They were parked at the end of the breakwater which was farthest away from the pier. It was dark and lonely, the only sound the lapping of the water against the pilings of the old wooden jetty below. When a cafe door was opened somewhere in the distance the music and laughter might have been coming from another planet, and Lomax shivered as they went down a flight of stone steps to the jetty.
The old forty-foot diesel launch moored at the far end was festooned with nets still damp from the day's labour, and stank of fish, the deck slippery with their scales. They made him lie face down on the nets while they tied his ankles, and then Nikita went aft and returned with a pile of heavy chains which he dropped on the deck with a clatter.
Riki turned Lomax over and squatted beside him. "For you, Englishman. There's a place we know a couple of miles out. Dark and quiet and very deep. You'll have it all to yourself."
He patted Lomax on the cheek, stood up and turned to his brother. "I'll take her out. You see to the moorings."
He went into the wheelhouse and Nikita cast off aft and moved into the prow. For a moment he was out of sight and Lomax swung on to his side, straining desperately at the ropes which bound him, but he was wasting his time.
The jetty lay quiet and deserted in the diffused, yellow light of a solitary lamp. There was no one to help him now, and then, somewhere in the shadows, a can was knocked on to its side and rolled across the deck with a clatter.
As Lomax twisted to look behind him, Nikita hurried aft, a frown of alarm on his face. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded, and then a large, black-and-white cat moved out of the shadows and rubbed itself against his leg.
He picked it up and shook it affectionately. "Old devil, you had my heart in my mouth."
As he put the cat down again and turned away, the engine burst into life, shattering the calm of the night, and the boat moved away from the jetty. A few moments later they passed the light at the end of the pier and turned out to sea.
Fog lifted from the water, giving it a peculiar luminosity and the sty was a Jewel-studded delight. As Riki increased speed, his brother moved to the rail and stood there, allowing the spray to fall across his face.
He stayed there for quite a while and then turned and lit a cigarette, the match flaring in his cupped hands, momentarily illuminating the strong-boned face.
He flicked it into the sea and looked down at Lomax. "A night to thank God for, Englishman. A fine night for dying."
His teeth gleamed in the darkness and he walked away, humming to himself, and disappeared into the wheelhouse. In spite of the gag Lomax heaved a sigh of relief. For quite some time he had been aware that the cat had not been responsible for knocking over the can as they left the jetty and that someone crouched in the darkness behind the pile of nets.
He started to push himself backwards, and as hands started to untie the knots of the bandanna, Yanni Melos whispered into his ear, "Take it easy, Mr. Lomax. Let's get this off first."
Lomax spat out the gag and gulped in a mouthful of fresh salt air. He didn't waste time on pointless questions. "If you've got a knife, you'd better move fast, son. He'll be back any minute."
There was a sharp click as the boy pressed the button of a spring knife, and a second later Lomax was rubbing his wrists, wincing with pain as the blood started to move again.
As Yanni sliced through the rope which bound his ankles, the engine was cut and the boat started to slow down. The boy moved back into the shadows and Lomax said quietly, "Stay out of this. I don't want you to get hurt."
There was a burst of laughter and Nikita emerged from the wheelhouse and came towards them. He squatted beside Lomax and grinned. "Not long now, Englishman."
He stiffened suddenly, the smile leaving his face, and as he leaned forward Lomax slashed him across the windpipe with the edge of his hand.
Nikita gave a terrible, choking cry and went over backwards to writhe on the deck, hands tearing at his throat. Riki emerged from the wheelhouse at the same moment, the Beretta ready in his hand. He loosed off a quick shot and Lomax did the only possible thing and went over the rail in a shallow dive.
As the water closed above him he was already turning to swim down and under the boat, the keel scraping his back painfully. He surfaced on the other side beside a short ladder of the type used by sponge divers and hung there for a moment to catch his breath.
The water was surprisingly cold and he was shivering as he went up the ladder. Riki stood with his back turned peering down into the sea, and as Lomax started to climb over the rail, Yanni moved from behind the pile of nets.
His arm rose, the blade gleaming like silver in the moonlight, and Riki chose that precise moment to turn. He swayed out of harm's way then twisted the knife from the boy's hand and threw it into the sea. As Yanni backed away, he went after him, face contorted with rage, the Beretta extended threateningly.
A six-foot gaff used for hauling in the big fish hung from a hook beside the wheelhouse. It was the only possible weapon and Lomax grabbed it and moved forward quickly.
"Here I am, Riki!" he called.
The Greek glanced sideways, jaw going slack in astonishment, and then he started to turn, bringing the gun to bear. Lomax lunged awkwardly with the gaff and the blade sliced through the heavy reefer jacket into the right armpit.
Riki screamed, dropping the gun at once, and staggered backwards, jerking the gaff from Lomax's grasp. He pulled it from his armpit and sank down on the pile of nets, moaning in pain.
Yanni stumbled across to the rail and leaned over the side, his small body heaving, and Lomax picked up the Beretta and moved after him. The boy turned, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, trying hard to hold back his tears and failing.
"I thought you were dead," he said. "I thought you'd gone down for good."
Lomax pushed him gently towards the wheelhouse. "Go inside and wait for me. I won't be long."
He pushed the Beretta into the waistband of his pants and went into the galley. It was dark and airless, but he managed to find a towel and went back on deck.
Riki crouched beside his brother who lay very still, head turned to one side, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the diffused yellow light from the wheelhouse.
Lomax dropped to one knee, folded the towel into a thick pad and held it out. "If you hold this under your arm as tightly as you can you might live long enough to see a doctor."
Riki's face was sickly yellow in the lamplight, the eyes fixed and staring. "He's dead," he said stupidly. "My brother is dead."
Lomax lifted the man's arm away from his body and pushed the padded towel into position. Riki made no attempt to stop him. He sat there beside the body of his brother holding his damaged arm against his side and Lomax turned wearily away and went into the wheelhouse.
He leaned against the door and closed his eyes and it was as if he was alone and the darkness moved in on him, pushing against his body with a terrible weightless pressure. He was lost, alone in that darkness groping for a light and then a hand tugged at his damp sleeve and he opened his eyes and looked down at Yanni.
The boy's face was white and anxious and Lomax patted him reassuringly. "It's all right, Yanni. I'm not as young as I used to be, that's all."
But there was more to it than that--much more. He glanced down through the window at Riki crouched beside the body of his brother and turned away hurriedly, sick to his stomach.
His hands were shaking when he pressed the starter. The engine coughed once asthmatically and then roared into life, and he took the boat round in a long sweeping curve and said, "Now you can tell me how you managed to turn up when you did."
"I followed you over the mountain to the farm instead of going back to the villa when you told me," Yanni explained. "When they brought you outside and put you in the truck, I climbed on to the spare wheel at the rear."
"You must have had a pretty rough ride," Lomax said.
"It could have been worse." The boy shrugged. "I wanted to go for Kytros, bu
t I didn't like to leave you. I couldn't walk along the jetty because of the lamp, so I swam out from the beach and climbed over the stern. That's when I knocked the can over." He hesitated and said diffidently, "Did I do right, Mr. Lomax?"
Lomax grinned down at him. "I'm beginning to wonder how I ever managed without you."
The fog that curled up from the surface of the water had thickened a little, but within a few minutes he saw the harbour lights on the port side and altered course.
As they passed the end of the pier, Yanni moved out on deck and stood ready with one of the mooring lines. Lomax reduced speed and cut the engine when they were a few yards from the jetty. He had miscalculated slightly and the boat drifted broadside on against the pilings with a splintering of wood, the shock sending him staggering across the wheelhouse.
When he moved out on deck, Yanni was already on the jetty expertly hooking the line over an iron bollard.
He grinned. "How long since you brought a boat into harbour, Mr. Lomax?"
"I got us here," Lomax said. "That's all that counts. How far is it to the police station?"
"Just around the corner," Yanni said. "A couple of minutes, that's all. Shall I get Sergeant Kytros?"
Lomax nodded. "I'll wait here."
A hollow booming echoed across the water as the boy ran along the wooden planking of the jetty to the wharf and disappeared into the darkness.
When Lomax turned, he saw that Riki was on his feet. He stood looking down at the body of his brother, legs braced apart, damaged arm held firmly against his side.
"Who sicked you and your brother and Dimitri on to me?" Lomax said. "Was it Alexias Pavlo?"
Riki looked up slowly. In the yellow light of the lamp his eyes were black holes, the face glistening with sweat, a mask of pain.
He said nothing and yet his hatred lay between them like a living thing and Lomax shivered as if somewhere, someone had walked over his grave. A small wind lifted from the water, slicing through his damp clothing and he turned, stepped over the rail and walked along the jetty.
When he reached the wharf he hesitated, knowing that the sensible thing to do was to wait for Kytros, to let him handle things. And then he thought of Dimitri waiting out there at the farm for news that he was dead and anger moved inside him. He climbed into the truck and a moment later drove rapidly away.
A solitary light greeted him from the darkness of the hollow when he took the truck down towards the farmhouse. He braked to a halt, cut the engine and sat there looking towards the porch. After a moment, he jumped down to the ground and moved up the steps.
He took the Beretta from his waistband, held it against his right thigh with the safety catch off and went in. The kitchen was in darkness, but a thin strip of light showed at the bottom of the door leading to the living room.
He stood there, conscious of the uncanny stillness, the absolute quiet, and somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled menacingly. He opened the door and stepped into the living room in one smooth movement.
A fire crackled on the hearth and a lamp stood on the table in the centre of the room, its yellow glow beating the shadows back into their corners.
And then he noticed the bottle lying on the sheepskin rug where it had fallen. Red wine spilling across the floor like blood, reached out towards the legs that protruded from the shadows behind one of the great wing-backed chairs beside the fire.
Dimitri Paros stared up at the ceiling, eyes fixed for eternity, a half-smile frozen into place. The horn-handle of a gutting knife jutted from beneath his chin, the long blade passing through the roof of the mouth into the brain.
In one hand he still clutched a wine-glass, its contents spilled on the floor beside him, and Lomax pushed the Beretta into his waistband and dropped to one knee.
When he touched the white face with the back of one hand, he found it still warm. He was only just dead, that much was obvious, and Lomax sighed and started to get to his feet.
A slight breeze touched the back of his neck and the door creaked. A familiar voice said, "Please stand very still."
Alexias Pavlo moved into the room leaning heavily on his cane, a Mauser clutched firmly in his other hand. He removed the Beretta, slipping it into his pocket, and glanced down at Dimitri.
When he looked again at Lomax, his face was dark with vengeance and as implacable, hewn out of stone.
"Now I will see you hang, Captain Lomax," he said.
15
A Prospect of Gallows
The cell was small and bare with whitewashed walls and illuminated by a single bulb. There was a small, barred window, a washbasin and the bunk on which he was lying.
The door was reinforced with bands of iron and a tiny grille gave a limited view of the corridor. From the direction of the office he could hear the low murmur of voices.
He wrapped a blanket around his body against the bitter cold that seeped through his damp clothing and smoked one of the cigarettes Kytros had given him.
Through the bars of the window he could see the blue-black night sky and a scattering of stars and in the distance thunder rumbled again. He got to his feet and moved to the window and far out to sea lightning flickered below the horizon.
A step sounded in the corridor. As he turned, Stavrou the gaoler, a tall, thick-set man in crumpled khaki uniform, unlocked the door.
Lomax dropped the blanket on the bed and moved into the corridor. "Now what?"
"The sergeant's been having a word with Father John," Stavrou said. "The old man wants to have a word with you before he goes."
The office was a place of shadows, its only illumination the green shaded lamp on the desk. Father John sat beside it, a hand to his brow, as Kytros stood at the window. As Lomax paused in the doorway, the old man turned his head sharply.
For a long moment there was silence between them and then he pushed himself to his feet. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"I shouldn't imagine so," Lomax said.
"Sergeant Kytros tells me you have accused Alexias Pavlo in this matter," the priest said calmly.
"And you don't think him capable, I suppose?" Lomax said.
"Of killing?" Father John shrugged. "The Devil is in each one of us. However, this evening, Alexias Pavlo was where he has been every Thursday night for years. Playing chess at my home until nine-thirty."
"That still gave him enough time," Lomax said stubbornly.
The old man shook his head. "I hardly think so." At that moment a stone rattled against the shutters that covered the window. "They're beginning to get nasty," Kytros said.
Father John and Lomax moved to join him. Through the narrow slats of the shutters Lomax saw twenty or thirty people standing in small groups, some talking, others just looking towards the police station.
"What do they want?" he said.
"You, I should imagine," Kytros replied calmly.
"It will be a long time before the island sees the end of this night's work," Father John said, pulling his cloak over his shoulders.
"And naturally, I'm to blame?" Lomax said.
"To say with certainty where responsibility lies for anything in this life is difficult," the old man said. "I am only sure of this: Two men are dead. You should have left on the boat, Mr. Lomax. I see now that we should have compelled you to go."
Lomax sat down and helped himself to a cigarette from a packet on the desk. "It would have been so damned convenient for you all, Father. You could have gone on pretending that I was to blame. That the man responsible for so much evil wasn't one of your own people."
The old man looked at him, a slight puzzled frown on his face. For a moment he seemed about to speak and then appeared to think better of it.
He turned to Kytros. "I must go now. I've still to visit the parents of Nikita Samos."
"Thank you for coming, Father," Kytros said.
"I'll order the people outside to go to their homes," the old man went on. "If you need me later, don't hesitate to call."
He turne
d again to Lomax, hesitated and then went to the door. As it closed behind him, Kytros moved to the window. After a while, he gave a grunt of satisfaction.
"Are they going?" Lomax asked.
"For the moment, but they'll be back."
Stavrou busied himself at a table in the shadows where a pot bubbled on a small spirit stove. He filled two cups and brought them to the desk and Lomax inhaled the fragrance of good coffee. It was hot and scalding, filling him with new life, and he sighed with pleasure and lit another cigarette.
Kytros sat on the other side of the desk. He inserted a Turkish cigarette into a plain silver holder and lit it. He leaned back so that he was on the edge of the circle of light, his face in shadow.
"One thing puzzles me," he said. "Dimitri Paros liked to be in at the kill where most things were concerned, yet he chose to forgo the pleasure of personally eliminating a man he hated. I wonder why?"
"He said he had business to take care of."
"It must have been important."
He opened his drawer and took out the Beretta and the gutting knife which had killed Dimitri. It was of common pattern, the handle of black horn bound with brass and slightly curved. When he pressed the button with his thumb, a nine-inch blade appeared as if by magic.
He pushed it back into place and frowned. "Rather an unusual way to stab a man to death, wouldn't you say?"
"An old commando trick," Lomax said. "Here, I'll show you."
He took the knife and stood, holding it concealed in the palm of his right hand against his thigh. His arm swung upwards suddenly, the blade jumping out of his hand like a snake's tongue. He dropped it point first into the desk and sat down again.
"It's a convenient way of killing a man at close quarters from the front. Death is instantaneous because the blade penetrates the brain."
"And this was the method used to kill Dimitri Paros?"
"I'm sure of it. There was still a smile on his face. You must have noticed that yourself. He was killed by someone he knew well and I'd like to point out that he'd hardly have been smiling at me."
Dark Side Of the Island (2010) Page 11
