1 The Assassins' Village (11 page)

Steve spoke for them. ‘Out of the villagers, we remember, Ann and Peter Heywood from next door, the Mukhtar’s eldest son and wife, the Mukhtar himself, his wife and a couple of their grandchildren. Then our friends, Bernard and Jenny Simmons and who else? Oh there was Tony. Tony Black. Diana’s sister, Elaine Shearer was down in Limassol. And of course, there was Karl Waterford.’

Funnily enough, Karl arrived as they sat at their usual table. Despite being regularly invited to their Sunday taverna meals he invariably didn’t bother to accept.
This one time, when his name had not been added to the invite list he’d turned up. He’d had a vagueness about him as he glanced round the restaurant until his eyes alighted on their group already seated. Slowly he’d made his way over to the long trestle table and taken an empty seat at one end. Of course, everyone made him welcome as he helped himself to a glass of red wine and waited while the waitress hurried over with a clean plate and cutlery. But throughout the meal he distinctly gave the impression that he wasn’t completely with it. Karl seemed somewhat dazed and distracted. When Ann asked if he’d found a parking space easily, as he had obviously driven here, it took him a while to recall just exactly where he’d left his car. Ann had given her head a little shake of exasperation at his forgetfulness and rolled her eyes as her look met that of Diana’s. Later, she whispered something scurrilous about Karl and ‘senile dementia’, and how Alicia had been right all along not to give Karl a bigger part in the Shakespeare.

During the course of the meal it became apparent that Karl had no recollection as to why or how he’d come to arrive at the taverna at all. Diana and Steve discussed it afterwards on their walk and they expressed sympathy for the man who had sat a few feet away from them. They hadn’t known him for as long as the others around the table, but despite his reputation for sometimes being arrogant, he was always kind and friendly to them. As they had covertly watched the dithering and confused man they could only feel sorry for him. Ageing could be so cruel and destroying.

Steve now reluctantly added Karl’s name to those they had already given to the police. The sergeant wrote down all the names in his notebook.

The inspector then asked. ‘Did anyone leave early, or arrive late?  Was anyone who should have been there missing?’

Steve thought before giving his answer. ‘There had been a couple of minor incidents. Bernard Simmons returned to his house as he’d forgotten his wallet, and Tony Black had been rather late for the one o’clock reservation.’

Di and Steve agreed that Bernard had been gone for about twenty-five minutes. ‘We can’t be more precise, as by the time he had slipped out we’d both drunk a fair amount of local wine.’

The inspector asked why Mr Black had arrived late. Steve said he hadn’t really noticed as he had been chatting to Yiannis’ wife in the kitchen. He particularly enjoyed her moussaka and was trying to wheedle the recipe out of her.

Di said she assumed Tony had arrived late as he had cut his finger and needed to attend to it. A few drops of blood stained his shirt front. She added that he arrived looking dishevelled, dusty and hot.

‘I think by then, he had missed four or five of the early Mezes dishes but I can’t be absolutely sure. We all enjoyed a pre-lunch drink anyway. Maybe, he was about thirty-five minutes late.’ She paused, and then added that despite Karl turning up uninvited, he had arrived barely minutes after the rest.

The inspector questioned them further but they agreed they had not recognised any of the other taverna goers.

‘We are fairly new to the village.’ Di said.

The inspector gave a barely-concealed sigh and stated that perhaps the others would be more helpful.

~~~

Steve returned to their sitting room after seeing the police out and joined Di. ‘Thank God, that’s over with. I know we’re innocent but being interviewed just makes you feel uncomfortable and almost dirty.’  He sank down thankfully into a deep armchair and gave her a sheepish grin.

‘I really don’t like that man. He was so pompous yesterday and quick to dismiss what we told him. And what about that bit about Kristiakis, eh? I would have loved to smack that smirk off his face. Talk about xenophobic or what? Why can’t he be more like his sergeant? He’s much nicer and easier to talk to. Anyway, I’m almost ashamed to say we were right. Leslie was murdered and maybe tortured beforehand. I just knew it!

How extraordinary when you think of it.’ She replied. ‘Fascinating though don’t you think? I mean who had a reason to kill an old man like that? Unless of course it was a passing nutter.’

Steve considered what she had said before replying immediately. ‘Well everyone has skeletons in their cupboards, and Leslie had lived in a lot of different places; met a lot of people. Who knows about his past? We only knew him superficially really. He wasn’t a close friend or anything. We’ve never even been invited into their house for a drink. In fact the only time he was really charming was when he was talking about his blessed paintings.’

‘He was a strange mix. He could be charismatic and friendly one minute, the next he was running down almost everyone he knew and with complete relish. I know he was an ex-Army officer, but so what! Is that any basis for being snobby? Karl was an officer years ago too, but apart from his own arrogance when he’s acting, he’s a much nicer person all round. Leslie had a horrid little habit of belittling everyone who didn’t live up to his imagined high standards. Honestly, he was a ridiculous, nasty little man when he wanted to be. And as for the locals he had no time for them at all. He couldn’t understand why nobody was friendly to him. Well, perhaps if he’d taken the time to be civil and accept their own customs then they’d have reciprocated. I know its just dreadful what’s happened, but unless we have some nutter in the area who wanted to kill for his own warped purpose, then it begs the question of, why and whom? Why kill Leslie? What had he done? It’s a big question that we have to ask ourselves.’ She looked thought for a moment before continuing in a lower voice.

‘You must agree though, in a weird way it is almost ghoulishly exciting! Imagine, us living in a small village and one of our neighbours being found murdered! What are the odds of that happening?’

Steve gave her a dark frown. She was right, but he still didn’t like it, and he wasn’t going to agree entirely with her. Instead, ignoring her question he replied with some of his own views on Leslie.

‘He did care about other things, animals for instance. Look at the number of times he picked up strays and took them to one of the rescue centres. Sometimes the cats and dogs he came across were in a pitiful condition. You have to give him some credit for that. He wasn’t all bad so don’t think it.’

Diana had the grace to look a bit guilty at his musings; she nodded slowly in agreement. A moment later she sat forward in her seat, an excited smile on her face.

‘Perhaps I am overreacting and have been listening to too many of the old gossips of the village. But all the same, it is hugely puzzling and a great mystery. I ought to write it all down. Put all the possible suspects in a list with likely motives. I can easily collate it and conduct my own research. I can do my own sleuthing. My new novel is already coming along. What if I incorporate Leslie’s death into it? Wouldn’t that make it all the more electrifying? What better than to use the information I have at my fingertips?’

Steve began to ask her something else but after a sentence his words trailed off and inwardly he sighed and rolled his eyes. Too late, he knew the telltale signs on her face. She’d already left him, gone into that other world of hers, one of make believe.

Chapter 13. Monday

Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?

Macbeth. Act 2 Scene 2

This time, the coffee she poured was a double-strength espresso. By God she needed it! She was supposed to be packing up the house. Half-full boxes of a lifetimes clutter littered the living room, kitchen and bedroom floors. Completed packing cases sealed with tape lined the walls of the dining room. Everything was a complete and utter shambles, a mess, the house, her life, Leslie. It was so bloody well like him. No thought for her in the slightest. Giving her no practical help with the move or otherwise. As usual she’d had to do it all on her own.

‘Search the island once again for a suitable residence’. His instructions and his requirements. Leslie’s orders had been simple: stylish and oldish but modernised; he hated and was completely incapable of any DIY; he couldn’t even rewire a plug.
He
wanted to relocate to a village with no connections to Agios Mamas, he loathed the locals, both Cypriot and the ex-pats.

Sonja had been rushed off her feet with the numerous visits to the bank, solicitor and the various local authorities to ensure that the purchase of the new property and the sale of their old house were correct and completed on time.

On top of all this extra running around, she had daily visits down to their new house to oversee and check the builders’ renovation works. A complete nightmare in itself! Builders seemed to be the same all over the world. When, she found time to catch her breath, she had her routine chores of walking the dogs, watering the hundreds of plants, running the home and everything else that went with it. Her small cake-making business was suffering from a lack of input, but where on earth was she to find the time to bake? It was all too, too much. She’d given up her membership of the drama group because of this. No wonder she looked thin and dowdy. She had no time for herself.

Sonja sipped her coffee, her heartbeat increasing as the extra strong coffee took effect. She could feel the unfamiliar palpitations as the caffeine raced around her body.

She knew she should be grieving. It was expected of her. But all she seemed to feel concerning Leslie was a numbness and hollowness after all the frustration and the annoyance that he’d caused during their time together. Damn him!

Sonja still refused to cry. Any tears she’d shed over her husband were all spent long ago. Leslie had caused her years of heartache, loneliness and at first despair. Eventually she learned to cope with it all, until his last and final - what was it? - betrayal. It completely encompassed everything, leaving bitterness and a hollow ache deep within her. And now, with him finally gone from her life she could get on. Do things her way for a change.
“If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well It were done quickly.”
She gave a sniff as she remembered the famous Shakespeare line. ‘Tis done indeed.

Sonja blew on her hot coffee. Thank God she’d insisted on living out in the country. She would have loathed living in a large town such as Limassol or Nicosia. Oh yes, he had tentatively suggested it. But she had forestalled him. She could play him at his own game. Sonja remembered him arguing. ‘Surely it would be more
convenient for the better shops and marketing my paintings? We’d save a fortune in petrol and heating on the warmer coast.’

Sonja had seen through all that. Oh
yes
. The only person to benefit from any convenience would have been him. Enabling him convenient access to whatever little whore’s knickers he was obsessed with getting into at that time. Sonja had had quite enough of Leslie’s affairs. She knew everyone hereabouts knew about them. He had very little finesse when it came to discretion. Latterly, whenever she had raised the subject in protest he had taken to describe his latest exploits in detail. God! Had he imagined he excited her? He even resurrected his thing with Alicia every now and again to taunt her. She had needed to think of a way to prevent him. She had known that she would have to agree to a move. As soon as she had found the house for sale – the right house that
she
would be happy in; she’d hurriedly accepted the builders’ terms and encouraged Leslie in putting down a deposit.

As usual he’d obtusely dithered despite his own needs in wanting to move, and she’d had to push him to part with some money. A little gentle persuasion was called for, she wouldn’t call it blackmail, and he begrudgingly complied.  She’d always found things tricky when she had to deal with Leslie and his money; not that there was much apart from the house, pensions and a few stocks and shares. Thankfully she had dealt with it all and in time
before
he’d thought about altering his will. Leslie had always been contemptuous of solicitors, and she was almost one hundred per cent certain that he had never bothered to arrange a Cypriot will. Because of this fact, the house would be hers in the event of his death.

Briefly it passed through her mind just how she would cope with the others; the nosiness and prying from the expat community. The Cypriots were little better despite the majority of them having no time for Leslie. They were just naturally curious and Sonja had no reason to dislike any of them. She realised that most of the people hereabouts had little time for Leslie after he’d annoyed most of them over the years. Leslie had been petulant, superior, devious and sometimes downright nasty but, they would all be there offering her help and unwanted advice.

She gave a huge sigh. She felt like lying her head down on the cool kitchen work-top and having a good howl. She wanted to grieve. But not for him. She wanted to grieve for herself.

Sonja sat up straighter. Bugger the neighbours! Oh! If only they would leave her alone. Then she wouldn’t leave herself open to mistakes. Giving herself a mental shake, she decided she would be her usual self and ignore everyone as she usually did.