Mrs Pargeter 03; Mrs Pargeter’s Package mp-3

by Simon Brett

  Mrs Pargeter wished she knew more about Georgio. Though he seemed to spend much of his time drinking ouzo there, he was a rather shadowy figure round the taverna. She had not paid as much attention to him as to Spiro, Sergeant Karaskakis and Yianni. But now he had definitely moved a few notches up her list of suspects.

  And if Ginnie – whether willingly or unwillingly – was his accomplice, some other details fell into place. Mrs Pargeter recalled how the tour rep had insisted that first evening on taking them from Spiro’s to the Villa Eleni by the curving route up the hillside, claiming it was less steep. And yet the next morning Mrs Pargeter had found the direct route no steeper than the other.

  Wasn’t it possible that Ginnie had taken them the long way to give someone time to set up the drugged drinks in the villa…?

  Theodosia. They had met Theodosia coming from the Villa Eleni. Was it she who had doctored the ouzo and the mineral water? If so, had she done it off her own bat or on someone else’s orders?

  Thinking of the mineral water raised another suspicion of Ginnie. Now Mrs Pargeter recalled the events of the evening, she remembered the English girl casting doubt on the purity of the villa’s tap-water. And yet the Berlitz Travel Guide Mrs Pargeter had consulted before her holiday had, she now remembered, stated unequivocally that Corfu’s tap-water was perfectly safe to drink. Wasn’t it likely that Ginnie had only raised the anxiety to ensure that, if any water was drunk, it would be from the bottle she knew to be drugged?

  Mrs Pargeter tried to envisage Ginnie in the role of murderer, but somehow the costume didn’t fit. Maybe, given more information, it would.

  And yet the girl was clearly involved. Through Georgio? That would make sense. If he dominated her to the extent that she allowed him to beat her up, she would presumably do whatever he told her. And if he told her to help him commit murder, presumably she’d go along with that too.

  And yet what was Georgio’s motive? What motive could any of them have against Joyce Dover, widow of a Uruguayan former gun-runner?

  Mrs Pargeter knew she had not yet got enough information to answer those questions. But at the same time she felt totally confident that she would get it. Self-doubt had never been one of her failings.

  The one dominant impression that returned to her whenever she thought about the case was that she was up against a conspiracy. She had a sense that her quarry was not so much an individual as the entire community of Agios Nikitas. They were all related. They all, beneath their surface welcome and bonhomie towards the income-bearing tourists, retained a fierce, private individuality.

  So if, say, Georgio was proved to be the murderer, there was no doubt that others had helped him set up his murder. Ginnie had delayed his victim’s arrival at the Villa Eleni, Theodosia had planted the soporifics, and Sergeant Karaskakis had guaranteed the partiality of any investigation that might take place. There had probably been other accomplices too, like whoever had watered the villa’s flowers and so efficiently swept away the murderer’s traces.

  Little bubbles of new thought kept rising in Mrs Pargeter’s mind. Some of them interconnected to form bigger bubbles before bursting from insufficient information. But fresh thoughts rose to replace them.

  Yes, thought Mrs Pargeter, I’m getting there.

  ∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

  Thirty-One

  Mrs Joan Frimley Wainwright, dressed in her beige dress, large cotton hat and sunglasses, had no trouble with Passport Control or Customs at Corfu Airport, and was met at the barrier by Larry Lambeth.

  In spite of the darkness, the air was still fragrantly warm when they came out of the terminal. Because of the time difference, it was mid-evening in Corfu.

  “Do you want to go straight back to Agios Nikitas?” asked Larry once they were safely in his car. “Or stop over in Corfu Town like you said you would?”

  Mrs Pargeter had forgotten that her London mission had been achieved in less time than had been allotted for the fictitious Paleokastritsa trip.

  “I think I’d better go back there tonight. I want to try and get this thing sorted out before the suicide verdict’s made official.”

  “OK. What, straight to Agios Nikitas then – or have a bite to eat first? I know a great restaurant here in the town.”

  “Well…” Mrs Pargeter replied cautiously. “I did have a snack on the plane, but… Oh yes, let’s go and eat. Then I can bring you up to date on what I found out in London.”

  “And I can bring you up to date on what I’ve found out out here,” said Larry Lambeth.

  ♦

  The restaurant was not on the tourist beat, set unobtrusively in a backstreet of the Old Town, away from the waterfront and the Liston. The functional lighting, plain white tablecloths and lack of menus in any language but Greek bore witness to its gastronomic seriousness.

  Mrs Pargeter and Larry had been to the kitchen and selected their main courses. Both were having astakos, the saltwater crayfish that is translated (incorrectly) on most menus as ‘lobster’. Unflinching, they had witnessed the demise of their selections, plunged live into the boiling pot.

  Now, as they nibbled on dolmades and olives, Mrs Pargeter filled Larry in on the results of Mrs Joan Frimley Wainwright’s visit to London.

  “Fact is,” he sighed when she’d finished, “as one bit gets clearer, another bit gets muddier.”

  “Yes. What do you know about Georgio, though?”

  “Well – surprise, surprise – he’s a cousin of Spiro, and of Stephano.”

  “Who’s Stephano? I haven’t heard of him.”

  “Oh, sorry. Stephano – Stephano Karaskakis. The Tourist Police Sergeant.”

  “Right. I was never told his Christian name.”

  “Anyway, Georgio is a bit of a no-hoper. Sits around drinking ouzo all day devising money-making schemes which either never get started or never make any money if they do get started. I think he’s probably a bit jealous of Spiro having the taverna.”

  “Spiro does well out of that?”

  Larry Lambeth made a ‘so-so’ gesture. “By Corfiot standards, anyway. Not that he makes any money out of Georgio. Or Stephano, come to that. They both eat and drink there all the time, but neither one has ever been seen to pay a single drachma for anything.”

  “That’s interesting. And Ginnie does live with Georgio, doesn’t she?”

  “Oh yes. Doesn’t advertise the fact, mind you. Better the English punters think of her as single, unconnected with the locals.”

  “They’re not married?”

  “No, no. Might be a bit of local opposition if he actually made it legal with a foreigner. No problems having one as a chattel, though.”

  “And does he beat her up?”

  “I’m sure he does. That type has to take his failure out on someone.”

  “Hm. Did you know that Georgio had been to England?”

  “Yes, I did, actually. Couple of years back. That was yet another of his money-making ideas.”

  “Oh?”

  “Fact is, Georgio was going to go over to England to buy one of those JCBs – you know, big earth-moving truck things. He was going to buy it, ship it back here and clean up by renting it out. Not such a daft idea, actually. There’s always any amount of construction work going on, and lots of other stuff like shifting sand where they’re making artificial beaches, clearing seaweed, all that.”

  “But presumably that project didn’t work out either?”

  “No. Fact is, he never even bought it, did he? Probably hadn’t got enough of the old mazooma, anyway – they’re hellish expensive, those things. And no doubt when he got to London, he just drank his way through the money he had got.”

  “Hm… And tried to investigate Chris Dover’s business affairs… Now why on earth would he do that?”

  “Well, knowing Georgio, he must have reckoned there was some profit in it for him.”

  “But how could there be?”

  “Search me, lady.”

  ∨ Mrs Pargete
r’s Package ∧

  Thirty-Two

  Their main course arrived, garnished with a few boiled potatoes and a delectably pungent sauce. Larry Lambeth ordered more retsina and they devoted their full attention to the meal.

  When her plate was just a pile of shell fragments, Mrs Pargeter dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin and purred, “That was delicious.”

  “Told you this place was good.”

  “Yes.” She took a long swallow of retsina. “Larry, you said you’d found out some stuff too…”

  “Right, Mrs Pargeter. Right, yes, I have. You know you asked me to get a bit of background on the whole Agios Nikitas set-up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I done a bit of research, you know, asking around, and it seems like the tourist thing is comparatively new there.”

  “How new?”

  “Fact is, thirty years ago Agios Nikitas was just a little fishing village. The harbour obviously was there, otherwise just a few huts. Only people who lived there was the fishermen, and they went back to Agralias in the winters.”

  “Was there a taverna?”

  “Yes. Same building as there is now, but very primitive. Run by Spiro’s old man.”

  “Also called Spiro.”

  “Right. Pretty safe guess most of the time out here. Anyway, reason I’m concentrating on that time is there was something odd happened then.”

  “Odd?”

  “An unexplained death. Body never found.”

  “Oh? Who died?”

  “Well… Look, I better give you a bit more background on the whole Karaskakis family bit.”

  “Stephano, you mean?”

  “He comes into it, but not just Stephano. They’re all called Karaskakis round here, you see… Spiro, Georgio, Theodosia, Yianni – they’re all Karaskakises.”

  “Oh.” Mrs Pargeter looked thoughtful.

  “Anyway, old Spiro’s wife had died young… Complications on the birth when she had Theodosia, I think. Fairly primitive medical facilities back in those days. And, time I’m talking about – 1959, round then – old Spiro’s sick, too… dying of cancer, as it turned out, though it wasn’t diagnosed at the time. Anyway, he’s worried about what’s going to happen to the taverna. Tourist business just starting to build up on the island, you see, and, though it hasn’t hit Agios Nikitas in a big way yet, the old man can see that his little taverna’s a potential gold-mine. Trouble is, though, Spiro – young Spiro, you know, the one who owns it now – he’s not that interested. He’s round fifteen and really likes school, touch of the old academic, wants to go to university, that kind of number. Well, old Spiro won’t hear of this, wants the taverna to stay in the family and he doesn’t trust his other son to run it.”

  “Other son?” Mrs Pargeter echoed.

  “Right. They’re twins, you see. Spiro’s the good one, but Christo is a bit of a tearaway.”

  “Christo? Did you say Christo?”

  “Yes. That’s the other son’s name. Identical twins they was.”

  “Of course,” Mrs Pargeter murmured.

  “Anyway, this Christo hangs around with a bad crowd – including, incidentally, his cousins Georgio and Stephano – and, though he’s very interested in getting the taverna ‘cause he reckons there’s money in it, old Spiro doesn’t trust him. He’s determined that, whether the boy wants to or not, the older twin Spiro’s going to take over the family business.”

  “So who died?” Mrs Pargeter asked softly.

  Larry Lambeth rubbed his chin reflectively. “There’s a lot of different versions of exactly what happened, but it was Christo. Killed in an accident on a boat.”

  “How?”

  “Story goes, Christo and his cousins –”

  “Georgio and Stephano?”

  “That’s right. Anyway, they stole a boat. Dinghy with an outboard – someone along the coast had bought a few of them to rent out to the tourists. So they nick this thing, but apparently the outboard’s dodgy – it blows up, the boat catches fire, sinks – and Christo is never seen again.”

  “Missing, presumed drowned?”

  “That’s it.”

  “But what about Georgio and Stephano? Why weren’t they hurt? How did they escape?”

  “Well, by coincidence, they aren’t on the boat when the outboard blows. Christo has just dropped them off at the harbour, he goes out for a little joyride on his own and – boof!” Larry’s hands opened out, miming the explosion.

  “Was there any suggestion at the time that the boat might have been sabotaged?”

  “Certainly was. More than that, there was the suggestion that Christo was sabotaging it himself when it blew up.”

  “An own goal? You mean he was making a booby-trap for someone else?”

  “You got it, Mrs P. Care to make any guesses who he was planning to bump off?”

  “Spiro,” Mrs Pargeter murmured.

  “That was the rumour that went around at the time, yes.”

  “But it went wrong…”

  “Right, Christo hoist with his own whatsit.”

  “So, with his brother dead and his father dying, Spiro had no choice but to take over the taverna?”

  “Yes. Old man dies soon after, Spiro has to put aside his intellectual aspirations, like, and buckle down to running the family business. Does all right out of it, and all.”

  Mrs Pargeter was silent as the avalanche of her thoughts gathered momentum.

  “So, anyway,” Larry concluded, “got two unexplained deaths to think about now, haven’t we, Mrs P.? I always remember something that your old man once said. “The explanation for a murder often lies in a previous murder.” You ever heard him say that?”

  “No,” she replied rather primly. Murder was not a subject that had ever come up in her conversations with the late Mr Pargeter.

  “Well, I reckon odds are,” said Larry, “that there’s got to be some connection between Joyce Dover’s death and Christo Karaskakis’ death back in 1959.”

  “Assuming, of course,” said Mrs Pargeter quietly, “that that was when he died.”

  ∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

  Thirty-Three

  It was Greek party night at Spiro’s when they got back to Agios Nikitas. The tourists who had paid for the evening’s entertainment had eaten up their cheese pies and barbecued lamb and were now vigorously applauding the dancing.

  As Mrs Pargeter and Larry Lambeth arrived, Spiro and Yianni, side by side, arms locked on each other’s shoulders, were solemnly following the ritual of long-remembered steps, while the live group of bouzouki, guitar and drums built up the pace of their music. There was a pagan magnificence about the two men, Yianni justifying the cliché description of a young Greek god, and Spiro more solid but still impressive and surprisingly light-footed for his bulk. Both their faces were rigid with the concentration of the dance.

  Their audience clapped along with the pounding beat. Mr Safari Suit was arranging Mrs Safari Suit in a suitable foreground pose for his next snap. Linda from South Woodham Ferrers was arguing with Keith from South Woodham Ferrers over whether it had been a good idea to bring Craig with them. The little boy evidently didn’t think a lot of Greek dancing and was bawling his head off. Linda wanted to take him back to the villa, but Keith insisted that they’d paid for the evening and they were jolly well going to get their money’s worth. An atmosphere had developed between the couple. Keith said in some ways it’d be quite a relief to get back to the office.

  The Secretary with Short Bleached Hair and the Secretary with Long Bleached Hair lingered on the edge of the dancing area, eager for all this male display dancing to end and for the disco music to start. Their suntans had settled down a little; five days into their package, they looked proudly browner than that day’s air freight delivery of white-skinned English.

  Mrs Pargeter and Larry found a vacant table, but it was some time before they could order a drink, as the masculine pas de deux gave way to a dance with brightly-colou
red scarves which involved all of the taverna’s waiters.

  Mrs Pargeter watched Spiro leading the dance with a preoccupied, automatic jollity, and thought perhaps now she knew some of the reasons for the underlying melancholy of his dark face.

  The scarf dance ended. The audience, convinced they were getting an exclusive taste of the authentic Greece (just as the party night audience at the taverna did every Monday), clapped enthusiastically. After perfunctory bows, the dancers moved back into waiter mode and hurried towards the many hands that waved for drinks.

  Yianni appeared at their table. “Please, I get you drinks, yes, please?”

  Larry ordered retsina and brandy, but, rather than rushing off to get them, the waiter lingered. “Please, you see Conchita, please?”

  “Sorry, I’ve only just come back here. Been away for a couple of days.”

  “She say she come to party night. I not see her, please.”

  His black eyes looked so moist and desolate that Mrs Pargeter had to say something to reassure him. “She’ll turn up. Don’t worry, it’s early yet.”

  As the waiter slouched disconsolately back into the taverna, she felt very sorry for him. Dear, oh dear, had Conchita fulfilled her ambitions for a purely physical relationship, and had Yianni now served his purpose and been cast aside? Conchita gave the impression of being a tough, modern cookie. Nothing in Yianni’s culture or background could have prepared him – or any Greek man – for the novel experience of being used as a sex-object.

  Recorded disco music started up, current British chart successes alternating with banal Euro-hits. The Secretary with Short Bleached Hair and the Secretary with Long Bleached Hair moved keenly into the dancing area where, to their great delight, they were quickly joined by two young men in fluorescent T-shirts and cycling shorts.

  Mrs Pargeter sipped her retsina and took in the scene. Larry Lambeth, seeing that she was deep in thought, respected her silence.

  She was convinced now that Christo Karaskakis had escaped from the burning boat which was believed to have killed him, and that its flames almost definitely explained the scarring on his face…