Читать книгу The Meaning of Friday - Vanessa Gordon - Страница 22

13

There was no point in staying to watch the Frenchman eat his lunch. Day and Helen left some money on the table and walked back to the sea wall. Spray had splattered the Fiat with salt water, which had dried crisp and blotchy in the sun. It now looked like a real island car.

The drive back to Filoti seemed long, and the cool of the house was welcome. Day voiced his frustration.

“Such a pity we couldn’t hear what they were saying. No names, no place names, nothing useful.”

“Well, we have my photos.”

“The sunglasses made the men pretty unrecognisable, I’m afraid. It was a good idea of yours, though.”

Helen nodded. “They were probably just innocent visitors, you know, Martin.”

“Probably. We had a good outing, though, and I’m pleased with the bowl. I think I’ll go for a nap. I’ll look at my emails afterwards, but if nothing fresh turns up, I think we’ve reached a dead end.”

Day splashed cold water from a bottle into a glass, spilled some on the counter, and crossly left it there to evaporate. Picking up his glass and laptop, he went to his room.

Helen settled herself on the balcony with her notebook, binoculars and sunhat. After watching the mule and the beehives through the binoculars, and pondering the plot for the novel that was failing to take shape in her imagination, she gave up trying to stay awake. It was now very hot, the dazzling sun fell full on the balcony. The sun lounger beckoned from the shade and Helen gave in, pulling her sunhat over her eyes.

***

A different Day emerged from his room at six o’clock exactly, newly showered and wearing fresh clothes, announcing that he had slept well. He fetched two small glasses of red wine from the kitchen, sat next to Helen, and opened his laptop.

“I had a bit of success,” he said. “I just found this recent picture of Jim Grogan, taken a couple of years ago. I think it could be the man we saw today; what do you think? There’s something about the physique and posture that reminds me of our American in Apollonas. I still can’t find anything on the net about Emil Gautier, and none of my enquiries have turned up anything about him. Oh, and there’s been a new development. The police have released more details of Katherine Russell. It’s in The Naxian. You remember, Katherine Russell was the woman Cristopoulos linked with Michael. She’s still missing.”

“What? Still?”

“The article say she works at a British university. I’m going to look her up now. I really want to know if she was here with Michael.”

He set to work on his laptop accordingly. Helen took her wineglass to her room, showered and changed. Day looked up as she came back and grinned. He read triumphantly from the screen.

“Dr Katherine Russell, 32, junior lecturer at the University of Warwick. Awarded her doctorate at the University of California, Berkeley. That explains her research subject, which was the Mycenaean tomb at Nemea in the Peloponnese. It was discovered in 2018 by an international team of archaeologists, including some from Berkeley. It’s a possible connection with Michael.”

They finished their drinks, locked the house and began to walk into the village. There was still no food in the house as they hadn’t been shopping, but it didn’t cost any more to eat at the taverna and it tasted a lot better. The barrel wine was cheap too.

“What else we can do to find out why Michael was on Naxos?” asked Helen after a while.

“First we need to find the connection between Michael and Katherine Russell. If they came here together to work on something there would be no need for secrecy. They would have been supported by both their institutions, and might even have obtained funding. So it couldn’t have been a professional visit. I suppose they could have been in a relationship. Did they meet when she was at Berkeley, perhaps?”

“Have you thought that maybe Katherine Russell killed Michael? The police said he probably opened the door to his killer. It could have been her, and it would explain her disappearance.”

“Mmm. In that case, the murder has nothing to do with a sanctuary.”

There were just too many unknowns for Day’s liking. Historical research was much less difficult, he thought crossly.

“Did that article in the newspaper say if the police from Athens have arrived?” asked Helen.

“It didn’t say. That’s Cristopoulos’s problem! Are you hungry? I’m looking forward to something tasty.”

They found their favourite table occupied when they arrived at O Thanasis. From their new table, Helen had a view into the kitchen, where large pans were steaming on the hob. It was a shame, she reflected, that she wasn’t very hungry.

“I don’t need a big meal tonight, Martin,” she warned him as he scanned the menu.

“Me neither. Let’s have a few bits and pieces between us. What do you fancy? Maybe some aubergine? There’s an aubergine dip, or fried aubergine slices?”

“Either.”

“And what about the little meatballs? They’re light.”

“OK. And some gigantes, the giant beans. I fancy comfort food.”

“Fine. Oh, and chips.”

Vangelis came to the table confidently with no notebook, bringing their bread and bottled water. Helen did the ordering and Vangelis asked if they would like red wine from the barrel as usual. He brought the wine and two small tumblers the size of tooth-glasses into which Day poured the wine.

“Are you going to talk to the police tomorrow, Martin?”

“I don’t think so. They know where I am. I want to get on with my Elias work, but I checked again this afternoon and the house is still closed. So I might pop to Paros and check an inscription there. We could take the ferry in the morning, unless you want to stay here and work? We could see the museum and walk round the craft shops in the old town, have some fun. I feel like being a carefree tourist for an afternoon. And on the way home we can call at the supermarket and stock up. We need to replenish supplies.”