine, Spiro. I’m sure you should be getting on. You’ve got lots of customers.”
“No problem. The boys can deal with them. No, you have had shock. I stay and talk with you.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
Though no doubt kindly meant, this solicitude was the last thing Mrs. Pargeter required. All she really wanted was to be left on her own. To give her thoughts a chance to organize themselves. Maybe to go back up to the Villa Eleni for another look round. Certainly to investigate the package in her flight bag.
Still, if she was going to be stuck with him, she’d have to make some conversational effort. “There seem to be a lot of people on Corfu called Spiro,” she began safely.
“Oh yes. It is the name of our saint. Saint Spiridon. You can still see his bones in Corfu Town if you want to.”
“Thank you very much.”
“He has been good for our island, so many men are called Spiros. First son often called Spiros. My father Spiros—I Spiros—if I had a son, he would be called Spiros.”
Mrs. Pargeter looked out over the tranquil harbor and wished that this conscientious nursemaid would leave her to her own devices.
“Very sad,” said Spiro, returning to an earlier theme. “Very sad for someone to kill themself. Your friend, Tchinnie say, lose her husband not long ago . . . ?”
“Yes.”
“Very sad, death of someone close. I know. My brother die, my father die. When something like that happen, people go a little crazy.”
“Yes.”
“They crazy—they think they can’t go on—they kill themself—no problem.”
“Well, it is a bit of a problem for those who are left behind.”
“Yes, of course. I mean, no problem for them to do it. It seems the right thing to do—if you are a little crazy.”
“Perhaps.”
The conversation had once again trickled away, but Spiro showed no signs of leaving, so Mrs. Pargeter moved on to another safe topic. “You do speak very good English.”
“Thank you. You own taverna, you have speak English. So many English people come on holiday.” A gloomy shadow crossed his face. “Not so many this year. Number of visitors down this year. But you have to speak English all the same.”
“Did you learn English at school?”
“A little. But it was not my best. Science best . . . chemistry and so on.”
“And did you continue your studies after school?”
He shrugged. “Not possible. I leave school early. My father die, I have to take over taverna. Family business more important than school.”
“Ah. Do you ever regret you couldn’t go on with your education?”
He was a little affronted by this question and answered defensively, “Taverna is a very good business. Good business for last twenty years with many tourists. Not so good last two years, but good business.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Mrs. Pargeter decided to make use of the subject, since it had come up. “And you say the taverna’s a family business?”
“Of course.”
“So everyo
ne working here is related?”
“Yes. Cousins, nephews, so on. All related.”
“And it’s your sister who works in the kitchen, isn’t it? Theodosia?”
For the first time in their conversation, he was on his guard. “Yes, it is my sister.”
“But she doesn’t speak?”
“No, she cannot. From a child, she cannot. You like some food now?” he went on, changing the subject without any attempt at subtlety.
Mrs. Pargeter was not to be deflected. “Last night, as we were going up to the Villa Eleni, we met Theodosia leaving it and—”
Spiro looked across the tables and spotted someone he urgently had to greet. “Excuse me, I see English friends from last year. Must say hello. You let me know when you want I drive you to hotel.”
“Oh, it’s all right. The walk’ll do me good. I could do with a bit of fresh air.”
Spiro was far too keen to get away to notice the incongruity of Mrs. Pargeter’s last sentence, spoken as it was by someone sitting out of doors. He scuttled off, arms bonhomously open.
The question about Theodosia had not been wasted. Though not yielding any information, it had at least got rid of Spiro.
Mrs. Pargeter waved to Yianni, who refused to accept any money for her coffee and retsina. She wondered idly whether it would be added to her running total from the night before, or if Spiro had waived payment as a gesture of compassion.
Then she set off across the waterfront towards the Hotel Nausica, a pink, almost rectangular building which rose up out of the trees the other side of the bay.
She was halfway there before the thought struck her. Why shouldn’t she go up to the Villa Eleni and have another look round? There was no one to stop her, and if anyone did make a fuss, she could say she just needed to pick up some of her belongings.
She took the direct path up the hillside. It was certainly no steeper than the other one, and a lot shorter. She was hardly out of breath at all when she reached the front door of the villa.
