by Jason Foss
‘Mister Adams!’
‘Sorry, I’m in a hurry.’ He slid to a halt on the polished floor and turned to face Mrs Hopkins.
‘One should walk when one is inside the School.’
‘Has anyone asked about me?’ he panted.
The woman’s glacier expression thawed slightly. ‘Why yes, a Greek gentleman has called once or twice.’
‘Did he leave his name?’
‘No, but he said he’d call back.’
‘You couldn’t describe him?’
She creased her brow, making the horn-rimmed spectacles slip half an inch down her nose. She pushed them back into place. ‘He was tall, a little taller than you, as I said, with one of those bristle moustaches, very well dressed.’
Flint was shaking his head slowly, deeply worried.
‘He was rather handsome, debonair, his English was impeccable, but...’ she paused, ‘Is he a friend?’
What did that ‘but’ conceal? Flint could not probe deeper and made up another impromptu lie, ‘It could be Toni, he’s an accountant now, but I haven’t seen him for years…’
‘Accountant?’ The woman seemed unconvinced, ‘I thought he was another reporter; we had one here two days ago, asking questions about that sordid tragedy. You must have heard all about Sebastian Embury?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Flint cursed Owlett, and began to twitch with nerves and impatience. He was tormented by several minutes’ recapitulation of the crime and its aftermath.
‘Things are becoming quite hectic; did you know there was a girl sneaking around here pretending to be one of his relatives? I’d bet pounds that she was a reporter too.’
Flint squirmed a little more, ‘I’m very sorry, but I have a lot of research to complete today.’
The tabloid horror story had been terminated mid-flow. ‘Very well.’
Flint went straight for the library and collared the junior archivist, a few years his own junior. Within moments he had established that the shadow in the slick suit had asked about Palaeokastro, even consulting the archive.
‘Don’t ever let him do that again!’ Flint burst out.
‘I’m sorry?’ The library seldom heard verbal passion.
‘He’s a crook: the whole lot is likely to be stolen.’
‘It’s hardly worth stealing,’ the young man said, unconvinced of his own voracity.
‘I’d better check — I have an inventory; could you bring everything into one of the study carrels?’
The junior archivist was quickly bullied into compliance, delivered the heavy box of notebooks and the two tubes of rolled plans, then went for lunch, ignorant that a prophecy was about to come true.
*
The taxi returned Flint, plus stolen Palaeokastro archive, back to Mrs Kondyaki’s flat. All information should be in the public domain, reasoned Flint. He was a member of the public; the information was therefore his.
He walked to a kafenon, waited for a telephone to be free, then spent an agonising half-hour chasing Vikki around her various offices. She, too, had acquired a mobile phone and he found her on an Inter-City train bound for Peterborough. Vikki was relaxed and chatty.
‘There’s a really gruesome double sex killing here, it’s terrific copy.’
‘Wonderful, hope you enjoy it.’
‘Jeff?’ The rumble of the train could be heard in the background.
‘As soon as you get back to London, I want you to nobble Emma Woodfine, she’s Emma Yarm now.’ Flint dictated Emma’s phone number from memory. ‘Tell her everything — no, I don’t trust her, but I’ve reached the point when I need to gamble on hunches. I’m going to ring Emma tonight and I need straight answers. Bully her, bribe her, blackmail her if you have to, but tell her I need answers.’
Vikki agreed with enthusiasm. She probably relished the ‘blackmail’ aspect. ‘How is Lisa?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Liar.’
‘Okay, she’s very depressed. Her husband died and left her childless, the bank repossessed her hotel and I’ve put her on the “most wanted” list.’
‘Glad to see you’re giving her a good time.’
‘Have a nice murder, sweetheart. Give the people what they want.’
‘I will. Keep digging, professor.’
*
A quiet street corner phonebooth and a handful of coins was what Flint required. Cars and taxis still streamed past, voices called in the night, holidaymakers bumbled their way from street-light to street-light and Athenian youths, as youths the world over, made idiots of themselves at every opportunity. Flint waved away a painted lady who sidled towards him making curious ‘Coo-coo’ advances, then went to find himself another phonebox.
‘Emma.’
‘What...Jeffrey Flint?’ She sounded incoherent, it was possible her husband was out and she had found the key to the sherry cabinet.
‘Emma! Listen!’
‘You’re crazy Flint! What are you doing in Greece? The police will get you in the end.’
‘I thought you were brighter than that, Emma.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to find out who killed Sebastian. It wasn’t me, and you know it.’
‘Prove it’ she hissed.
‘I’ve got my passport back. Shall I fax you a copy of it? The Police wouldn’t have returned my passport if I were guilty. Sebastian’s killer is still out there, and he’s going to get away with it, unless we do something.’
‘I talked to your girlfriend.’
‘Vikki?’
‘How many girlfriends have you got?’
In round numbers? ‘Emma, if Sebastian’s killer gets away, it will be your fault for not telling me the whole truth.’
Suddenly, unexpectedly, the voice at the end of the line turned into a mixture of sobs and snuffles. The hard edge of Emma Woodfine-Yarm dissolved in tears. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I let him down, we all let him down.’
‘How did you let him down? With Doctor Dracopoulos?’
Sobs poured down the phone with even greater conviction.
‘Emma, the police won’t find the killer, because they’ve wasted their time chasing me. I’m very, very close to proving who did it, but I need to squash the red herrings.’
‘That’s a bad metaphor.’
Emma had always been a pedant, but Flint was determined to bear any insult she flung his way. ‘Right, red herring number one. Where did the minibus turn up?’
‘Out on the coast road,’ Emma said after some thought.
‘To the north of Nauplion?’
‘I think so.’
Is that how Embury was taken for a ride? The bus still had all its wheels, it was clearly no regular car theft. Flint tried to think fast, get his information before Emma suffered a reversal of mood. ‘Okay, red herring two: what was the real reason Sebastian sent me over to the olive grove?’
‘I thought that was obvious. You were a bloody pain; his words, not mine. He wanted you out of his hair. Then when you started finding things, he decided to keep you up there.’
‘What things? We found sod all. Adam said the action was all down the centre of the site.’
‘What did Adam know? He was an artist, not an archaeologist.’ Emma said sharply. She would rattle out truth rather than be thought ignorant. ‘Sebastian told me there was something of significance on the site, he had evidence. I’m a professional, Flint, I may not like you, but I know what you can do. So I said, if he wanted the survey doing properly, we needed you back with us. And he winked at me.’
‘Winked?’
‘Yes, he winked. Then he said “wait and see”.’
‘Did he tell Doctor Dracopoulos?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you?’
She moaned slightly. ‘I’m very tired, can this wait? Can you ring again tomorrow?’
The prostitute was back, coo-cooing through the glass of the phonebooth, offering a ‘nice time’ in three languages. Flint gesticulated
strongly. She was onto a loser: he needed less sex and more cash. The painted face gave a careless smile and wandered back into the darkness.
‘One more thing, Emma,’ Flint said, watching the mini-skirt vanish, ‘Where are the finds?’
‘At one of the museum stores, I can’t remember which.’
Flint formed a plan immediately. ‘Okay Emma, big favour time, not for me, for Sebastian. I want you to pull all the strings you can tomorrow. Get Hubert to help, he’s a big gun out here isn’t he? I need to get at those finds, say I’m Professor Grant on a flying visit, make up any lie you like. I’ll ring you at twelve sharp, Greek time: I’ll want to get into the store at two.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said in her tired voice.
‘Cheers, Emma, sleep well.’
Her reply was quiet and soulful. ‘Get him.’
*
Flint returned to Mrs Kondyaki’s apartment for the last time. The light was still on, but Lisa was almost asleep. He touched the black hair as it curled around her ear, then he eased himself into the creaking chair by the dressing table. He hunted for his chronological chart.
‘Problems began about time we started work in the olive grove,’ he read under his breath.
He picked up the composite site map drawn from all the old excavation reports. Empty spaces yawned wide, even after filling in the evidence from the last, ill-fated survey. The olive grove stood bare, right up against the American Army’s road embankment, where logically the construction of the road would have ruined the archaeology. He, Jeffrey Flint, had argued the point, but Embury had been insistent; survey the olive grove and the approaches to the watercourse. Then the party had begun. Casually he shaded in the small square now covered by concrete and bricks.
Emma was innocent, he was certain. She had let slip one vital piece of information that any conspirator worth her cut would have kept concealed: Embury had been working to a plan. Flint had assumed that Embury had placed himself in the area most likely to yield the grand discovery, but a devious game had been underway and the old archaeologist may have been more cunning than he seemed. Had the activity in the olive grove been a smokescreen to hide the real work in the valley, or vice-versa? It was difficult to accept, but just possibly, Embury had spotted significance in the survey results that a younger, impatient Flint had overlooked.
Chapter Twenty-Six
His heartbeat quickened. Flint could see the rented VW minibus from the window of the museum store. Getting inside had been difficult; it had taken a hefty tug on all the strings that Emma had within reach, and all his tenacity to gain access within the day. A curatorial assistant had hovered over his shoulder as he ticked off box numbers on a list. She was in her late twenties, overweight, spoke no English and hid dumbly behind her huge black glasses as ‘Professor Grant’ manoeuvred around the building using hand-signals.
The building was one of the outlying annexes of the Archaeological Museum, tucked into one of the cheaper side-streets on the northern slopes of the city. It was little more than a warehouse for artefacts too dull to be exhibited, but too precious to be thrown away. Wooden racks twenty feet high filled most of the space; each rack was piled high with boxes, crates and loose artefacts. Flint was reminded of the closing sequence of Raiders of the Lost Ark. The raider of the lost motive could feel the presence of the attendant just behind him as he found the boxes he sought.
It had been a day of risks: Lisa risking the use of her Greek identity card to rent the minibus for the day, Flint making a supreme act of will in trusting Emma not to suddenly double-cross him. The site finds were in strong cardboard ‘skelly boxes’, as wide as a shoe box, but deep enough and long enough (in theory) to contain a disarticulated human skeleton. Box numbers fifty to fifty-five drew his attention. These were the finds from the olive grove.
Down came the boxes from the racking, out onto a long bench beneath the window. Flint fussed over them but could not risk unpacking anything, so pretended to scan his list, then loitered before the racking in a pose of intellectual indecision. He had to kill another seven minutes with the girl sitting on his shoulder like a pirate’s parrot. A modern Lord Elgin would hardly be able to sail out of Greece carrying a potsherd, let alone several tons of marble.
A long, impatient buzz came from the main door. And again. The assistant gave a nasal grunt and disappeared from view. Six boxes at four kilogrammes each. Flint quickly formed a pile. The boxes had sagged under pressure and the pile wobbled as he lifted it. Waddling like a penguin he shuffled across the concrete floor to an emergency exit he’d noticed at the side. Spinning around he hit the crash bar with his buttocks and the door came open. Immediately, an alarm sounded.
He hurried, as well as penguins can, back creaking, arms stretching. Lisa came running into sight, urging him onwards, a look of sheer panic on her face. From behind her, something was shouted in Greek. Flint heaved the boxes into the back of the minibus, Lisa slammed the doors and he ran around to the passenger seat.
Only this was Greece, and the passenger seat was on the far side, where Lisa was pulling open the door. ‘I thought I was driving?’ she shouted.
‘So did I.’
Flint turned the key in the ignition and wound the engine. It failed to catch. He tried again, trembling, it worked! His feet fumbled the clutch and the van stalled.
A fist thumped the vehicle side and stirred him into renewed effort, letting off the handbrake, allowing the minibus to roll away down the inclined street. He tried the ignition again, then again, his face burning red. The engine awoke to roaring life, the gallant museum assistant gave one last thump on the side of the van and was left standing in the road.
‘I hate you, Jeffrey Flint!’ Lisa shrieked, but a smile returned to her lips.
Flint simply laughed, a deep, pantomime sorcerer laugh. ‘Did it, did it! Emma Woodfine-Yarm, I take it all back!’
‘You’re lucky she fell for your charm,’ Lisa said.
‘I rather think she fell for my logic.’
He reached the end of the side-street and faced a new terror: Athens in the rush hour. ‘Guide me out, please!’ he implored. ‘I hate driving, even on the left-hand side of the road, even when the signs are in English.’
Even when he could find the right gear. He crunched the gearstick across and veered into lane on Lisa’s instruction.
‘I should be driving. You don’t belong in the modern world,’ she taunted. ‘You’d be happier in a chariot.’
‘Much.’
‘You need to be over there!’ She jabbed her finger, ‘Ignore that bastard — hoot back!’
‘We’re going to die, and I’m not insured!’
Flint blundered his way through the traffic, constantly in the wrong lane, with Lisa shouting directions over the engine roar and the habitual hooting of other drivers. Sweat-laden, the wheel slid between his fingers as he found National Road 1 and headed north. He was free, in his own version of a Road Movie, the fugitive with a woman at his side, and a hired minibus instead of a Pontiac.
The confusion of junctions gradually eased as the city of Pericles was lost behind the encircling hills. Thirty seconds were spared to swap drivers. The driving was still manic, but most cars were heading in the same direction with the VW minibus simply part of the stream. To the north and east lay Marathon, and beyond it, the eponymous battlefield.
Well after dark, they were still driving around, stopping at small tavernas, asking if their clientele had been swelled by a dozen hard-drinking American excavators.
*
The Americans were found encamped just beyond their site, some quarter of a mile from the sea. The Bronze Age settlement mingled with more modern drystone walls enclosing tiny vegetable plots, and was dotted with the inevitable olive trees. On a gentle knoll, a beehive Tholos tomb formed a backdrop to the scene, with an orchestra of cicadas on all sides.
Max was effusive in his welcome for ‘Paul Adams’, giving ‘Elena Kyriacou’ a bear hug when introduced.
; ‘Is this your bus, Paul?’
‘No, it’s Elena’s.’
Lisa glanced sharply at Flint.
‘So what are you into, Elena?’
‘I’m helping her sort out her post-excavation,’ Flint said.
‘Where are you digging?’
Flint groaned inwardly, but Lisa was as sassy as ever. ‘Oh I don’t dig, I’m just the dogsbody. My prof’s gone home, leaving me the van and the paperwork.’
‘Ah.’ Max seemed partly convinced, partly put down by her bouncy response.
‘Look Max, we’re just about out of funds, and we need to stay somewhere for a couple of days until Elena can sort out her papers.’
Max spread out both arms to indicate the vastness of his campsite. ‘Choose your pitch.’
‘We’re a little short of camping gear too. No sleeping bags, no tent.’
Max said ‘no problem’, then strode off to talk to ‘his people’.
Flint turned his attention to the minibus. The heap of finds boxes had fallen over, but the lids were still in place.
‘I like your friend.’ Lisa said, ‘Will he help?’
‘We’re in a foreign land; foreigners stick together against the locals.’
‘Well I’m half local — I have to live here when your games are over, don’t forget that.’
When Max came striding back, Jules was at his side and they had found one sleeping bag and a solution. ‘Elena can bunk up with Angie. You can crush in with me and Jules.’
‘No, three’s a crowd. If you can find Elena a couple of blankets, I’ll take the sleeping bag down to the shore and sleep there.’
‘Great — we do that sometimes.’
‘It will take me back to my student days.’
‘I thought you were a student!’
Damn, nearly caught again! ‘My foolish student days.’
Max wandered away, leaving Jules looking uncomfortable in the gentle glow of the minibus’ interior light. ‘One day, you’re going to end up in shit so deep you’re going to drown.’
‘Loosen up, Jules, we’ve cracked it.’
‘We’ve cracked it,’ Lisa echoed, without sincerity.
