Читать книгу WHAT GOES AROUND - DAVID J CHRISTOPHER - Страница 5

"So, tell me more about the Agatha." Terry asks.

"Agatha?" I enquire.

"Agatha Christie, the mystery, get it? My latest rhyming slang."

I'm not sure I can usefully add anything, so opt to say nothing. Probably best not to encourage him. Instead I turn my focus towards Lucy's flat. She lives on the other side of the harbour, next door to her office. Through the clanking masts of the yachts I see her coming down her steps, followed by her rescue dog, Scratch, so called at least by me because that's all it ever does.

"Well?" prompts Terry, impatient to hear the juicy details.

To be fair not a great deal happens on the island, so his interest is genuine. Normally our entertainment in the summer is derived from critically appraising the inexperienced captains bringing their boats into the harbour. We have hours of fun from this. This is the first stop that most of them make after leaving Lefkas or Preveza. Often, they arrive a few hours after getting off their planes and spend much less time than that getting acquainted with the rented boat that will be their home for a fortnight. Tiredness, rustiness and the afternoon wind are an excellent cocktail for we spectators who have done and seen it all before. I tend to keep my thoughts to myself, but when he has had a few beers, Terry takes on the role of self-appointed harbour master, offering mostly unwanted advice at the top of his voice.

"Lucy is getting a bit carried away," I begin. "She thinks that Helen has been kidnapped though the evidence is a little thin and to be frank I'm not sure why she's come to that conclusion. Presumably something more than she forgot that the butcher was coming. Perhaps she'll enlighten us."

"Which one is Helen anyway?" Terry asks.

"You know Helen."

"Obviously I don't, or I wouldn't be asking."

"Helen, Helen. Don't know the surname."

"Helen," he says to himself, computing the data. We quite often have this sort of exchange. Could be our senior moments, or maybe the effect of the beer or the occasional indulgence in weed.

"She lives in that massive great white house on the hill overlooking the marina. I think you thought it must be owned by a Russian oligarch when you first saw it. You can probably see it from here."

I look across to my right and above the modern marina. A handful of boats bob up and down now but later in the season will have any number of over-sized super yachts paying an expensive visit. I realise that the house is not in sight from where I sit, so I stretch my legs and walk down the road a little, beer bottle in hand. Terry follows me, bringing his beer with him. We stroll along the water side past the fishermen's cottages with the nets drying outside. These places are still owned by locals, but I wonder for how long.

"There," I point, and Terry follows my outstretched arm.

"Oh, that Helen," he says. "I sort of know her in that when she's away I go up and water her plants for her. Wouldn't say she's a friend though, keeps herself to herself. Perfect view from up there and peaceful too. I sometimes sit and do the crossword up there."

Terry is a passionate crossworder. He collects old English newspapers from all the expats on the island and even goes across on the ferry to pick them up. Mind you, the days can be long living on a boat, especially in the winter.

"Did she mention to you that she might be going away?"

Terry pauses to think and scratches the top of his head absent-mindedly as he does so.

"No," he finally replies. "But to be fair, she doesn't always tip me the wink if she's only going to be gone for a few days. More the longer trips that she needs me for."

We turn back towards the village. Lucy is finally arriving at Billy's after stopping and chatting with no less than ten different people on her journey of less than two hundred metres. She's in the process of expanding her business offering and is waiting on various workers to complete the new room. I notice her chatting to the electrician who is sitting enjoying a coffee in the sunshine. She had told me he was now three weeks late. Before I came to Greece I thought it was the Spanish that were famous for the "manana manana", but here the word "tomorrow" translates somewhere between "in a week or so" and "never in a million years, but I'm too polite to say that."

"What's the house like inside?" I ask Terry. My question has nothing to do with assessing whether or not Helen's disappeared. I'm just nosey. Although I don't live in a house at the moment, I've built a few in my time. "Architecturally it's interesting," I add.

By this I'm referring to the frankly bizarre design. Somebody, presumably Helen, had the idea of building a Tudor style mansion. Problem is that Tudor houses didn't tend to incorporate ground floor to ceiling windows or patios for that matter. As a result, the top half of the house tips its hat towards Tudor with fake beams and leaded windows, whilst the ground floor is conventional holiday villa design.

"Terry, to fagito is ready," Billy calls.

"Aha, my tuck is calling. I'm starving. I could do with another slurp too. You?"

"It would be rude not to."

We walk back together, wishing "Kalimera" to the old lady sitting outside one of the cottages enjoying the sun as we pass. She's wearing black as so many of the local elderly women do after their husband dies.

"Oh, I've never been inside," says Terry picking up the conversation about Helen's house.

"No?" I ask.

"Goodness no," he says. "Far too complicated. You should see the security up there, cameras, lights, electric this, electric that."

I mull this over. Was she expecting unwanted visitors, or did she also suffer from my best mate, paranoia?