An Inch of Time (29 page)

‘Cheerful thought.'

‘I think mentally she's still sitting in that boat.'

‘Well, perhaps she should row ashore sometime soon. She's got a fifteen-year-old daughter back here.'

‘Shit – no one mentioned that, either.'

‘None of my business, but perhaps someone should remind her?'

‘Any more skeletons rattling about?'

‘Oh yes, your last student also has an unusual past.'

An image of Helen painting naked among the ruins intruded on my mind. ‘Her present isn't exactly standard issue, either. Let's have it.'

‘She's got form.'

‘The beautiful Helen? Just tell me it wasn't manslaughter.'

‘She did a full four-year stretch for embezzlement. She only got out quite recently, too.'

Prison. Perhaps that's what she meant when she said she had lived in a small community and not cared for it much. ‘Four years? Isn't that rather a lot? Must have been one hell of an embezzlement.'

‘It was. She worked for a big finance company and defrauded her employers for ages.'

‘Still – four years? You'd get less for mugging little old ladies.'

‘No early release, either. Because she refused to reveal where all the money went. They think she has lots of it stashed away somewhere.'

‘And what better way to spend your loot than on perpetual painting holidays in the sun?'

‘Oh, one or two spring to my mind. Anything else I can help you with today, sir?'

‘Was there another name on the list?'

‘Yeah, that Kladders or Kludders bloke – you didn't know how to spell him – but I couldn't find anything on him at all.'

Somehow I hadn't really expected Tim to find Kladders whose name I couldn't spell. There'd been something about him – the extremely self-assured manner, perhaps – that made me suspect he would be difficult to pin down.

I had one other business to take care of in town. It took me a moment to get my bearings but, remembering a few of the left turns I had taken last time, I soon found it again, between the stationer's and the draper's.

Inside, I deeply inhaled the kind of aroma you can only produce by continuously brewing coffee and displaying an awful lot of cake in the same room. The selection behind the glass of the counter was dizzying.

My Greek wasn't quite up to the task so I resorted to pointing. ‘
Aftó, kaí aftó
and – what the hell –
aftó
as well.'

The table right outside the door was free and I chose a chair facing the street junction to settle down for some people-watching. The architecture still looked Italian to me, but the faces and voices were different. Corfiots dressed far more simply then their Italian counterparts did, though naturally by far the worst-dressed around here were the tourists. To a certain degree, I had to include my lightly crumpled self in this, having long cultivated an allergy to steam irons, but at least I wore the same clothes I would back home, while here I saw many an outfit the owner wouldn't dream of wearing down his own high street.

The waiter unloaded shiny chocolate cake,
kataífi
encrusted with pistachios, baklava glistening with honey syrup, coffee and iced water from his tray, and the little boy inside me – the one that always thinks it's other people having all the fun – stopped whining. As I sunk my fork into the shredded puff pastry of the pistachio-bejewelled
kataífi
, I couldn't help thinking that even being a self-employed, piss-poor private eye did have its moments. At least, I thought, I didn't have to run around in a suit and tie in this heat, like that poor chap coming round the corner just then. Looking straight at me. Coming straight towards me. Pushing his sunglasses more firmly up his nose. Walking right up to my table. My fork froze in mid-pastry-piercing.

‘Mr Honeysett.' It wasn't a question. He had spoken my name softly and in a tone of disappointment, as though ‘What have I always told you about eating foreign cakes?' could well be his next words.

I quickly forked some pastry in my mouth in case they were. ‘It is. Who are you?'

He sat down opposite me without my invitation. He was pale. His hands showed a slight tremor that seemed to run through the entire man. Every inch of him appeared to sweat. Was he ill? Or was he scared?

Neither. When he took off his sunglasses, I could see he was in the grip of one hell of a hangover. ‘My name's Fletcher. Mr Morton sends me. Your help is no longer required; the matter has now been resolved. I've been instructed to settle up with you.' With a tragic effort, Fletcher tried for a smile, but he fluffed it and half smirked, then gave up. He fumbled a manila envelope from his pocket and found space for it between the cakes on the tiny table.

‘What does “been resolved” mean?' I asked, spearing more pastry. ‘Has the woman turned up?'

‘All some sort of misunderstanding, I believe. I don't really know much about it.' He nudged the envelope another half-inch towards me.

‘She's back in Bath, then? Back at work?'

‘I believe so. Though I'm told she's transferring. Abroad. Canada, probably.' Fletcher started to nod reassuringly, but hangover pain flickered across his eyes.

‘Canada. Nice big place. I haven't yet worked out how much you lot owe me.'

‘There's four thousand there. Mr Morton trusts that will cover it.'

‘Does he?' His trust was well founded. Even at the rate I was going, four grand would allow me to stay at this table eating baklava all summer. It was roughly twice the amount I'd have charged and I was sure Morton must have known that. Then, why? People don't usually get paid bonuses for not getting results.
Unless, of course, getting no results was the desired result
. I lifted the fat envelope and popped open the flap. Fifties. Also not the usual way supermarkets paid their employees. Something wasn't right, though in quite an acceptable, carrot-cake sort of way. I stuffed the envelope in my jacket without counting the notes, skewered more pastry and smiled benignly at the sweating Fletcher, who looked as if he was fighting the urge to throw up.

‘I expect you'll be driving back to England soon?' he asked weakly.

‘Yes, almost immediately. I've had enough of this place.'

‘Good, good,' he said, with genuine relief in his voice. ‘Well, I'll say goodbye, then.'

‘Will you? Back to . . . the office? What's your job description?'

He was already turning away. ‘Oh, I just happened to be in the area. Goodbye, Mr Honeysett.' He disappeared into the tourist throng.

I called into the shop for more coffee so they'd know I wasn't doing a runner, then walked to the corner around which Fletcher had disappeared. At first I thought he'd vanished, but then I just managed to catch a glimpse of him getting into the back of a silver Mercedes which drove off the instant he'd pulled shut the door.

Back at my little table I sipped coffee and nibbled through the last of my cakes. So, job over, and for once I'd got paid
and
promptly
and
in cash. No receipts required, I noticed; probably petty cash to them. I breathed in deeply. Here I was, full of cake, on a beautiful Mediterranean island. My lover was here, summer was on its way, I had a few grand in my pocket, the euro was wobbling and the exchange rate was good. So what if the Kyla thing was a bit weird and I never found her – you couldn't win them all, so why worry about it?

I worried about it all the way back to the post office. Dialling Morton's number, I steeled myself to fight my way past his secretary. ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognized' was all I got, no matter how carefully I dialled the numbers Morton had given me at the restaurant back in Bath. Eventually, I gave up and called Tim again.

‘Next time you have a moment, go to Kyla Biggs's address in Marlborough Buildings. See if there's any sign of life. On the ground floor lives an old lady called Walden. She's friendly with Biggs. Tell her you work for me and ask her if Kyla Biggs has been back.'

What possessed me? I had been paid and told everything was fine, I was free to spend the loot on a sunny island and perhaps even get some painting done, and what did I do? I got in the car and headed for trouble.

‘I
t is a beautiful island, you have to admit.' I was feeling defensive all of a sudden.

‘I never said it wasn't. But there's just too much weirdness going on around here to make for a relaxing holiday. At least now that you've been paid, let's rent a room somewhere. Somewhere less . . . weird.' Annis waved her arms at the abandoned village from her vantage point on top of a low drystone wall.

I was sitting nearby on a bald rock, making rapid sketches of anything that caught my eye – collapsed sheds, broken wells, olive trees, and now grasshoppers . . .

I gave up on the grasshoppers. ‘It would feel like we're abandoning Morva.' I felt guilty for secretly having entertained the same thoughts of escape on the drive home while the money was trying to burn a room-with-seaview-shaped hole in my pocket.

‘But you did tell her we think Margarita is behind all the weird stuff going on.'

‘I did, but . . .'

‘But she said she's not sure and, anyway, better the devil you know and who's going to do the cooking?'

‘Almost word for word.'

‘I know, I was listening at the door. So what do you think we'll be able to do for her by staying on? Apart from making her feel less alone – OK, that's obvious – but we can't hang around for ever.'

Stay the summer. Hang around. Hell, stay.

‘Well, if you heard all that, then you must know how she feels. She's sunk all her money and hopes and whatnot into this project.'

‘It's the whatnots that worry me. I also heard that you didn't tell her what you really think.'

‘What do I really think, I wonder?'

‘That buying a house in the back of beyond wasn't such a bright idea, no matter how cheap.'

‘I think she's long come to that conclusion herself.'

‘Also, that not all amateur painters caught the Van Gogh virus and want to stay in monastic cells with only a DIY communal shower.'

‘Well . . .'

‘Which produces one minute of hot water in every hour.'

‘Perhaps . . .'

‘And use a long-drop toilet with enough mosquitoes inside to turn you anaemic.'

‘Bit of fly spray . . .'

‘And a certain lack of nightlife . . . There's someone coming through the trees.'

Through the deep midday shadows under a group of olive trees stumbled Helen. Stumbling, because she was constantly looking behind her as though afraid of being followed. In her right hand she clutched a rock the size of an orange.

‘What's up with her?' Annis sat up on the wall. ‘Helen? Over here!'

‘Oh, hi, it's you.' She looked behind one more time, then walked towards us.

‘Don't they say “Beware of painters bearing stones”?' Annis murmured.

‘No.'

‘They do now.'

‘Hi,' Helen said again as she walked up, looking relieved but still tense. ‘Mind if I join you for a bit?'

‘Go ahead,' I offered. ‘You've been taking your rock for a walk.'

‘Oh, that.' She dropped it carelessly into the grass. ‘I just felt a bit, I don't know. Sounds stupid, but I was painting over there by a ruined house and I became convinced I wasn't alone. I walked all round it and saw nobody, but the feeling never went away. I kept thinking I could hear someone creeping around just on the other side.'

‘Could be a dog, a fat tortoise, even . . .' I offered half-heartedly.

‘I know, I know. I told myself that, but every time I went back to painting I'd hear a rustling or a twig snapping. It just suddenly felt really spooky and I had to get out of there. Left my easel and stuff up there and walked away. I know it's silly, but with all the weird things happening just recently . . .'

‘You want us to go back with you? Get your stuff?'

Helen looked in the direction she had come from and hesitated. ‘Erm, no, I'll just stay here with you a bit if you don't mind.'

‘Tell you what, you stay here with Annis and I'll have a look around. Which house is it?'

‘It's right back there at the edge – the one with the bougainvillea. You'll see my easel. Don't look at the painting – it's rubbish. But I bet there's nothing up there, I'm sure it's just me.'

Just her.

I found the place by following the direction from which Helen had appeared. You couldn't miss it. The motif she had chosen for her painting was a large farmhouse, one of the most dilapidated, so much so that I suspected it had been a ruin long before the village was abandoned. The roof had completely disappeared and, on closer inspection, the house consisted of only three walls enclosing some overgrown rubble where the interior floors had collapsed long ago. An old bougainvillea still adorned one corner; the rest was romantically ruinous, which presumably was what had caught Helen's painterly eye. I picked my way through the weeds around the melancholic structure and ended up by the easel again. The painting resting on it was in its early stages, yet her intentions were clear to see. I noted with a certain satisfaction that Helen had taken on board some of what I had told her; the contrasts were less strident, allowing the colour to chime and the composition to work more convincingly.

Then I felt it. It was silent. Deadly quiet. Here the cicadas had stopped and there was no wind. The day had rolled to a standstill. Each object my eyes focused on was sharp-edged and washed in hard, bone-bleaching midday sunlight. I moved my foot and the scraping noise on the dry ground sounded amplified and close. My breath hung in the unmoving heat like a question:
What are you doing here?
Now I could hear what Helen had heard: a crick over there, a rustle closer by, a stony chink in the middle distance. Something nibbled insistently at my rational mind, nudging me, urging me to go away.