by Jason Foss
As Flint slipped inside, ouzo fumes flooded out. He congratulated himself on the accuracy of one prediction. At least he might be spared an argument.
‘Evening.’ Flint took his seat, speaking quietly.
Nothing.
‘Could I have the keys?’
Nothing.
‘Come on, wakey wakey!’
The silence was deeper than he liked.
‘Dalek, time to go back to the concentration camp.’
Nothing. Flint enjoyed a brief fantasy, in which the drunk was abandoned in a gutter whilst he drove off.
‘Hello, can I have the keys, piss-head?’
The silence was so deep, not even disturbed by the other’s breath.
‘Oops.’ Flint jabbed the horn, ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’
He didn’t, and suddenly Flint became aware of the overwhelming silence which followed the horn blast. He snapped on the map light. Sebastian Embury was still slumped against the door. His head was a mass of blood. Blood had dribbled from his mouth and splashed down the front of his check shirt. Flint’s brain went numb, his own breathing seeming to stop. On reflex, he opened the car door and got out. Coming to his senses, he hastily got back in and felt for a pulse. Sebastian Embury was warm, but quite clearly dead.
Chapter Six
‘I read all that in the newspapers,’ Emma said as they waited for a taxi to pass the corner of the tree-lined square. ‘I never believed it.’
‘Believe it,’ Flint replied. ‘The police did — after a little persuasion.’
Emma said little more until they were seated in the taxi. For Flint, the conversation had brought back a nightmare of blood drying on his shirt. He had been convinced he would wake, but waking had not been an option.
‘I don’t suppose you know any basic first aid?’ Emma stated.
‘Emma, I tried,’ the memory of mouth-to-mouth contact with bristles, blood, pipe-smoke and ouzo was not one to be savoured.
‘I tried to flag down a car. Then I drove on the wrong side of the road through the suburbs.’
‘Pronoia?’
‘Yeah, I guess, but my Greek was pretty ropey. I couldn’t read the signs and I didn’t know whether Nauplion even had a hospital.’
‘God that’s feeble, try looking at a map.’
‘I stopped to ask, but the only person who I could talk to was a German tourist. He was as confused as me.’
Confusion overwhelmed his memory of that night.
*
A trio of national servicemen beside the car called out towards him. More people were approaching now, shouting questions across to the soldiers. Meanwhile, Jeffrey Flint stood on the kerb, no longer hearing German directions to a probable hospital. When the policemen came from behind, they pointed at his blood-stained clothing and asked unintelligible questions. It was the beginning of a pattern.
Flint had seen so many prison movies, so many grey detective films, so many blood-and-sweat features set in third world jails, yet his first ten hours at Nauplion police station were a nightmare he could never have prepared for. Phrase books do not contain phrases such as ‘When did you find the body’ or ‘I am innocent’. An officer from the Tourist Police spoke passable English and was drafted in to take his statement, but he was never sure whether what he said was understood, or whether what was written matched what he said.
*
‘We found you a lawyer,’ Emma stated in the dark of the London taxi.
‘Thanks, that man kept me sane, he must have cost you a fortune. I couldn’t even have afforded his taxi fares.’
‘He did it for free.’
‘Honest?’
‘I don’t lie, Jeffrey.’
‘Lisa said he was the most expensive lawyer in Nauplion.’
‘Lisa, oh, yes, Lisa.’ Emma was so unsubtle once she extended her cat’s claws.
‘Emma, I’m curious. Why should whatshisname…Bokkis...work for free?’
‘His name was Vassilis Boukaris, he was a good friend of Doctor Dracopoulos…’
With whom Embury should have dined on the night of his murder — Archaeology in Greece was as incestuous as it was in Britain. Still, Flint mused, if Doctor D. were a long-standing friend of Embury, why should he pull strings to help someone accused of Embury’s murder? Something very philosophical and uniquely Greek probably lay behind his motives. Flint needed to understand what had happened, and if he was going to gain Emma’s trust he would have to tell her the whole story.
*
Mr Boukaris had been allowed inside the cell some time before noon and introduced himself in embarrassingly correct English. Short, spreading, fifty-ish and neatly presented, he explained the situation carefully and correctly. Whilst he spoke, the lawyer would subconsciously touch the fringe of his thick mat of black hair, possibly checking for the first sign of balding.
Flint had never held policemen in high regard, and that day his opinion reached its nadir. Hungry and still in a state of shock, he was taken to another bare, nicotine-yellow room. Memories of Amnesty International reports on human rights under The Greek Colonels came to mind and depressed him further.
At the far side of the square table sat an officer whose face had been scarred by smallpox and whose sense of humour had vanished with his looks. His name was unpronounceable, even if Flint could have remembered it. A youth whose uniform seemed too large sat by his side, threatening Flint with a box of cigarettes.
‘Smoke?’
‘No.’
The other three did, continually, adding to Flint’s discomfort. The two officers ran through his statement, with Boukaris translating and insisting that Flint write an English version as the interview proceeded. After two hours, the prisoner was taken back to his cell and offered a sliced tomato drowned in engine oil, plus bits of a chicken that had died of malnutrition.
At intervals, he was called back as the officers asked for clarification, verification and explanation. His clinical mind was still muddled, his memory was far from its photographic norm and Flint tried desperately not to contradict himself. The policeman with the scarred face was very aggressive and reluctant to speak English. He would jab his finger and ask rapid, intimidating questions. The placid, smooth-talking Boukaris dissipated the impact of the vicious jabs, turning them into polite enquiries to be answered after consideration. Flint began to rely on that man to keep him from bursting under the strain.
‘Miss Woodfine said you and the late professor argued frequently.’ Boukaris translated the latest incisive question.
‘We disagreed.’
The customary two-way translation followed, with a pause as Boukaris converted the barb into English.
‘What did you argue about?’
‘I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. We had professional disagreements about planning and surveying...you know.’
No, they did not know. He began to list areas of disagreement, one by one, deliberately keeping them technical, introducing jargon whenever possible to sound convincing. The one he nicknamed Scarface soon became irritated and returned to the attack.
‘He would like to know what you argued about on the night of the incident.’
‘Finds recording...I had omitted to tell him about a find.’
Each question and answer was punctuated by a hurried translation, some nodding and hand waving. Scarface glared directly at Flint, hitting the table top with his finger as he spoke in machine-gun Greek.
‘Was this a valuable object you argued over?’ asked Boukaris.
‘No, it was a piece of junk, a crushed pen, worth a thousand drachmae or so.’
‘You have this?’
‘It’s at Taverna Mikos.’
Scarface expressed dissatisfaction and continued to probe actions and motives. He asked why Flint had been to see Lisa, but showed no interest in the reply, confirming that she had corroborated the alibi. Alibi, the word, floated around in Flint’s jaded mind. Only the accused have alibis.
‘Why did Mr Embury wa
nt to go to that strange place?’
‘He had a meeting.’
‘They would like to know who he was meeting.’
‘I don’t know, he never told me anything.’
The two-way translations were making Flint dizzy, he had lost the sense of which question was being answered.
‘Why did he leave you in the car?’
‘I don’t know.’
Scarface would interrupt Boukaris, Boukaris would break into rapid procedural dialogue, Flint would ask questions of his own and be ignored by all.
‘Why did you walk away?’
‘I was angry, no, I was bored.’
‘Angry?’ Scarface knew that word.
‘I was bored, fed up at being left alone.’
Alone, yes, but never so alone as now.
‘Why did you go to see the woman, Lisa Morgan?’
‘I wanted to sleep with her. Happy? Will he believe that?’
Dirty chuckles, yes, that one got through.
‘Why did you not take the injured man to the doctors?’
‘I didn’t know where the doctor was.’
Scarface grunted disbelief at this answer. He started to explain, slowly, and in great detail, directions to the medical facilities of Nauplion. As if every idiot should know. Question followed answer, lines of enquiry were built and demolished. Nauseous with the process, Flint began to speak mechanically, trying hard to keep his story logical, which was so hard, when little of it carried any logic.
*
By evening, the pace of interrogation slackened and Flint was allowed to have time alone with Boukaris.
‘The police would like to have you as their suspect,’ the lawyer said.
Flint was slumped back on his bench-bed, drenched with sweat and crippled by fatigue.
‘There is much that points that way. You and Mr Embury argue. You go for this mysterious meeting, but you say you do not know who you were to meet. You drive a car with his dead body around the streets of Nauplion. Your clothes have blood stains...’
The suspect groaned, ‘A few spots, I tried first aid! If I had beaten the poor old bastard to death I’d be covered in blood. They had no right to take my clothes away.’
‘Oh but yes they do. And what of your hands, Mr Flint?’
Boukaris pointed his pen at the scratched and scabbed knuckles. ‘The Captain thinks you have been in a fight.’
‘No, I’ve been trowelling. Look at any of my mates’ hands and you’ll find the same thing. All these cuts would have been ripped open if I’d even hit the Dalek once.’
‘Who?’
‘Mister Embury.’
Boukaris pointed his pen at his client. ‘A very good point in your defence.’ He made a note in his pad.
‘What now?’
‘The police will look for more evidence, all they have is,’ he hummed for a word, ‘circumstantial. The Prosecutor is very strict and what the police have is not sufficient to establish a prima facie case against you. I will ask for you to be released.’
‘Can I go home?’ A vision of green fields and village pubs swam before his eyes. ‘Home to England?’
Boukaris fixed Flint with his deep set, almost black, eyes.
‘In a few days. Trust me.’
*
‘And I trusted him, and Boukaris was as good as his word. Damn good value for free,’ Flint said.
The taxi drew up outside the semi-detached Victorian villa in Acton. Flint’s pocket felt the impact of the fare. He supposed he owed Emma something, after all these years.
Death had come riding a heart attack the night Sebastian Embury died. The crime may have begun as a beating, or mugging, but it had ended as murder. Only one suspect had ever been named, but once Flint had been released, the case fell as dead as the archaeologist.
‘We should have stayed, you know?’ Flint said as Emma fumbled for her door keys. ‘But the moment I held that passport in my hand, I gave it a great big kiss and scuttled for home.’
Emma was still reluctant to talk about it, not even it seemed, as therapy. She had always worked the system, had always been a string-puller and found joy in standing in the shadows of would-be great men. It was curious that she had never caused a fuss, never called in famous names in academia and law to delve deeply into Embury’s death and demand answers from the Greek police.
He was half inside her hallway, dominated by a Grandmother Clock with the appropriate legend ‘tempus fugit’: time flies.
‘I keep thinking that what I should have done was hang around and ask a few questions of my own.’
‘I can’t see what good that would have been.’ Emma was about to close the door on him.
‘Invite me in for coffee and I’ll tell you.’
Chapter Seven
Emma had decorated Hubert Yarm’s house in high Victorian style. Flint hated being impressed by interior decor, but the mahogany fireplace and matching overmantel had him emitting coos of admiration.
‘Hubert’s probably asleep,’ Emma sang, ‘but please remember I’m not a giggly undergraduate girl you can add to your score card.’
Flint cringed at the thought. ‘Emma, hostility doesn’t help.’
‘Hostile? Why should I be hostile?’ She became shrill.
He found himself a seat on the red, buttoned leather sofa. ‘I know you adored him, we all knew, it was no secret and no sin.’
Tears filled her tiny, round eyes and Flint began to regret the suspicious impulse which had drawn him inside. ‘Cast your mind back to the night of the murder. It was a murder, we agree on that?’
She gave a nonchalant downward twitch of her lips and sat in the Chesterfield opposite him.
‘Okay, it was Wednesday night. You had a barney with Sebastian, just before you went out — we all witnessed it.’
Emma sensed his drift instantly. ‘I was at the Dracopoulos’, having dinner.’
‘And why didn’t Sebastian go too?’
She stiffened again. ‘Sebastian had to see someone — I don’t know who. He’d been very busy and he wasn’t well. It didn’t help when people kept winding him up.’
Flint’s pulse began to rise, he was learning something, and detection always gave him a thrill. ‘Have you any idea what his secret meeting was about?’
‘Perhaps it might have been the minibus. Sebastian told me it had been found.’
By the time Flint had been released by the police, the mustard-hued ‘shuttlecraft’ had been back beside the taverna, apparently intact. Arrangements had been made for Andy to drive it back to England a week or so after Flint had flown home. Perhaps Embury had been asked to pay a price at the dark edge of town. A small ransom for a paltry prize, an argument and a scuffle with teenage car thieves leading to his downfall. The mystery could be that mundane.
‘And what time did you get back?’
‘How can I remember that? Midnight — why does it matter? You were always obsessed with trivia — that’s why you never realised how great Sebastian was,’ Emma said quietly.
Now she was starting on the panegyrics.
‘He was almost there, after all these years, he was almost there.’
‘Almost where?’ Flint regarded the Paleaokastro survey as a kind of academic mystery tour lacking a planned destination.
‘You never believed in him did you? All you did was argue and insist things were done your way. You never had the patience to understand his methods and his purpose.’
So much was true, Flint would admit. ‘What was his purpose?’
‘All he needed was another year, but everyone let him down.’
‘Other people interfering’, was the way Embury had put it, that day he tore a strip off Flint in the olive grove. Blaming others for one’s failures was the mark of second-rate talent.
‘Listen, Emma, I didn’t kill Sebastian. I couldn’t have, I was with Lisa.’ The truth was stretched just a little. ‘Honest, I did not kill Sebastian and you knew it or you wouldn’t have arranged that lawyer.�
�
‘Doctor Dracopoulos arranged him; I would have seen you hang.’
‘Lovely.’
‘You got away with it Flint, so why not just let Sebastian rest in peace? Why do you suddenly care what happened?’
‘The time is right.’
*
‘You hate Greece,’ Vikki said, combing her hair into its short, stiff, upright style.
Flint lounged on the bed of her Docklands flat, all grey decor and black furnishings, a hundred years apart from Emma’s Victoriana. ‘I do not hate Greece.’
‘You’ll never take me.’
‘I’ve never wanted to go back, until now. You can come.’
‘Lay off, I’m in Brussels three days a week.’
‘Jules is going to be bone man on a dig near Marathon in August. I might just tag along.’
‘Jules is a drunk. If you and him are off drinking Athens dry, who is going to excavate your precious villa?’
‘Tyrone. He’s been begging me to let him have a go at directing a site, now he has the chance.’
‘He’ll sell off your pottery, or charge people to look down the hole.’
‘Doubtless he will, but that’s the way archaeology is going, sweetheart.’
‘Talking of sweethearts, what does this Emma look like?’
‘A Gorgon.’
‘And Lisa?’
Flint paused. Vikki stopped combing and threatened him with a glance.
‘Open relationship?’ he ventured.
‘Open your skull,’ and she made a chopping motion with her comb.
‘Can I scrounge your car?’ He dodged around the subject.
‘Where to?’
‘Deepest Essex.’
*
A close, if erratic, relationship with Vikki had changed Flint. His beard was closely trimmed, his hair scarcely reached the collar and his clothes sense had improved one notch: shirt by Marks & Spencer, jeans by Levi, tweed jacket via Oxfam, shoes from Mr Gupta’s handcart at Islington market.
