by David Carter
The red-hot favourite for the Derby. Finished second last, tailed off, and all those millions of bets placed on the favourite by millions of people across the nation had lost. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine the smiles that would cross the Nesbitt’s faces, and the huge jolt the business bank balance would receive. But as it turned out it was their fatal mistake.
The powers that be might shrug their shoulders and shake their heads when a favourite in a small midweek race at Fontwell or Plumpton or Fakenham got beat, but not the blue ribbon event of the Epsom Derby, for many people the most important horse race in the calendar. That was taking the Michael. Something would have to be done.
Walter and Suzy were called into the private office and advised that approval had been granted for tapping Nesbitt’s phones, much to the chagrin of William Conlan. They were told to get on with it. Anything they needed they only had to ask, and they could bypass Conlan in doing so.
The two of them shared a triumphant look and devoted themselves to the task, stepping up the pressure on the Nesbitts at every turn. Following them, questioning people who came and went from their office, adopting a high profile stance with lots of embarrassing questions on race days, but most of all, listening to their phone calls. The good thing was, the boys didn’t seem to have any idea they were being monitored. Leastways, that was how it looked.
Chapter Eight
AN HOUR HAD PASSED since Nicoliades had left Lisa manacled to the bed, an hour that seemed like a day. She heard the front door open and close, and at last he was back. She pictured him skipping up the stairs, a sense of urgency in his steps.
She might have guessed he’d be back sooner than he’d planned. Men were so damned predictable. They couldn’t resist themselves.
The bedroom door creaked open. She looked up, ready to demand her release, but it wasn’t Nicoliades standing in the doorway, but his nephew, the cheeky kid. He stood there, his bulging brown eyes taking in the view.
‘What are you doing here?’ she blurted. ‘You dirty bugger. You better have the keys for the cuffs? Release me!’
He answered with a single word. ‘No.’
What did he mean No, she wondered, No he didn’t have the keys, or No he wouldn’t release her? He stood at the foot of the bed and began undressing.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she screamed, her face flushing at the nerve of the little bastard. But already he was naked and crawling up the bed, his scrawny youthful body a total contrast to Nic’s.
‘Nico says you are my Christmas bonus.’
‘It’s only August!’
‘I’m being paid in advance.’
‘Don’t you dare touch me, you little creep!’
The line between rough sex and rape can be blurred. The age-old dilemma, can no ever mean yes? Now there was no doubt. Rape was about to begin. Fortunately for Lisa Greystone it was all over in less than three minutes, and five minutes after that the youth was back in the bar with a moony look on his face, as he returned the key to Nico.
‘Was it good?’
The lad nodded. ‘Thanks, Uncle Nico.’
Earlier, he’d watched Nicoliades return to the bar with that peculiar look on his face, the look he often wore when he’d dished it out to a tourist, sometimes two or three at a time. The kid knew where he’d been and what he’d been doing.
Nicoliades had strolled into the bar and up to Aris with his hand out, demanding money. Aris had laughed and opened his wallet and paid Uncle Nico a handful of euro. They stood whispering to one another, lascivious looks on their faces, as the kid hurried over to catch the end of the conversation. He pretended to be restocking the lower shelves as he crawled closer to where they were talking.
He heard Aris say, ‘I don’t want your leftovers.’
But Nico had been persistent. ‘Go on, she’s great, she’s waiting for you.’
Aris had scoffed, he’d find his own girls, and there were plenty to choose from, and he returned to serving some pretty Swedes, all blonde smiles, white teeth, and smirking warmth. It was then that Nicoliades spotted his nephew crawling about on the floor, as if he’d seen him for the first time.
‘Hey! Come here, stand up!’
He cupped his hand around the young lad’s shoulder and whispered in his girlish ear.
‘This is your lucky day. You know the tall slim English?’
The youth nodded. He knew who Nico meant.
‘Would you like her? Right now?’
The lad’s eyes widened and smiled, the corners of his mouth curling up like a wolf’s.
‘She’s up at the house, waiting for you. A special treat. An early Christmas present. Here’s the key. Understand?’
The youth nodded, knowing what had to be done. He was experienced, and already his mouth was dry and his body stiffening. He grabbed the key and ran outside before Nico changed his mind.
Aris stared across at Nico. ‘That’s terrible,’ he said. ‘He won’t know what to do.’
‘Then it’s about time he did!’
In less than half an hour he’d run to Nico’s house, done the deed, and was back wearing that stupid smile. Nico called the boy to the bar, leant down, and whispered in his ear.
‘You know the Ace of Clubs taverna?’
‘Of course.’
‘Your grandfather will be in there, take him the key. He’ll understand.’
The youth held the key and stared at it as if trying to make sense of the words Nico had spoken. He glanced back at him. ‘You mean?’
Nico nodded and turned away. Across the bar some Germans were shouting for a bottle of white wine in the arrogant tone that is peculiar to that race.
‘Just do it!’
The lad ran from the bar and hurried across the harbour to the Ace of Clubs where his granddad spent most afternoons playing dominoes with his cronies, betting on the size of the catch the next boat might land. He was sitting in the corner with three pals, and judging by the small amount of spent matches that lay on the table, he was losing.
He noticed his breathless grandson enter the taverna the moment he came through the door, and guessed he was about to be summoned back to work in the bar. Perhaps that lazy sod Aris had bunked off with some rich American bitch, or maybe Nico had arranged a threesome up at his place with some Belgians, doing the Belgian bun, they called it, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.
The kid bent slightly and whispered in his ear.
‘Here’s the key, granddad. Nico said you’d understand.’
The old man’s face lit up as the boy turned away.
He coughed roughly and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
‘I am going to have to retire from the game, my friends. My wonderful family have fixed me up with a beautiful woman.’
‘You?’ said one of the old men. ‘There isn’t a woman in the world would go near you, smelly.’
To a man they laughed.
‘And even if one did, you’d be no good, because you’ve forgotten what to do!’
‘And even if he did remember,’ said another, ‘he’d never be able to do the deed.’
They laughed crudely, and the gang at the bar turned to see what the commotion was about.
‘That is where you are wrong,’ the old man announced, at he stood and slid the remaining matchsticks into the palm of his hand. ‘I have an appointment with a lady, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘In ten minutes, more like!’
He finished his drink, slapped the empty glass down with an exaggerated clunk, turned and ambled from the bar, and started up the steep hill. Why the heck couldn’t Nicoliades buy a house near the harbour? By the time he’d climbed up to Nic’s place he was knackered.
He began to think of what might await him. He pictured her in his mind. She’d probably be a fat American with big tits. He hoped so, they usually were, and he liked big tits, and he liked flattening Americans. Who wouldn’t? Planking them, he called it, and as he shuffled up the hill, something stirred deep within his tr
ousers, and he liked that even more, because it was a rarity. It spurred him on, yet somehow the anticipation and initial excitement was infinitely more satisfying than the breathless squelchiness of the actual deed.
Lisa heard the door open downstairs. At last, she thought. She’d give that bastard Nicoliades a piece of her mind. Did he have any idea what his filthy nephew had done? She would slap him across the face as soon as he released her for what he’d put her through. She might even kiss him, and take the opportunity to bite the forked tongue from his face, and then she’d go looking for the kid. He wouldn’t be safe anywhere.
The bedroom door squeaked open. Framed in the doorway was a scruffy old man. He was smoking the butt of a homemade cigarette. An unshaven shambles of a man, his beard matching the colour of his straggly grey hair. He gazed down at the puny bitch manacled to the bed, and sniffed.
‘What the hell?’ she screamed. ‘Go and find Nico right now and get the keys for these cuffs!’
He entered the room and closed the door. ‘Shut up!’
‘If you so much as touch me, old man, I’ll scream the place down.’
‘If you say another word, I’ll give you a whipping.’
She watched him release the thick leather belt from his trousers, though to her relief he let it slide to the floor. Without the support, his baggy and dirty trousers fell down revealing grubby underpants and spindly legs. He pulled off his shirt with difficulty and dropped his pants. There wasn’t much to see. He knelt on the end of the bed and crawled towards her.
‘I’m warning you, you dirty old man, if you come any closer I’ll scream and scream until someone comes.’
He ignored her empty threats and bent down and bit her. She screamed at the top of her voice, a scream that should have brought down buildings, a scream that could have summoned the Gods, but no one came, and between her gasps for air, she smelt his wrinkled body, old sweat, old age, and old fish from the quayside.
One elderly woman at the top of the lane heard something. She held her good ear to the warm wind and listened. She’d heard a another sound, but it could have been the goats and sheep on the hillside, or squabbling gulls, or it could have been something altogether different.
She’d heard tales of what went on in Nicoliades’ house, but she didn’t want to get involved, and if those foreign women were so desperate to come to Carsos to be ravished by that slimy pig, then surely they must deserve everything they received. She shook her head again and hurried home, convincing herself it was the sheep all along. Her dogs needed feeding, and she had no wish to cross Nicoliades Emperikos and his peculiar family. Carsos was a small island, and he was a threatening and powerful man.
‘If you don’t stop screaming,’ the old man whispered, ‘I’ll stop you forever. I’ll take you out to sea at midnight and drop you in the ocean. No one would miss a slut like you.’
The screaming stopped.
Lisa understood.
He was having a problem.
‘If you release me, I’ll help you. I’ll make it good, you’ll see. Let me go.’
But even if he wanted to release her, he couldn’t, for the cuff keys still jangled in the right-hand pocket of Nico’s slacks, and at that moment those slacks were dancing before three cute Dutch women. They weren’t pretty, not like Lisa, but they were slim and fit, and clear-eyed, and most definitely up for excitement. Before the day was out there could be three more notches carved on Nico’s rutted bed-head. He’d handled three women in one lecherous adventure before, and he wasn’t too old to do it again.
THE OLD MAN LAY ON the bed and fell asleep.
Lisa bit his ear and snorted, ‘Get off me, you Greek pig!’
He came to, eased himself up and peered into her face. It was all her fault. She was too scrawny; he’d seen more meat on the thirteen-year-olds in the village. Who would ever want a beanpole like her? He coughed and spat on the floor and dressed and left the room without saying a word. Lisa sighed and prayed that Nico would return and set her free. She was desperate for the bathroom, and eager to smack him in the mouth.
Ten minutes later the old man swaggered into Nico’s place, stood at the bar, and ordered a Scotch from Aris. Nico watched him over his shoulder, as he attended on the Dutch trio.
‘Make sure he pays for that,’ he shouted over. ‘Please excuse me.’
He hurried back to the bar where the old man was sipping whisky.
‘Well? Have you been?’
‘Course I have.’
‘And? Did you?’
The old man lowered his hands to his crotch and shook it.
‘Of course I did. Well and truly. There’s life in the old tiger yet.’
‘You dirty sod. Here, give me the key. I want her out of there. I might have something special lined up.’ Nicoliades flicked his head in the direction of the Dutch, as the old man peered over his shoulder at three skinny women giggling in the corner.
Why did he like the under-nourished ones? It was a mystery to him. It was like screwing boys. Perhaps therein lay Nic’s dark secret.
‘Next time,’ he muttered, as he handed back the key, ‘try and find one with some meat on her.’
Nico scoffed.
‘If you don’t like it, you can always find your own.’
The old man raised his eyebrows, downed the whisky, and left before Nico set him to work. Two minutes later, Nico left too, alone. He strode up the hill, tossing the key from hand to hand.
Lisa heard the door open and prayed to God it would be Nico, and it was. He stood in the doorway and grinned down.
‘How are you, my darling, enjoying your holiday on Carsos?’
‘About bloody time,’ she said. ‘Have you any idea what I’ve been through?’
He sat on the side of the bed, grinning and laughing in equal measure, and placed his hand on the outside of her thigh and rubbed it up and down. ‘What’s the matter; you enjoyed it. You did earlier.’
‘You have no idea how women feel, do you? You’re a slime-ball!’
She’d been crying, her eyes were puffy and her face red. Crocodile tears, Nico imagined. He laughed off the jibes as he circled the bed, unfastening the cuffs. She sat up and rubbed her wrists, the cuffs dangling from her arms. She let him remove them and put them back in the bedside table, for next time. She rubbed her chafed limbs. The markings were deep and were not fading, and as he stood up and turned back to her, she drew back her hand, clenched her fist and punched him in the eye.
‘Gobshite!’ she shrieked. ‘You don’t think you’re getting away with this, do you? When I get out of here, I’m going straight to the police. Perverts like you and your filthy family should be banged up!’
He cursed her and rubbed his watering eye.
He half expected to see blood on his fingers but the moisture ran clear. Nico hadn’t fully comprehended what she’d said, but he did recognise the word: Police. There was nothing for it. The girl had to be taught a lesson. She needed to be made aware of how things were done on Carsos. He picked her up and threw her on the bed, face down, and jumped on her, taking the wind out of her.
‘You listen to me, English tart,’ and he pushed her face hard down into the mattress. ‘You have a choice! You can leave this house, go straight to the Pelios Hotel where you’ll speak to no one, and in the morning you’ll be on the first ferry off the island. It goes at seven, and you will never set foot on Carsos again. Understand? If you’re not on that boat I’ll slit your throat and dump your body in the sea, but not before the whole village have had a chance. Get my drift?’
She didn’t doubt he meant every word. The man seemed capable of anything.
‘Well?’
‘OK.’
‘I didn’t hear you!’
‘I said, OK, I’ll be on the boat.’
He pushed her head to one side and stood up.
‘Get dressed, and get out!’
She stumbled from the bed and searched for her things. The knickers were beyond use. The short skirt, b
ra and blouse took a minute to locate and slip on. When she’d dressed as best she could, he grabbed her and pushed her hard against the bedroom door.
‘If you speak to anyone about this, I’ll kill you. Understand?’
Lisa stared into his cold, dark eyes and nodded.
The man was insane, and worse, he terrified her.
‘And don’t think the police will save you. I have many friends in the police. My uncle is the police chief.’
It was a lie but Lisa wasn’t to know that.
‘I won’t go to the police.’
He nodded and let her go.
‘Get out of my sight. I never want to see you again.’
She hurried down the stairs, found her shoes, slipped them on, and dashed away.
SERGEANT CHRISTOS SHARISTES was a lugubrious old sod nearing retirement. He’d been posted to Carsos because of the low crime rate, and because no one else wanted to work alongside his unforgiving face. He’d finished his duty and had ambled into Nicoliades’ Bar where he plonked himself on the end stool, and unfolded the well-read newspaper he was rarely seen without. He ordered a glass of retsina; he’d long since fallen in love with the resin flavour, and couldn’t be without it for more than a day. Nicoliades poured the drink and when he’d finished he stooped over the bar and whispered, ‘I’ve been meaning to speak to you, Christos.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s about a girl.’
‘Isn’t it always?’
‘An English girl, short hair, pretty, travelling alone, she’s big trouble, know what I mean? She’s stirring it up for me and my family, spreading lies, blackmail; you know the kind of thing. She’s staying at the Pelios. Carsos would be a better place without her.’
‘You want me to see her off the island?’
‘It would be better for everyone concerned, first ferry tomorrow.’
Christos Sharistes nodded and returned to his paper.
‘Is the fish OK?’
‘The fish is fine, on the house, my treat.’
