Mortal Remains (2 page)

Patrick murmured some agreement. He did not want to become her friend for the flight, so he walked on and got into the bus. It was still light; they were due in Athens some time after eleven o’clock, and he would have a short wait there before going on to Heraklion.

‘You don’t know what to wear, do you?’ said a voice behind him. ‘It could be chilly when we land.’ The speaker was the cottage loaf lady, now seated near him in the bus.

‘Oh, it won’t be. The heat rises up from the runway at Athens,’ said another female voice. This one was deeper, and held a note of suppressed excitement.

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘I am. You’ll see,’ said the second speaker, confidently.

‘You’ve been to Greece before, then?’

‘Oh yes. Many times.’

‘I haven’t,’ said the cottage loaf. Before they reached the plane she told her new friend that she was on her way to stay with her daughter whose husband worked for a company mining bauxite just outside Athens.

‘You’re going on holiday?’ she asked the other woman.

‘Yes.’

The second woman said no more. When the passengers left the bus to get into the plane, Patrick saw that she was tall, with smooth white hair drawn into a chignon at the nape of her neck. She had large brown eyes and there were delicately worked beaten gold drop ear-rings in her pierced ears. She was in her early fifties, Patrick judged; he noticed as she waited calmly for her turn to leave the bus, her hands clasping a holdall, that she wore no rings.

He followed the two women up the steps and into the plane and found that he was already in Greece. Bouzouki music played softly, a limpid-eyed girl, olive-skinned and smiling, wearing the yellow Olympic Airways uniform, stood by the doorway, and a dark young man with crisp, curling hair was in the cabin directing passengers to their seats. Patrick’s was next to the window. In the business of settling into it, he lost sight of the two ladies from the bus.

His bad temper had quite gone by the time the stewardesses had handed round moist, verbena-scented towels so that the travellers might wipe away the traces of fatigue before the journey started.

‘Kalispera, kiries kai kirioi,’
came the swift Greek voice over the loudspeakers.

Patrick sat back.

The magic had begun.

The white-haired woman had spoken the truth. As he left the plane and walked down the steps on to the runway the warmth of the night enfolded Patrick, and it seemed that already he could smell the scent of thyme and pines from the surrounding hills. How fanciful, he told himself: in fact the air here must be full of kerosene fumes. He began to wish, as he followed the signs for transit passengers in the Olympic Airways building, that he had arranged to spend a night or two in Athens before going on to Crete. In spite of the clangour of the modern city, it drew him like a magnet. But he was tired. His sister, Jane, had instructed him to spend his holiday soaking up the sun; he was to swim and walk, and keep out of trouble. He was suffering, she told him, from too much work, too many nights spent reading or philosophising, and not enough fun.

‘You’ll turn into a stodgy old bore soon, if you forget how to enjoy yourself,’ she had warned.

Patrick had sought few pleasures outside academic argument for some time. When he was last in Athens, a series of events had begun that had brought him emotional scars, and afterwards he had retreated within the safe walls of St. Mark’s like a tortoise into its shell.

‘All right, so I’m dull,’ he had said to himself, while promising aloud to remember his sister’s words.

Most of the Boeing’s passengers left it at Athens. Those going on to Heraklion collected their new boarding passes and went into the departure lounge; among them was the woman with the white hair. They were searched once more, decorously behind a curtain this time.

Patrick sat near the vast windows and looked into the night. The huge plane they had travelled in was parked just outside. He wondered whether its crew grew bored, shuttling back and forth across Europe as if it were no more than a train journey from Oxford to Paddington. He felt sure that if he were a pilot, the romance of flying over the cities of Europe would never diminish.

The white-haired woman was making a telephone call. He could see her, near the duty-free shop, where there was a bubble-type booth for public use. She spoke animatedly for some time; then, having replaced the receiver, went to the bar and bought a drink.

It seemed a good idea. Patrick followed her example, ordered an ouzo, took
Phineas Finn
from his jacket pocket and settled down to read until it was time to go.

There were about thirty passengers in the plane for the last leg of the journey, and most of them had joined the flight at Athens. The air hostess handed round glasses of fruit squash and there was a relaxed feeling in the cabin. When they touched down, theirs was the only plane Patrick could see on the runway at Heraklion. He gazed up at the wide, dark sky, so full of stars: surely they shone more brightly here than over England?

As soon as Patrick had passed through the barrier, where the travellers’ names were checked against a file of what must be
personae non gratae,
he was intercepted by a tall young man with auburn hair who represented the travel firm through whom he had booked, and led to a waiting taxi. He had arranged to stay at a hotel just outside Challika, a small coastal town about an hour’s drive from Heraklion. His plan was to hire a car in the morning, and from this base seek out Ilena Pavlou, visit Knossos and Phaestos, and then decide future movements. He did not favour a prolonged stay in a modern tourist hotel and thought with envy of various colleagues who were spending the vacation in Greece. One married couple was driving round the mainland, stopping where the fancy took them, as he and Alec had intended; two families were sharing a villa in Corfu. Felix Lomax was aboard the cruise liner
Persephone
lecturing to the passengers. After Alec’s death and the theft of the car he had suggested that Patrick should join the ship instead of travelling alone.

Patrick suddenly felt lonely as he got into his taxi. Perhaps someone else would join him. Ahead, getting into another taxi, he saw the white-haired woman from the plane, and wondered where she was going. The few other tourists were being despatched by different couriers employed by rival agents. Patrick’s young man returned, spoke to the driver, said ‘Have a nice time’ to Patrick, and the taxi started.

How unexpected to meet a red-haired Greek, thought Patrick as they sped along the road. He looked about him, hoping to see something of Heraklion, but the airport was outside the town and their route did not pass through it. The road, straight at first, soon began to wind about among the mountains. The driver kept switching his headlights up and then dipping them to signal their approach as they twisted and turned. A crucifix and some charms hung on the windscreen of the taxi, and a photograph of the driver’s wife or girlfriend. At one point, as they went over a ravine, the driver crossed himself. A notorious black spot, Patrick wryly supposed.

He felt frustrated at being unable to communicate with the driver. Each had discovered in the friendliest manner that neither spoke the other’s tongue, and that seemed to be the end of it. Patrick thought of all sorts of remarks he could make in French, German, or Italian, but he could say nothing except simple words of greeting in Greek, and it was too dark to consult his phrase book. The journey seemed interminable, spent in silence. Ahead, the lights of another car showed at intervals as they travelled along the twisting roads. What Patrick could see of the countryside was rocky and barren.

At last the road began to drop down and he saw below them the lights of a small town.

‘Challika?’ he asked.

‘Nai, nai,’
agreed the driver.

Not a soul was about, and the sea was like black glass as they drove along the coastal road. A few fishing boats lay at their moorings in the harbour, and there was one large yacht with riding lights at anchor further out. When they drew up outside the hotel, another taxi was already parked there.

Patrick’s driver shepherded him inside and handed him over to a youth of about fifteen who seemed to be in charge of the hotel. At the desk, surrendering her passport, was the white-haired woman. She, too, had driven alone through the night.

Patrick thanked the driver with a confident
‘efkaristo’
and tipped him generously, which pleased the man since his fare had been paid in advance by the travel agent. The hall of the hotel was dimly lit, and a small maid was swabbing the tiled floor with a mop; the scene was bleak, and Patrick’s heart sank, but the wide smile on the face of the youth was warm enough.

‘Please to follow,’ he said, leading the way to the lift. ‘I bring the baggages,’ and he picked up their two suitcases.

Patrick stepped back to let the white-haired woman precede him.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and went ahead. Then she said something to the boy in Greek, at which he beamed and broke into a flood of speech. The woman laughed and answered. Patrick caught the phrase
‘sigha, sigha’
which he knew meant, more or less, ‘slow down please,’ and indicated that the boy spoke too fast for her to follow. He looked at her with new interest.

Her room was on the second floor. The boy led her away to it, asking Patrick to wait as his was on the one above. After some time he returned and they continued upwards. Patrick by now was tired enough to have slept on the marble floor of the landing without complaint; the boy, who had, after all, to remain awake throughout the night, insisted on showing him all the glories of his apartment, with its bathroom and range of cupboards. There was a balcony, and beyond the garden could be seen the lights of the town shining on the sea. The scent of flowers rose from below, and the sound of cicadas filled the air.

‘You like?’ said the boy, with a sweeping gesture which embraced the whole vista around them, as if he owned it all.

Patrick did.

Now that he could at last indulge it, Patrick’s desire for sleep fled. A swim would be wonderful; it would relax his stiff muscles after the journey. He thought about it, as he stood on the balcony after the boy had gone. The swimming- pool was just below; he could see the shimmer of the water. However, he might astound the lad if he went out at this hour; it was, after all, almost three o’clock. Better wait till daylight.

He had a bath, hoping the gurgling pipes would disturb no one, then stood on the balcony again listening to the cicadas and inhaling the scents of the night: flowers, pine trees, and the sea. Light showed from another balcony below, where someone else must be awake; he wondered if it was the white-haired woman.

The bed was made up with only a sheet, and Patrick found even that superfluous, as he lay in the darkness with the sound of the cicadas still loud in the air. He decided that he was too tired to sleep.

He slept.

At a quarter-to-six he was wide awake. He got out of bed and went on to the balcony. Now, in the clear light, he could see mountains in the distance. The pool, surrounded by geraniums, looked inviting, but the sea would be better.

Ten minutes later, in towelling jacket and canvas shoes, Patrick padded down the marble staircase and into the hall. The lad was still on duty at the desk. He hid a yawn as Patrick appeared, and said ‘Good morning.’

An open door led into the garden, and beyond stone steps went down to a terrace where there were flower beds planted with asters, dahlias and love-lies bleeding. A further flight of steps continued to the beach. Bare hills stretched on either side, dotted with olive trees. Rocks bordered the water’s edge to one side of the beach, and here, Patrick stopped. There was no one else to be seen. He took off his shoes, put his glasses in the pocket of his jacket, which he removed and laid neatly on the ground; then he went to the edge of the rocks and peered into the water. Without his glasses it looked blurred, but it was aquamarine blue, translucent, and deep. He dived in.

It was not cold, just chilled enough after the night to be refreshing. He swam out towards the nearby headland of rock with his easy, not very stylish crawl, then lay on his back looking at the sky as he cruised slowly along. Already Oxford seemed a world away; he would have to make an effort even to remember about Yannis in this peaceful place. He rolled over and swam parallel to the shore for a while, then lifted his head from the water. Towards the rocks, he saw a blob; another swimmer had arrived. Patrick swam slowly in that direction, wondering if it was a solitary-minded person or someone who would exchange a greeting when they met.

The other swimmer was a slow mover. The head remained well down in the water, and there was no sign of action from the limbs. He was like a snorkel swimmer, lying motionless on the surface gazing into the depths.

Patrick swam closer, until even without his glasses he was sure that there was no snorkel tube. The swimmer lay unmoving, face downwards in the water, arms floating outstretched, and there was something very wrong about him, for the figure – it was a man – was fully dressed. Patrick knew before he turned him over that he was dead.

Swimming on his back, Patrick towed the body to the shore. There might be some life left. But when he had dragged it out on to the sand, there was no doubt of its condition.

He stumbled back to where he had left his glasses, shoes and bathrobe; then, his focus restored, went quickly into the hotel. The boy had gone off duty, and a pale young man with a neat moustache was now behind the desk. Patrick hoped his English was as good as the boy’s.

‘Good morning, sir?’ An inquiring inflection of the voice, and a smile, slightly anxious.

‘There’s a dead man on the beach,’ said Patrick, bluntly.

‘Sir?’ The clerk gaped at him and a blank look came into his eyes.

No doubt it did sound crazy at half-past six in the morning.