‘Exactly.’
‘There are other routes, of course, other ways of getting there, but, even so …’
‘None of it makes sense.’
‘Had anything, however apparently insignificant, happened recently to worry Heather?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Strangers in Lindos paying her undue attention, perhaps?’
‘There are always strangers in Lindos. I noticed nothing.’
‘Nothing …’ Dysart abstractedly echoed the word, then crossed to the drinks cabinet and returned with a bottle to re-fill Harry’s glass. ‘You’re in a fix, old friend. A very nasty fix.’
‘I know. But that worries me less at the moment than …’
‘What might have happened to Heather?’
‘Yes.’
Dysart glanced at his watch. ‘I have to get back to Rhodes PDQ, I’m afraid. There’s a lot of work to be done and I’m due home again on Wednesday.’
‘You’re not staying here?’
‘No. The Consulate’s putting me up. It saves the toing and froing.’
He smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m not giving you the cold shoulder, Harry. I’ll make a point of calling on Inspector Miltiades and telling him that you have my unreserved support – and that he’s barking up the wrong tree.’
‘That’s good of you.’
‘There is just one thing, though.’ Dysart moved away towards the window, as if embarrassed by what he was about to say. ‘I’m told you had … a spot of bother … with a Danish tourist back in the summer.’
Harry winced at the memory. ‘That was just drink and stupidity.’
‘Even so, it looks bad in circumstances like these. If there’s any question anything similar might have occurred …’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘The postcards somehow heighten the impression. Heather was – is – a pretty girl. If something happened … if you did something … to frighten her … it might explain …’
This was only, Harry knew, what everybody would think anyway, and then the least vile version thereof. Nevertheless, the fact that Dysart could entertain the idea was somehow doubly shocking. ‘I did nothing. To harm her or frighten her.’
‘Is that the truth, Harry? Is that God’s honest truth?’ He turned from the window and looked at Harry intently.
‘Yes, it is.’
Dysart smiled apologetically. ‘Then I won’t raise the subject … ever again.’
An hour later, Harry was alone once more in the gatehouse flat. Dysart had set off back to Rhodes, leaving him to lock the villa, shower, shave, put on clean clothes and assemble some kind of dignity with which to confront whatever was to follow. To remain there, inert and inactive, while the search went on elsewhere, edging ever nearer to what he bleakly took to be the truth, was a heavy penance indeed. When he looked next in the mirror, it was to see a marginally less shabby representation of himself than he had seen there on waking, but most people’s image of him, as Dysart had gently implied, was unlikely to alter from that of a drunken old lecher twisting and turning to escape a crime. Unlikely, that is, unless Harry could alter it for them.
5
IT WAS THE afternoon of the following day. One of autumn’s periodic downpours had come to Lindos, turning its cobbled alleys into minor watercourses, its flat roofs into miniature lakes. The sky and the sea, both usually a dazzling blue, had assumed instead a dull and uniform grey. Even the lofty castle walls had lost their proud, golden hue. Melancholy, as well as cloud, had settled upon the town.
At the open-fronted Taverna Silenou in the main square, the interlocking branches of a pair of fig trees formed a canopy beneath which two middle-aged men sat at a rusting metal table, staring out forlornly at the curtain of rain. Copies of Rhodes’ three daily newspapers lay on the table before them, wedged beneath a well-filled ashtray and flanked by empty coffee cups, half-empty beer glasses and the crumbling remnant of a bread roll. Neither Harry Barnett nor Kostas Dimitratos had said much during the past half hour, but each had derived a modicum of comfort from the company of the other.
‘How much more times can I say it?’ Kostas enquired suddenly, plucking a toothpick from his mouth and flicking it towards the nearest puddle. ‘I am sorry, Hari. Sorry for telling Miltiades about … tee Thaneza.’ He was a short, round little man with a disproportionately large, absurdly luxuriant, walrus moustache. This, which gave him a vaguely lugubrious appearance even at the sunniest of times, now conspired with the elements to invest his words with the weight of total despondency.
Harry, who had been leaning forward on his chair, sat upright and turned to look at his companion. ‘Kostas,’ he said with heavy emphasis, ‘not even your best friend expects you to be reticent. I should know, because I’m it. So for Christ’s sake stop feeling so guilty. I was hoping you’d cheer me up.’
The other man frowned and scratched his considerable stomach. ‘Ret-i-cent?’ he repeated doubtfully.
‘Ligomilitos.’
It was clear from his expression that Kostas did not know whether he had been complimented or insulted. Rather than pursue the point, he prised one of the newspapers loose, stared for the fifth or sixth time at the article reporting a complete absence of progress in the police investigation of the disappearance of Heather Mallender, then slammed it back onto the table with a grunt of disgust.
‘Besides,’ Harry went on, as if he had not noticed his friend’s display, ‘you’re about the only inhabitant of Lindos who’s still prepared to talk to me, so I can’t afford to be choosey, can I? Do you know, when I went into the bakery this moming, it was as if I’d become invisible.’
Kostas shook his head sadly and clicked his tongue. ‘I am sorry, Hari.’
‘Do stop saying that.’
‘It will be different when …’ His reassuring remark trailed into silence as both men’s attention was taken by the arrival of a car in the square. It sped down the short slope from the main road and came to a halt in a cloud of spray. They could not make out the occupant through the rain-smeared windscreen, but the fact that it was a hire car seemed suggestive in itself. A few moments later, a tall thin man in an oilskin coat climbed out and ran across to them.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Either of you two know Harry Barnett?’
He was an Englishman, with one of those educated but slovenly accents Harry had come to hate. Lean-faced and dark-haired, with intent, darting eyes and a suggestion of stubble about the chin, he was clearly neither tourist nor public servant, but whether Harry wanted to make his acquaintance was far less clear.
Kostas, noting his friend’s failure to respond, at once assumed the role of an uncomprehending Greek. He cocked his head and frowned up at the stranger. ‘Parakalo?’
The man raised his voice. ‘Harry Barnett!’
‘Then milame Anglika.’
‘What?’
‘Then milame—’
‘He’s saying we don’t speak English,’ Harry interrupted. ‘But he’s only trying to be helpful. I’m Harry Barnett. Who are you and what do you want?’
He was a journalist, as Harry might have known, had he studied the signs more carefully. He introduced himself as Jonathan Minter of The Courier, a new national Sunday newspaper Harry had never heard of. He ordered a pizza which Kostas departed huffily to prepare – then turned to the purpose of his visit without further ado.
‘We simply think it’s time you had your say. Poor little rich girl goes missing on holiday island. Friend of government minister and a looker to boot. Obviously, the tabloids have had a field day. And you’ve figured as the villain of the piece. But what’s the truth of the matter, eh? That’s what we’d like to know.’
‘So would I.’ Already, Harry felt sure he did not like Minter. He had encountered his type before, flaunting his girlfriend and his credit card around Lindos in the season. It was only envy, in the final analysis, that he felt, but envy of a very personal kind. It seemed like years since he had met an Englis
hman who was not younger and wealthier than he was. Perhaps that was why he had come to prefer the Greeks.
‘Oh, come on. You know more than you’re telling.’
‘Do I?’
‘I gather you used to work for Mallender Marine.’
‘So?’
‘And were sacked over a contractual irregularity.’
‘What’s that to do with you?’
‘Nothing. But why let the Mallenders say what they like about you? Why let them have it all their own way? I’m sure you could deliver a few home truths if you wanted to.’
‘What have they been saying?’
‘See for yourself.’ Minter took a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Harry. It was a photocopy of three separate newspaper articles arranged on a single page. ‘They all appeared on Sunday following a press conference Roy Mallender gave before flying out here on Saturday night. He doesn’t have a very high opinion of you, does he?’
Harry did not need Minter to tell him of his standing in Roy Mallender’s eyes. Nevertheless, it was a shock to have it spelt out in spare, journalists’ prose:
Mr Mallender said he was disturbed by reports that Heather had been in the company of an Englishman named Harry Barnett when she disappeared. He described Barnett as ‘a man with a grudge against my family’, ‘A former employee of Mallender Marine who was dismissed in 1978 for taking bribes’. Mr Mallender said Barnett was ‘the very last person I would have wanted my sister to associate with. Now it’s been confirmed she was alone with him, it’s difficult not to fear the worst.’
Minter leaned across the table and lowered his voice. ‘He’s virtually saying you murdered her.’
‘Perhaps he believes I did.’
‘But you didn’t, did you?’
Kostas reappeared, placed a bottle, a glass and some cutlery in front of Minter, then withdrew.
‘Well?’
‘You’re not getting a story out of me,’ said Harry. ‘Whatever I told you, you’d distort it to serve your own ends.’
‘But they’d be your ends too, Harry. We’re on the same side, you and I. Neither of us likes the Mallenders – or what they stand for.’
‘What do they stand for?’
‘Privilege. Hypocrisy. Corruption. The three pillars of their kind of life.’
This sounded personal, Harry thought, personal and infuriatingly close to what he himself believed. ‘I didn’t take bribes. I didn’t murder Heather. What else is there to say?’
‘Everything. What happened on Profitis Ilias wasn’t as simple, or as inexplicable, as you seem to think. I reckon you’re the weak link, Harry, in a chain of events that connects Roy Mallender, and other far more important people, with something very nasty indeed. And I reckon you know what it is.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
Kostas made another lumbering entrance, this time with a plateful of unappetizing pizza and a basket of bedraggled bread. When they were alone again, Minter said: ‘Ask yourself this, Harry. If Heather Mallender was murdered, and you didn’t do it, then who did? If the motive wasn’t robbery, or rape, then what was it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘She’d been here for a month. Long enough for you to get to know her, I’d have thought. Didn’t she say anything in that time, anything at all, that might explain what’s happened?’
Harry was about to reply when another car drew into the square: a police patrol car, with two uniformed officers inside. One of them climbed out and bustled towards the taverna. As he drew closer, Harry recognized him as a member of Miltiades’ search party. He explained himself in gabbled Greek, from which Harry gathered that Miltiades wanted to see him immediately.
‘What’s going on?’ said Minter, as Harry rose from his chair.
‘They’re taking me in. I think they’ve found something.’
‘You mean Heather?’
‘I don’t know.’
As Harry stepped past him, Minter caught his arm and pushed a small piece of paper into his hand. ‘It’s the number of my hotel in Rhodes,’ he whispered. ‘Think about what I said. If anything comes to mind, give me a call. And Harry …’
‘Yes?’
‘If you do come up with a link in that chain I mentioned, there could be money in it for you. A lot of money.’
As the car sped up the coast road towards Rhodes Town, the two policemen became absorbed in an argument about football. Left to brood on the back seat, Harry stared out at the stark, rain-swept scenery, and scoured his memory for the clue Minter had seemed so sure he possessed. Places he had been with Heather and snatches of conversations he had held with her recurred kaleidoscopically to his mind, reaching momentarily towards significance, then relapsing into a meaningless jumble. If only he could shrug off the enfeebling sense of loss that had gripped him since her disappearance. If only he could summon the energy and concentration needed to deduce what had become of her. Had she not once said …? Had her expression not once implied …? But no. The thought, the impression, the link in the chain, was gone before he could grasp it. The wipers whined mechanically across the windscreen, the rain sluiced down the glass close to his face, and meaning floated out of reach.
6
‘NO, MR BARNETT,’ said Miltiades, his face retaining its mastery of the impassive, ‘we have not found her. But you might say she has found us.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means that Miss Mallender’s mother received a postcard from her daughter in England this morning. It was posted here in Rhodes on the ninth of November – last Wednesday – and states her intention of flying home on the sixteenth – tomorrow. More significantly … But read it yourself. The British police have telexed the contents to me.’
Miltiades slid a sheet of paper across the desk. When Harry stooped over it, he saw that it was indeed a telex, originating from New Scotland Yard. It read:
Mallender communication ran as follows, ‘Rhodes, Wed. 9th. Mummy (underlined). Am flying back a week today, the 16th. Should arrive mid-aftemoon. Will phone you from Heathrow. Looking forward to being home. Something not quite right here will make me glad to leave. See you soon. Lots of love, Heather.’
‘Something not quite right here,’ said Miltiades, stressing each word. ‘What do you conclude from that?’
For Harry, the postcard was final proof that his unawareness had assumed culpable proportions. The Heather he had looked upon as a friend could not have written those words. ‘Something is not quite right’? There had been nothing, he was sure of it, to imply she felt uneasy; nor had she seemed eager to leave Rhodes, quite the reverse. He looked at Miltiades and shook his head weakly. ‘I don’t know … I don’t know what to say.’
‘Permit me to recommend the truth. It is much simpler, in the end.’
‘It may not be what you want to hear.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
Harry slumped down in the chair beside him and tried to frame the words that would describe how confused he felt. He was gripped by a powerful inclination to confide in this man. Perhaps the cause was a change of venue, from the bare, echoing interrogation room where they had first met to this comfortably furnished office with its mahogany desk, its antique print of Rhodes on one wall and its modern map on another, its air of a civilized man’s study. Or perhaps the cause was Miltiades himself, in whom some spark of passion seemed to have been extinguished and replaced by a bland and patient curiosity. Whatever the reason, Harry was no longer deterred by the inadequacy of what he had to say.
‘I feel sad and angry by turns. Sad I didn’t understand her better. Sad I didn’t put the time we spent together to better use. And angry that nobody cares about me. Angry that I’m just at best a witness, at worst a suspect. Everyone else is allowed simply to be worried about Heather. But I have to worry about myself as well. What do you all think I did? Nothing is the answer. And that, I suppose, is the worst of it. Whatever happened to her on Profitis Ilias, I could
have prevented it, but I didn’t. So is that what you want me to confess to? The failure to intervene – though intervene in what God alone knows.’
The outburst was over. Silence reasserted itself for just as long as it took Harry to feel ashamed of what he had said. Then Miltiades’ chair creaked faintly as he leaned back in it. He put the tips of his fingers together and gazed at the ceiling like some fastidious consultant about to pronounce on the progress of a fatal disease. ‘First we are bewildered. Then we enter a brief phase of hope. When that is shown to have been unwarranted, a form of grief is experienced, sometimes accompanied but always followed by an apportionment of blame, an increasingly desperate search for somebody to bear the guilt we feel.’ He smiled and looked at Harry. ‘Does it sound familiar, Mr Barnett? I am quoting from recent research into the consequences of disappearance. This case appears to be displaying certain classical symptoms.’
‘You mean I’m the peg for others to hang their guilt on?’
‘Inevitably, since you were the last to see Miss Mallender. Her brother was here earlier, demanding that I arrest you. I tried to explain to him that there was no evidence to form the basis of a charge against you and that, whilst I hold your passport, there need be no fear of you attempting to flee the country. But he was not satisfied. The reason is clear. Miss Mallender’s family feel guilty about neglecting her, as they now accuse themselves of having done during her stay here. One way to assuage that guilt is to fasten it on you. Your problem is that there is nobody on whom you can fasten your guilt; it stays with you.’
It was true. Miltiades had described his plight exactly. ‘Do the consequences continue?’ asked Harry bleakly. ‘Are there further phases we’ve yet to enter?’
‘Oh yes. They may be interrupted at any point, of course, by the discovery of the truth. The discovery of a body, I mean, or the discovery of the missing person. One phase you have already exhibited: a tendency to blame the person who has disappeared. Secretly, you may already hope that she will be found dead rather than prolong the uncertainty. And it is probable that you will have begun to think: how could she do this to me? It is, I fear, a short step from there to the next phase.’
Into the Blue Page 5
