An Inch of Time

by Peter Helton

  Some distance behind me, I could hear the engine of the quad bike. The first thing the quad rider would see was me sniffing around in the middle of the yard. Spiky had heard it too, grunted and got to his feet. Now I could hear his footsteps crunch on the gravel as he started to set each container the right way up. It wouldn’t take a minute before he saw me lying like an idiot with my nose to one of them. This time my nose didn’t say findik; it said definitely olive oil. Some French isn’t that hard; even I understood what Produit du Maroc meant. No wonder Spiky kept his shotgun close.

  It always works in the movies. I picked up a stone and lobbed it away from me into the trees. The sound was drowned out by the banging of barrel on gravel. Try the other side. I aimed at the roof of the office prefab and missed. The stone pinged on the barbecue. This time it got the man’s attention. He barked a short question at the darkness beyond the pool of light, then turned and went for his gun. I sprinted off in the opposite direction, and in the corner of my eye saw Annis jump up and do the same. I heard a shout behind me and knew he’d noticed me, but by then I’d moved out of the circle of light. In the dark between the trees, I zigzagged like a hare. Only, quite unlike a hare, I had only a vague idea of where I was going and it didn’t take long before my foot caught on something unseen and I landed flat on my face. Close behind came the panting Spiky. I lay still and tried not to breathe. Realizing he could no longer hear me, he stopped to listen. Far to the left, Annis’s fast footfall could be heard. Spiky didn’t waste much time swearing and ran straight past me in the new direction. I got up and kept on going straight until I saw the fence appear in the gloom. I shouted, ‘Ela tho!’ I had no idea whether shouting ‘Come here’ in a dodgy Greek accent would fool him into thinking I was a local, but I was hoping it might once more make him follow me instead of Annis. Then I flung myself at the fence. It seemed to make the loudest noise I had ever heard. Clawing my way up the links I was hoping Annis was doing the same further along. The top of the fence was the worst, swaying this way and that, nearly pitching me back down until I managed to heave myself over the top and drop all the way to the ground on the other side.

  I might easily have missed Annis in the thin starlight had she not hissed ‘Honeypot’ at me as I flew past her. Behind us, the lights of the quad bike approached and flew through the gate. We held hands as we ran off at an angle away from the track for a couple of hundred yards, then stood behind a tree, panting. The quad bike, still with its trailer bouncing behind it, rattled away towards the road.

  ‘I hope you’ve satisfied your olive oil curiosity now,’ Annis whispered.

  ‘I have for tonight. And I’m ready for that beer now.’

  TWENTY

  ‘You’re lucky you caught me in, mate; I’m off to the airport in about ten minutes.’

  ‘Really?’ I hesitated. That meant it was probably a bit late to tell Tim not to bother. Last night, over several post-olive-estate beers, Annis and I had argued long and hard about whether to say farewell to this strange corner of Greece and drop a hint to the police or to stay on Corfu. For the moment I had won – we were staying. But for how long? ‘All right, what time do you touch down? I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘Don’t bother; I’ve rented a car – part of the package, actually. I’ll find you.’

  ‘Won’t be easy.’

  ‘You forget – unlike you, I’ve got an excellent sense of direction.’

  ‘The place is quite hidden away.’

  ‘Rubbish, mate. Never heard of Google Earth? Nothing’s all that hidden any more. I’ll be there.’

  ‘Did you have a chance to check if Kyla Biggs is back?’

  ‘I did; talked to her neighbour yesterday. Nice old lady – she even made me a cup of tea. According to her, Kyla hasn’t been back. Not a sign of her or anyone else. No movement in the flat and her car is still there.’

  ‘I thought so, yet Morton sent someone to pay me off, saying she’s back and moving to Canada.’

  ‘Are you going there next?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shame. I suppose you know you’re out of maple syrup?’

  ‘I think Kyla Biggs stumbled on some huge olive oil swindle down here and it may have cost her. Before you shoot out of the door, could you look something up for me?’

  ‘You’re a pest, but yeah, go on.’

  ‘Look up Ocean Olive Oil and Achillion Olive Oil.’

  ‘One tick.’ I could hear him hammer away at a keyboard at lightning speed. ‘OK, what d’you want to know? Ocean Organic Olive Oil is your current employer’s flagship Greek oil. The podgy little TV chef is promoting it for them on telly at the moment. The other one – Achillion – is exclusive to the supermarket you would shop in if you weren’t always broke. That do yer?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good, gotta go. See you later.’

  ‘Oh, one more thing . . .’

  ‘Yes, Columbo, but make it quick.’

  ‘How long have they been selling Achillion oil?’

  ‘It doesn’t say, but this newspaper link is three years old so at least that long, I should think.’

  ‘Interesting . . .’

  ‘Absolutely fascinating, but I’m out of here.’

  It was another cricket-sawn afternoon; Corfu was baking under a flawless sky. Morva sent me shopping. ‘Your friend arriving here is a good excuse for a feast. And we need to keep the students happy; I want their stay to be memorable.’

  ‘Morv, I don’t think any of them are going to forget it in a hurry.’

  ‘Happy memories – that’s what I want them to take away. And hang the expense; it’s their last week, after all.’ She pressed some euro notes into my reluctant hand.

  ‘All right. What do you want me to get?’

  ‘No idea; you’re the cook.’

  ‘I am? What happened to Margarita?’

  ‘She’s stormed off again. I think she’s gone for good this time. The mere mention of an extra guest and she made off on her moped.’

  ‘You really don’t think she’s coming back?’

  ‘I know she’s quit before and come back; but not this time, I think. As she was grabbing her stuff, she was saying “I told him it wouldn’t work anyway”. Whatever that meant.’

  ‘I think it meant she was sent up here, probably by her dad, to sabotage your art school venture. I’m pretty sure that’s why she was the only one you could find to work for you.’

  ‘I expect you’re right. And she took her lucky cooking pot and spoon with her.’

  ‘Ah, that sounds serious.’ I had mixed feelings about Margarita’s departure. On the one hand, it might mean fewer accidents up here, but, on the other, it almost certainly meant I was wearing the apron, at least until Morva’s students left. Fair enough: it was time to earn my keep.

  I rattled round the mountain in the little Citroën, not stopping in Neo Makriá, until I came to a large village called Sinapádes. The contrast to Neo Makriá was instantly noticeable. People were walking around as though they had things to do. There were even a few tourists and a couple of shops catering for them. I left the car near the big village square and went shopping. In a place where most people grew their own vegetables, greengrocers were few and far between, but here I managed to find all I needed. As I was shopping for eight people now, none of whom were vegetarians and one of whom was Tim, I bought the better part of a dead sheep at the village butchers. I spent what money was left on bottles of Henninger and lugged it all back to the car.

  Perhaps as I drove off I was preoccupied with how I was going to cook all the food now crowding the boot; otherwise, I’d have noticed Gloves straight away. When I did spot her in the driving mirror, it was only because she was noisily clearing her throat. I stood on the brakes and Gloves shot forward, ending half wedged between the front seats and swearing in unladylike fashion.

  Like an idiot, I started apologizing while looking around for something to hit her with. ‘Sorry, didn’t notice you weren’t wearing your
seat belt.’

  Gloves unwedged herself with a groan. ‘You didn’t notice anything much,’ she said, upright once more. She let herself slump back against the backrest and looked out of the window at some kids who were staring at the car because of the emergency braking. ‘Have you given up looking for her, then?’ She waved unsmilingly with a leather-gloved hand at the kids who moved away.

  ‘What makes you think I’ve given up looking?’

  ‘You stopped asking questions. You haven’t shown her picture to anyone for ages. You’ve started behaving like a tourist – nights out, country walks. Pedalo hire next, I suppose.’

  Now that I’d got over the initial shock of finding her in my car, this was beginning to get me narked, especially since I already felt guilty enough about not having found her. ‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Chris Honeysett. Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Louise Mabey.’

  ‘Have you been following me across Europe to maybe be Louise in the back of a hire car?’

  ‘You hired this thing? You’re stranger than I thought.’

  ‘Stranger than you could imagine. So why?’

  ‘I’m Kyla’s girlfriend. Well . . . ex-girlfriend now.’

  ‘Ex? You do think she’s dead, then?’

  ‘No, I don’t think she’s dead; she dumped me.’

  ‘Oh no, please don’t tell me Kyla’s disappearance is about you two splitting up.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying. And I don’t see how it could be since we split up a couple of months back and she did the dumping.’

  ‘Then, what’s your theory?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I was hoping you’d have one. She came to this island – I know that much – and I don’t think she left again, though I couldn’t tell you exactly why I think that. I just feel it. She’s here.’

  I thought of Sophie who felt that leaving the island would be a betrayal of her son, even though she knew he was dead. How much more impossible, then, to leave the island if you’re convinced the object of your love is here, but hidden somewhere, alive. ‘How long will you go on looking for her?’

  ‘I took two weeks’ holiday and that’s running out now. But I’m not sure I care; I’ll stay for as long as it takes.’

  ‘No, don’t do that or they’ll send someone like me down here to find you and the thing goes on for ever.’

  ‘Alive or dead, Kyla is here, and I think nobody is keen for you or me to find her.’

  ‘I had noticed that. Most people I’ve met so far have been friendly in quite a menacing sort of way. Or maybe menacing in quite a friendly way; I haven’t made up my mind yet. You came here on holiday together – when was that?’

  ‘You found that much out, then.’

  ‘Hang on.’ I dug the Polaroid I had pinched off the wall in Niko’s Taverna from my wallet and held it up for her perusal. ‘There. You, maybe Louise, Kyla, Niko from the eponymous taverna and another guy. Who is he?’

  Gloves took the picture and tilted it against the light. ‘Oh yeah, that’s us last summer. I don’t look too happy there, do I? We had to waste an entire evening being polite to these two. Kyla had had dealings with them when she was here before on business. The other guy is a local olive oil bigwig, and Niko from the taverna is involved in the business, as well. And they both fancied her, too. Boy, was I bored.’

  ‘What kind of business had Kyla been here for? Supermarket business?’

  ‘Yes. Kyla is a buyer – a food buyer. Well, she wasn’t then; she was just assisting someone else. She took over from him last year.’

  ‘They bought olive oil for the supermarket?’

  ‘Yes. Posh, single-estate stuff. It’s getting rare. There’s not that many around – not good ones, anyway. The other guy in the picture is called Sotiris Something-or-other. Talk of things oily.’ She handed back the picture. ‘Is it just me or is it like an oven in here?’

  ‘It’s like an oven in here. We really have to talk about this properly. Why don’t you come up to the village and we’ll stick our heads together, see what we’ve got?’ I restarted the engine.

  ‘Not in this thing, thanks; I’ve seen how it drives. I’ll follow you in my car.’

  ‘All right. You’ve had enough practice.’

  Back at Ano Makría, Gloves performed a six-point turn by the holly oaks and left the big Toyota parked with the nose aimed downhill. In case of a quick getaway? Just because she claimed to be Kyla’s ex-girlfriend didn’t mean I had to trust her, but so far she’d been quite convincing.

  She stood on the path by the churchyard and took in the sights. ‘Looks a lot better in daylight.’

  ‘You’ve come here at night?’

  ‘Several times. Me and God-knows-who-else. I came up one night and there were two sets of people crawling about the village, one spying on you, another spying on them and me spying on all of you. For a ghost village, the place is bloody busy.’

  ‘Did you recognize any of them?’

  ‘I had the feeling that one lot may have been local plod.’

  ‘Hard to know just how plodding they are.’

  ‘And I think I recognized the chap who runs the cafe in Neo Makriá.’

  ‘Dimitris. Talking of spying, how did you know I was going to Corfu in the first place? I don’t remember advertising it.’

  ‘But you did. I was right there on the pavement in Marlborough Buildings when you said goodbye to Kyla’s downstairs neighbour. You didn’t notice me then, either. I was trying to find Kyla; Mrs Walden said you were going off to find her, so I followed you. It wasn’t difficult. Bloody expensive, but not difficult.’

  ‘Why be so secretive? Why didn’t you make yourself known? We could have pooled resources earlier.’

  ‘Is that what we’re doing here, pooling resources?’ she said doubtfully. She stood, arms akimbo, in front of me on the goat track, looking for something in my eyes. She was still wearing black leather gloves.

  ‘Take off your gloves.’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’ But she turned and walked in front of me towards the house now while she talked. ‘You were hired by Morton. I don’t trust John Morton, I don’t trust the supermarket. I don’t trust, full stop.’ She walked along as though she knew the way.

  ‘You don’t trust the supermarket?’

  ‘No. And especially Morton. He’s a troubleshooter, a specialist at burying things. If you ask me, he hired you not to find Kyla. No offence.’

  ‘He hired me to see how well she was hidden. And now he’s paid me off. The question is: did he pay me off because I got close or because I didn’t?’

  ‘There’s no telling until you do. But people like Morton don’t usually reward failure. If he paid you, then you did what he wanted you to.’

  ‘I was told she had turned up, gone back to Bath and was now going to work for the company in Canada.’

  ‘Did you believe it?’

  ‘I didn’t. I checked and she’s not been back.’

  At the entrance to the courtyard, Gloves stopped. When I drew level with her, I could see why. Everybody was there, including Annis, sitting in a wide circle, drawing. They were drawing Charlie who was posing naked by the well with a stoneware pitcher in a mock Greek-urn pose. ‘So it really is an art-schooly place.’

  ‘Yes, though when I left, the naked water sprite was still only a half-naked builder. The life-drawing thing is a new development. Bound to happen sooner or later, I suppose.’

  Annis noticed us first. She clocked Gloves’s gloves and put down her pad and pencil. I nodded my head towards the house and told Gloves to follow me. ‘I’ll have to get this stuff into the kitchen and start preparing tonight’s food. It’ll take ages.’

  Annis followed us in and I made the introductions. ‘This is Annis, my accomplice; this is maybe Louise, aka Gloves. Kyla’s ex.’

  ‘Welcome to the weirdness.’

  A few explanations later and the girls were drinking coffee, while I stood at the kitchen table peeling a
kilo and a half of tiny onions for the stifado I was cooking. It was agony. ‘So Charlie’s been promoted to life model? Or is it demoted?’ I sniffed.

  ‘Morva thought life drawing was one of the things that was missing on her course. Apparently, she had toyed with the idea of asking you, but thought she knew what you’d be saying.’

  ‘Yeah: not bloody likely.’

  ‘Exactly. Sophie and Helen are certainly drawing with renewed vigour, I noticed, though I’m not so sure Rob is enamoured with the idea of staring at naked builders for hours.’

  ‘It wouldn’t do much for me, either,’ said Gloves.

  I changed the subject. ‘Gloves . . . sorry, Louise recognized one of the guys in the Polaroid: he’s an olive oil bigwig. I think our excursion to the olive estate may not have been so irrelevant after all.’ Only a handful of onions peeled and I’d gone blind with tears. ‘Excuse me,’ I said snottily and went outside to blow my nose. My jacket still hung on the back of a chair in the courtyard. I liberated the group picture with Kyla that Tim had mailed me from its lining and went back inside. Kyla looked quite different in the two pictures. ‘Which one’s more typical?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, the holiday one. The managerial face is pure acting. Kyla wasn’t like that at all; at home she was more like a kid. Teenage movies and computer games,’ she said lightly, then suddenly her face fell. ‘Did I say “was”? I said “was”, didn’t I?’

  ‘Because she’s your ex. That’s normal,’ Annis assured her. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘I’m hellishly superstitious. Not black-cats-’n’-ladders superstitious. I know it’s nonsense, but on some level I always feel that we make things happen, that words make things happen.’