The Whispers of Nemesis (27 page)

‘You don't agree with me,' said Hassan.

‘In part I do. You're right, we must assume someone brought Santos to Vrisi. But he didn't walk – he couldn't have done. The crucial factor you didn't mention is the condition he was in when he was brought here.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘His body was covered in snow. Snow is cold, and flies and maggots don't like cold. It slows down their life-cycle. Yet as soon as Santos's body was taken into the police station – as soon, almost, as it was brought into the warmth – carrion flies hatched. And his body stank; that's what the police told me. Bodies kept in ice from the moment of death don't stink. Which means only one thing. Santos had already been dead some time, before he ever returned to Vrisi.'

‘But it was an accident! Surely he tripped and fell?'

‘An accident? Impossible. No, there was no accident here, my friend. There was no accident at all.'

They finished, between them, what was left on the plates. As the fat man drank the last of his second ouzo, Dinos – who had eaten his share of
mezedes
, despite Eustis's plea – called across to their table.

‘Hey, Hassan!' he said. ‘Take me home in style! I'm not in the mood for walking up that hillside, and I'm in trouble already for eating an edible meal. A few drachmas spent on your fare will make no difference; I might as well make the tongue-lashing worthwhile!'

His companions laughed and called him names; smiling and good-humoured, Dinos pulled on his dirty cap, and put on his jacket over clothes which carried the stink of sheep.

Hassan raised his hand in acknowledgement.

‘One minute,' he said, ‘and I'm at your service.'

He turned to the fat man, reaching into his pocket for cash, but the fat man stopped him.

‘It's on me,' he said. ‘I owe you for my fare this morning, and for finding me a decent lunch.'

‘Thank you,' said Hassan, ‘and I'm sorry to leave you in a hurry.'

‘You have your work to do,' said the fat man. ‘And whilst you're doing it, you might do me a favour. If any of the people we have spoken about today – any of Santos's family, or anyone connected with them – calls on your services, be good enough to let me know.'

The fat man glanced around to make sure he wasn't watched, and pressed four 5,000-drachma notes into Hassan's hand.

‘Take this money,' he said, ‘and use it, if necessary, on my behalf. Whoever calls on your services, do your very best to find out where they are headed. If you need to grease a few palms, please do so, but bring me back what information you can.'

Hassan held out his hand to give the money back.

‘I can't take this,' he said. ‘I'm not the one to help you, friend.'

‘On the contrary,' said the fat man, closing Hassan's fingers over the cash. ‘You are uniquely placed to do so, and your help may be invaluable. But remember, Hassan: keep this to yourself. Your discretion is vital to my investigation. Tell no one at all what I have asked of you.'

 

When Hassan had left, the fat man asked for his bill, and when told the amount owing by the patron, left money to cover it on the table, along with a generous tip.

‘Your pride in your talent is quite justified,' he said, as Eustis picked up his payment, ‘and it is good to see your skills appreciated. Have you never thought of expanding your business, and tackling a bigger market?'

Eustis shook his head.

‘That's not for me,' he said. ‘My pleasure in the cooking would soon evaporate, if I were to do it every day, at the beck and call of customers, to their order. Here, the menu's down to me. If I want to try something different, I do so; if I fancy something my grandmother used to cook, that's what we have. They know me here, and they know it's all pot-luck. And as long as they appreciate what I give them, that's enough.'

The fat man laughed.

‘You'll never make a million, serving these few tables,' he said.

‘If you mean there'll never be a big balance in my bank, then you're quite right,' said Eustis. ‘But I have my family and my health, and above all I have the freedom to live my life as I wish. I regard myself as a very wealthy man.'

The fat man patted his shoulder.

‘Well said. And you may add profound wisdom to your list of attributes. If more of the world would share your philosophy, we'd all be happier.'

At the payphone on the wall, he took out the notebook where he had the publisher's number, and deposited enough coins in the slot for a long-distance call. When he heard the phone ring out, he turned his back on the assembled company.

Yorgas Sarris answered promptly.

‘
Nai?
'

‘
Kyrie
Sarris, this is Hermes Diaktoros.'

‘Ah, yes,' said the publisher. ‘My Athenian friend. What can I do for you?'

‘I was simply wondering,' said the fat man, ‘how was your dinner at Georgio's?'

There was a smile in the publisher's voice.

‘Excellent indeed,' he said. ‘I had the
kleftiko
, and the lamb was soft as butter. And we had a very good retsina, from the barrel.'

‘We are birds of a feather, you and I,' said the fat man. ‘The food always comes first. But my secondary interest is in Attis Danas and his poems. Did you learn anything of interest?'

There was a silence.

‘I'm considering whether I should tell you this, or not,' said the publisher, at last. ‘But I think I should, because I've been asking myself whether what I agreed with Attis was either wise or legal. I poured plenty of wine for him, to get him to talk; but I matched him glass for glass, and that might have clouded my judgement.'

‘And what did you agree?'

‘I made him an offer for the poems.'

‘A good offer?'

‘The best offer I've ever made anyone. But that's not what it'll look like, on paper. On paper, it'll look as if I've bought the work for almost nothing.' Yorgas sighed. ‘I may have been unwise. Still. Nothing is signed or sealed.'

‘May I ask you for a summary of your agreement?'

‘We drank too much retsina,' said Yorgas, ruefully. ‘He's dropped the price, but on condition I go along with the way he wants to structure the deal. I pay a nominal sum for the poems, with the balance as an ex gratia payment to him. He suggested it might go through our books as publicity, or hospitality. How we would handle that doesn't matter. The point is, he wanted a personal cheque.'

‘What reason did he give you for that?'

‘He said he would pass the money on to Frona and Leda, as soon as the cheque cleared. If we did the deal as it should be done, with the full amount paid to Santos's estate, they'd be waiting another four years before they saw a cent. I could see his point, last night. And I can see it now. The difference is, I can see the danger in it, too.'

‘And what is the work's provenance? Did you ask him that?'

‘Of course. New poems from a dead man's hand are not a common finding.'

‘And what did he say?'

‘He claimed he'd come across them by luck, that he'd found them whilst going through some papers.'

‘In short, he claimed he was acting in the family's interests?'

‘Yes.'

‘And if it turned out he wasn't, what then?'

‘That's my concern. I would have made him a large payment, to which Santos's heirs would have no legal rights whatever. And yet what he proposes seems sensible, under the rather unusual circumstances.'

‘Why do you not speak to Santos's sister and ask her view? If she trusts Attis and gives the proposal her blessing, it would not be your fault if the deal went sour.'

‘
Kyrie
Diaktoros, listen to me. I'm a man of business, and my business is to make money. For that reason, I want to acquire those poems. But as I said to you before, this house has old origins and a sterling reputation I don't wish to tarnish. By speaking to Frona and agreeing to this deal, my conscience tells me I'm colluding in something shabby, which might, at worst, be illegal. That concerns me. And I'm concerned, too, that Attis specifically asked me not to speak to Frona. He wants to surprise her, he says. He has romantic ideas in that direction.'

‘You think his interest in the lady is romantic, rather than monetary? I have no wish to be ungallant; but in four years from now, Frona will be quite a wealthy lady.'

‘You're right. But who can know for certain what's in a man's heart, and whether his words are honest?'

‘Who, indeed?'

‘So what would you advise,
Kyrie
Diaktoros? Should I trust Attis, and go along with his proposal, or is it an arrangement I would come to regret?'

The fat man considered.

‘I would stall, if I were you, another day or two,' he said. ‘I shall be on my way to find Attis, very shortly. He and I are due another chat; and after we have spoken, I shall give you my opinion on whether you are safe to proceed, or not.'

Nineteen

In the orchard, the sparse-leaved branches of the almond trees were showing their first blossom. Frona carried a three-legged stool and Maria's milk bucket to where Tina, the old nanny-goat, was tethered in the grass. Tina raised her head, and watched Frona's approach with baleful eyes. The goat's udder was baggy rather than full, and she was years beyond any useful productivity; but Maria had raised the animal from a kid and kept her out of sentiment beyond Frona's understanding. In the bottom of the bucket, Maria had sent her pet a bowl of table-scraps – breadcrusts and potato peelings, the cores of the tart apples she had used in a pie. Frona let Tina snatch a crust of bread from her hand, then tucked the scrap-bowl into the branches of the nearest tree, out of Tina's reach, until they were done.

The goat bleated. Frona placed her stool close to the tethering peg, and lowered herself on to the stool. She grabbed Tina's hind leg to pull her close, and the goat, accustomed to the routine, backed up to Frona, her back legs splayed. Frona grasped both teats in her fists, and began competently to squeeze milk from the udder. At first, a steady stream ran frothy and steaming into the bucket; but the udder was soon flaccid and the teats dry.

Frona slapped the goat's rump, and Tina moved away to strain at a patch of dandelions beyond her reach. Frona stood, and reaching up for the bowl, tossed the food scraps into the grass.

She looked into the bucket.

‘There's not much there, Tina
mou
,' she said, sympathetically. ‘No more than a couple of glassfuls. Drier and drier, with every season. We're neither of us getting any younger. You'll have to do better, or . . .'

She ran a finger across her neck, to illustrate the animal's possible fate; but as she did so, a man's voice spoke, coming, as it seemed, from nowhere.

‘That would seem an unkind end for an animal who's doing her best.'

Startled, Frona turned. The fat man stood close behind her.

‘
Mori!
' she said. ‘You scared me half to death! What on earth are you doing, sneaking up on a woman like that?'

‘Forgive me,' said the fat man. ‘It was not my intention to frighten you. I was taking the liberty of having a look around the property before I called at the house, when I heard your voice, and followed it.'

‘And who gave you the right to take liberties? This is private property. If you have business here, use the front door, like a respectable person.'

The fat man laughed. He held out his hand to the goat and made soft noises to attract her attention; but Tina had her nose in the potato peelings and ignored him.

‘Whether I am respectable or not is open to debate,' he said, turning back to Frona, ‘but my inquisitive nature is undeniable, and my curiosity led me to want to see the outside of this place before I entered it. Curiosity is essential, in my profession.'

‘And what profession is that, that it needs someone to be curious? And what makes you think you'll be entering my house?'

She picked up the stool, the bucket and the bowl, and set off through the orchard towards the house, following a path worn down to bare earth. The fat man's less direct route was drawn in a trail of flattened grass, winding through the trees.

‘I am an investigator,' he said, to her back.

She stopped, and faced him. There were white hairs from the goat's rump on her black sweater; the lipstick she had applied for her brother's funeral remained only at the outer edges of her lips, and without the colour to brighten her complexion, she seemed closer to old age than to her middle years.

‘So you're Attis's investigator,' she said. ‘You're the one who's to find out what happened to Santos. Is that why you were at the funeral? Doing your investigating?'