Mortal Remains (12 page)

Celia stared at him in dismay.

‘Oh, don’t you come. It’s much too hot,’ he said, hastily. ‘Can you get back to the others? They may wonder where we are.’ Patrick suspected that George had led Elsie away from the beach for some amorous dalliance; it was a pity to waste such a setting, and he wished he had come in more tempting company himself.

‘All right.’ She hesitated. ‘Be careful.’

‘I will. If I’m not back in an hour, come and look for me,’ he said.

He strode off then, and Celia watched him picking out a route among the small bushes and the bare rocks, describing a traverse to the right of the sheer drop. It looked as if once the whole slope had been more gentle, and then some sort of avalanche-type fall had created the sheer face at the foot of which Dermott Murcott had lain. Surely he would have chosen the easier ascent too? She thought about it for a few minutes as she made her way back towards the beach; then basic physical distress drove everything else from her mind, for she was streaming with perspiration and her fat thighs were chafed from the friction of walking in the heat. She turned round a few times during her journey to look for Patrick, and saw his blue shirt moving gradually upwards in a slanting course on the hillside.

Patrick had found what looked like a track made by animals: a donkey trail, perhaps, or maybe his jesting remarks about goats had been, in fact, accurate. He was soon sweating; his shirt stuck to his back, but the warm sweet air was dry and clean in his lungs. He was not wearing his Cretan straw hat; he had left it on the beach, which was a pity, for he could have done with its protection from the glaring sun. His hair fell forward as he walked along, and he pushed it back impatiently. Once he stopped and surveyed the vista around him through his binoculars. There was a liner on the horizon; it gleamed white even at such a distance. Below, he could see the pink figure of Celia wending her way back to the beach.

He walked on, taking care where he stepped, for the ground was rough and stony. The light was brilliant; every dried blade of grass stood out sharp against its fellows; each wisp of withered thyme and rock-rose was crisply defined against the dry, dusty earth from which it sprang; here and there an asphodel rose, tall and spiky, the blossom delicate, the grey stem slender, miraculously sustaining the life of the bloom in its arid surroundings. A cigarette-end, thoroughly squashed, the brand name illegible, caught his eye, and he picked it up. His own sense of smell was acute, perhaps because he did not smoke himself, and he sniffed it; it was not made of Greek tobacco. Patrick wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief and put it in his shirt pocket; he saw no more alien objects during his ascent.

At last he reached the top and paused for a moment to get his breath and bearings. Nothing stirred in the limpid air. He walked on until he stood above the spot where Murcott had been found. An older man than himself, or one less fit, might, standing there after a strenuous climb, feel dizzy, faint, or have a heart attack; he might, like Felix, simply have lost his balance.

Patrick turned his back to the sea and looked inland; in front of him the ground was level for a hundred yards or more; then it rose again and formed another ridge, not a high one. He walked towards it over earth littered with small stones and shrivelled plants. At the top of it, he found himself suddenly looking into a chasm; he stood on a hilly spine which rose up from the flatter land of the island like the vertebrae of some sleeping animal. He could see right across to the sea on the further side, and with his binoculars picked out the various villas the boatman had mentioned, white in the sunlight.

Suddenly, from nowhere, the figure of a woman appeared beneath him at the foot of the steep drop. She seemed to have sprung from the ground. She was walking away from him, and he focused his binoculars on her; a moment later she disappeared again behind a rock, then reappeared mounted, on a donkey, riding away. Her face, magnified by the glasses, sprang up sharply in his vision for an instant as she turned her head; he was sure it was the woman he had seen going out with Spiro’s friends towards the
Psyche
earlier in the day.

There must be a way down the cliff: he looked at his watch; was there time to climb down, investigate what lay below, and return before Celia considered him lost? Reluctantly, he decided that it could not be done; in twenty minutes she would start looking for him; he would have to return. He knew that there were caves, shepherds’ refuges, and hidden spots for fugitives on all these islands. Dermott Murcott might have had time to go down the hill; if so, what had he found?

As he turned away to go back to the beach, something flashed from near a rock close to where the woman had appeared with the donkey, as if the sunlight had caught against glass, mirror-like. Instinct made Patrick continue his turning movement; he walked away slowly, loitering to admire the view and betrayed no sign of having seen anything unusual. Thus, he saved his life.

Celia was alone on the beach when he reached it; she looked forlorn, and was very pleased to see him.

‘I don’t know where the others are,’ she said. ‘There hasn’t been a sign of them.’

‘Let’s have a swim,’ said Patrick. ‘They’ll turn up, I expect. Or don’t you want to?’

Celia did. She lumbered down the beach beside him and they swam together, up and down, both from time to time peering blearily at the land but unable, without their glasses, to see anything distinctly. When they returned, Elsie was sitting on the towel again, combing her hair; her bikini was quite dry. George was standing looking out to sea, smoking; his face wore an abstracted look, but his expression lightened when Patrick joined him.

George had offered round a packet of Chesterfields after lunch, but he was the only smoker among the four of them.

‘Have a sweet?’ Elsie offered. She took from her bag a packet of barley-sugar sweets.

‘Thanks,’ said Celia, taking one.

Patrick had one too; he felt the need of some quick energy.

Their boatman came for them, as promised, and when Patrick asked if there were time to circumnavigate the island before the ferry left, agreed that it could be done. They chugged along the coastline, keeping close inshore, and Patrick inspected both land and sea through his binoculars as they went. They saw the villas, three of them, where the rich Athenians lived; each had small private landing-stages running into the sea.

‘They’ve all got yachts,’ George passed on the information. One was tied up against its owner’s jetty; the others were presumably cruising somewhere. They passed another boat at anchor not far from land. On deck lay a blonde girl, sunbathing; she sat up to look at them as they puttered past. She was Jill McLeod, and the boat was the
Psyche.

Celia’s upper arms were lobster-red from the sun which had baked them during the trip round the island.

‘You’ll be sore tonight,’ Elsie told her as they sat in the saloon of the ferry bound for Piraeus again, with cooling drinks before them.

Celia did not care. She wore the bracelet which Patrick had given her; it was armour against Joyce’s future barbs.

‘You go home tomorrow?’ Patrick asked.

‘Yes. In the afternoon. We’re due at Gatwick about half- past six, I think.’

‘BEA?’

‘No – we came on a charter.
Flyways,’
she said.

Patrick nodded. He was pensive, staring into his beer. He had found neither Ilena nor Yannis, but there was some mystery connected with the island, he was convinced. And what was the Psyche doing there? He thought about Libya, the Lebanon, and Turkey: all of them easily reached by a small boat which could slip in and out unseen at night. Had not such voyages been made constantly during the war, undetected? It must be easier still now. He would not be able to return to Mikronisos himself till after his expedition to Delphi; someone, however, must be told what he had seen on the island.

But then, what had he seen? A stubbed out cigarette-end, not Greek, possibly American or British; a woman on a donkey appearing out of nowhere; a flash of light that might have come from field-glasses or ordinary spectacles. All of these things were innocent in themselves; no one had openly threatened him, and he had seen nothing to indicate the presence of contraband or anything else suspicious.

But Desmond Murcott might have had more opportunity. And he was dead.

He asked George and Elsie what they intended to do in the next few days and learned they were bound for Delphi.

‘Why, so am I,’ he said. ‘When do you go?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘I’m going tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll meet up there.’

‘Say, why don’t we go together?’ said George. ‘How did you plan to travel? On the coach?’

‘I was going to hire a car,’ said Patrick.

‘Honey, wouldn’t that be a lot more comfortable than the coach?’ George said. ‘Would you mind if we came along? We’d share the cost, naturally.’

Patrick tried to decide quickly whether he did mind.

‘I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying,’ he prevaricated. ‘Certainly one night; perhaps more.’

‘That’s O.K. If you want to come back at a different time, we’ll get some other transport for the return trip. We’ll be staying a night too.’

Patrick made up his mind. To refuse would be churlish.

‘Of course we must go together. It’s a fine idea,’ he said.

‘You can call us at the Hilton when you’ve got it all fixed,’ said George. ‘We’ll be glad to fit in with you, time-wise. You’ll be keeping your room in Athens while you’re in Delphi?’

‘Oh yes.’ He might lose it altogether otherwise.

‘We’ll be doing that too.’

They dropped Celia off on the way in to the centre of Athens; she mumbled grateful words as she got out of the taxi. Patrick would have liked to find Jeremy and hear how his day had gone, but that would have to wait. If he went with Celia into the hotel, he knew she would cling to him like a limpet.

He got out of the taxi on the corner of Stadiou and walked down a narrow street to his own hotel while George and Elsie went on to the Hilton. Suddenly, the evening stretched bleakly ahead, to be spent alone. He telephoned someone he had met before who worked at the Embassy and had a flat in Kolonaki not far away; there was no reply. He must be out of Athens for the weekend.

There was always
Phineas Finn.

He showered, changed and shaved. Afterwards, without putting his own light on, he looked out of the window at the room across the way. It had changed occupants; a middle- aged Japanese was standing on the balcony, smoking. Patrick watched him for a few minutes while he made up his mind what to do.

At length he decided.

He picked up pencil and paper and drafted a cable to Detective-Inspector Colin Smithers at Scotland Yard. If Colin were not on duty, the wording of the message would ensure that it was passed on to him at once, or dealt with in his absence.

He put the cigarette-end he had found on the island into an envelope and sealed it securely. It might be important.

Patrick walked along Venizelou towards Omonia Square. A good dinner had revived him, and he felt drawn towards the bustling crowds in the streets. All nations mingled; tourists ambled along slowly, and citizens of Athens hurried.

The traffic tore noisily by; one quickly grew used to it, he found. He sauntered along looking at the shops and the people. A plump woman telephoned from one of the tobacco and sweet kiosks on the pavement; he had noticed some fine blue telephone boxes in Constitution Square, new since his last visit, but evidently the old public telephones at the kiosks still functioned. He bought a postcard showing an
evzone
in his tasselled hat and white skirt for his nephew Andrew, and one of the Parthenon, floodlit, for Robert, his scout at Mark’s, and when he reached Omonia went into the subway to write them and buy stamps. Here a sub-world existed, with tourist shops as well as a post-office and the tube station. Hundreds of people milled about: there were sailors, smartly dressed in white, from cruise liners; soldiers in their dull khaki uniform; and scores of ordinary humans intent on their own affairs. He thought the Greek girls with their glossy dark hair and enormous brown eyes were enchanting. Pity he didn’t know one.

Andrew, his nephew, was four. He could pick out his own name and read a few three-letter words. Optimistically, Patrick printed a message about spending a day on an island; the child would certainly read fluently soon. He wrote more mundanely to Robert, who was visiting his sister in York. The girl at the post office counter was accustomed to selling stamps to tourists and provided what he needed in silence; she looked bored and tired. Patrick emerged into the upper world again and went forward to the kerb, waiting for the lights to change before crossing the road since he had picked the wrong exit from the sub-way. He had decided to call on Jeremy.

There must be a speed limit, he supposed, as cars tore past his nose, interspersed with scooters and three-wheeled pick-ups buzzing along like maddened wasps; buses lumbered by; and the pedestrians waited meekly for their turn. Patrick was not sure if jay-walking was a definite offence here; it was certainly an invitation to death.

He had barely formed this thought when something caught him between the shoulder-blades and he found himself pitching outwards in the path of a blue local bus.

Patrick was not elderly nor frail; he was very fit, with swift reflexes. He could not save himself from lurching into the road but he did not fall; he flailed at the air with his arms and at the same time somehow spun round on his heel towards the pavement; someone beside him grabbed him too, and helped to pull him back. He felt the side of the bus knock his elbow; that was all.

‘Po, po, po,’
said the stout woman who had seized him and burst into excited speech.

‘Ime Anglos. Den katalaveno
’ said Patrick, with surprising calm under the circumstances.
‘Efkaristo poli,’
he added. ‘Thank you very, very much.’