Nemesis of the Dead (14 page)

‘Ariadne’s nuts,’ said Diana shortly.

‘It’s all very well to scoff, my darling,’ admonished the professor, ‘but there is a special kind of presence here on this island. It’s not at all uncommon for visitors of sensibility to have an almost uncomfortable feeling that evil is close by, at their elbow, just out of sight. Ariadne is a Katastrophan of some twenty generations. In her, this sensibility is magnified many times into a gift that can translate mere instinct into premonition.’

‘All right,’ said Sid, ‘ask her who’s going to cop it next. At least we’ll get a bit of warning this time.’

But Ariadne would say nothing more. As it turned out, her soothsaying was about as reliable as her cooking because the next victim of St Sophia’s imagined wrath wasn’t a woman at all – it was a man.

The days that followed felt surreal to Corrie – like living in a time warp where nothing moves on because everyone is waiting for something to happen. What she couldn’t understand was why they hadn’t all legged it back to the mainland double quick when they had the chance. She would have gone like a shot. They were all masochists in her view. The professor didn’t want to leave until Saturday because there were still some specimens he needed, Diana had promised she would stay with him and Sid didn’t want to leave as long as Diana was there. Everybody else, including Jack, apparently had ‘things they needed to do’ before they could go home. Barmy, the lot of them.

Professor Gordon continued to spend his days in the olive groves and his nights in Ariadne’s kitchen. Diana sunbathed down the other end of the island, making love and drinking wine with Sid who had decided it was his moral duty to dispose of as much of the evidence from the smuggling fiddle as physically possible. Sky spent her daylight hours bathing her spirit in
To Phos
– the Incredible Light. Not that her spirit showed any noticeable signs of improvement. She was just as surly and withdrawn as when she arrived. Marjorie went into town on her own and bought a pair of rather nice terracotta vases for her son and his partner without any reference to Ambrose whatsoever. Ambrose lurked in corners, spying on Sid and Diana, his piggy little eyes glittering hungrily. All he needed was a dirty raincoat.

‘Come here, Marjorie, I wish to speak to you.’ Ambrose was waiting for her in their room when she returned from shopping for souvenirs. She regarded him for a moment, sitting stiffly upright on the edge of his bed, a sour expression on his puffy face. It was as if she was seeing him through the security peephole of a door – turnip head, bulbous nose, bulging eyes, spherical body and short, fat little legs. She smiled to herself at the analogy then put down her bags and turned to confront his scowl.

‘If it’s one of your pompous lectures, Ambrose, make it snappy because I’ve promised to meet the others in the bar for a glass of wine and you know what an old windbag you are, once you get going.’

Ambrose turned a very unhealthy mauve. ‘How dare you speak to me like that! I have to say, Marjorie, I’ve noticed a most unpleasant truculence creeping into your behaviour since we’ve been on this infernal island and I’m telling you now – I don’t like it. And as for meeting the others, you will do nothing of the sort. I will not have my wife drinking in bars like a common trollop.’

Marjorie looked him straight in the eye, her gaze steady. ‘Yes, well you’d know all about common trollops, wouldn’t you, Ambrose? You spend quite a lot of your time and money on them.’

Ambrose was furious but at the same time cautious, sensing that he was losing some of the moral high ground. How had the wretched woman found out about his trips to Soho? Had she been snooping – going through his pockets, checking his bank statements? No, she wouldn’t dare. Wouldn’t have the wits. All the same, this needed careful handling. He took a deep breath, thinking fast.

‘I shall ignore that somewhat hysterical remark because you are clearly unwell. I suggest you lie down and keep quiet for the rest of the day and we’ll say no more about it.’

‘I’ve never felt better in my life and I’ve no intention of lying down.’ She opened the wardrobe, took out a fresh blouse and began to change. ‘Ambrose, you really must try to drag yourself into the twenty-first century, you’re like some pathetic old Victorian patriarch – all piss and wind.’

‘Marjorie!’

‘Because you’re so totally self-absorbed, you probably haven’t noticed, but wives aren’t slaves and chattels any more. We don’t warm slippers, have dinner waiting on the table and speak when we’re spoken to. We have careers and lives of our own. Speaking of which, I’ve decided to get a job when I get back to Hampshire. Fund-raising for charities, most probably. I’m good at that.’

Incensed, Ambrose jumped up and grasped her firmly by the shoulders. ‘You will do exactly what I tell you! I think you may have forgotten, Marjorie, the little chastisements I was forced to inflict upon you when we were first married and you needed discipline. Don’t imagine for a moment that I’m incapable of punishing you now if you persist with this insolence.’

‘Is that what you do to your trollops? Punish them? Is that why there’s blood on your pants when you come home?’ She shook herself free and her lip curled with disgust. ‘You’re sick, Ambrose. Sick, pathetic and ridiculous.’

He struck her, a back-hander across the face with all his strength. She staggered backwards but did not fall. Slowly, she raised her head and lifted a hand to her lips, tasting the blood from the cut made by his Masonic signet ring. He had expected her to be contrite, her flash of rebellion crushed, but her face was defiant, full of contempt.

‘That’s the last time you will ever do that. And that’s a promise.’

T
he endless ranks of dense olive trees meant that walks on the inland hillsides of Katastrophos were scenic but monotonous, unless, of course, you were a botanist. The trees were ancient and each family had its own grove; the result being a golden oil that Corrie believed would probably snaffle a clutch of international medals if it ever became public. She intended to take some home for Coriander’s Cuisine. It was a gloriously sunny day so she persuaded Jack the All-Seeing that a blink was not out of the question and he could accompany her to St Sophia to buy some oil and possibly some of the island pottery and woodcarving to take home. As they made their way down the stony path that led from the front of the hotel to the road, Jack paused, staring up at the peeling façade and the three hideous Gorgons glaring down from the roof.

Although he considered himself a tough copper, Jack was not insensitive to myth embodied in sculpture. As he met Medusa’s gaze, he began to feel the sinister, ethereal nature of the island. The insane grin, the goggling eyes, the hissing ringlets of snakelike hair, the spatulate tongue stuck out as far as it would go between sharp protruding fangs. No wonder she turned blokes to stone. He looked hurriedly away, and went to catch up with Corrie who had stopped to admire the hibiscus, although not with quite the same intimate intensity as the professor.

‘Blast!’ Jack felt in his pockets. ‘I’ve left my wallet in our room. Wait here a minute and I’ll nip back and get it.’ He turned back towards the front entrance, leaving Corrie rehearsing some choice remarks about security and the poor example set by policemen who don’t look after their valuables, in return for the lecture he’d given her when she’d inadvertently microwaved her credit cards.

She was watching Jack loping easily across the hotel forecourt when out of the corner of her eye, on the very periphery of her vision, she thought she saw Medusa move. She looked away, then looked back. No, it was just shimmering in the sun – an optical illusion, like Tarmac in a heat wave. Her sunglasses must have distorted her distance vision. She took them off, polished them, then squinted again. This time there was no doubt about it. The heavy stone sculpture, central and most terrifying sister of the ghastly trio of Gorgons, was rocking silently on her plinth. Only a sprinkling of dust heralded her imminent descent. Oblivious, Jack was almost beneath her when she started to topple.

It was useless to yell. He would simply have stopped right where he was and turned to see why she was shouting. It had to be a split-second, knee-jerk decision and Corrie made it. She had seen plenty of flying tackles at police rugby matches but never dreamed she would need to attempt one herself. She flung down her handbag – an unnecessary preliminary for most half-backs – sprinted the distance between them and dived at Jack’s knees, bringing him down just feet from where Medusa crashed thunderously and spectacularly to pieces in a cloud of dust and stone. The Gorgon’s last act of malice was to split Jack’s head open with a flying snake, shattered from her hair.

They lay in the debris, gasping, bits of plaster raining down on them from the crumbling façade – but they both heard it. Footsteps running away across the roof. This was no accident. Medusa had been poised steadfastly on her perch for at least 200 years – she had not fallen off without considerable help. Blood was pouring down Jack’s face from a nasty gash across his forehead and he was clearly dazed. Both Corrie’s knees were badly grazed and one elbow was throbbing but she scrambled up and ran for the hotel entrance.

‘Stay there!’ she shouted, somewhat gratuitously. ‘I’m going after him.’

Jack struggled to his knees, blood in his eyes. ‘Corrie, no! Come back! You don’t understand …’

Yanni and Maria came running out, alarmed at what sounded to them like the beginnings of an earthquake. Corrie did not stop to explain. Inside the hotel, a quick glance confirmed that the lobby was empty. Good. He was still up there. She would search the roof and all the rooms if necessary. What she would do when she found him, God alone knew, but she would want to know why he was trying to kill Jack, because that was undoubtedly what would have happened if Medusa had fallen on him. She took the low stairs two at a time, wheezing now and wishing she were slimmer and fitter. When she reached the top floor, she flung open the double doors at the end of the landing, leapt out on to the balcony and scrambled up the little ladder on to the roof.

Corrie was too late. Someone had been there and left in a big hurry. The ubiquitous pots of geraniums that adorned most houses on Katastrophos, had been knocked from the iron railings and upturned, spilling earth and crushed red blossoms. Here at the back, the hotel was deeply embedded in the side of a steep slope. This meant only one storey, making it easy for someone to climb on to the flat roof and from there, up into the hills, to disappear among the dense olive groves and thick banks of cypress. Rough footprints in the spilled earth confirmed the direction of the culprit’s escape. Corrie swore. She had assumed she would meet whoever it was running down the stairs, or at least corner him in one of the rooms. At no point had it occurred to her that he would get away across the roof. He could be anywhere by now.

She scratched about for a bit, looking for clues as Jack would have done, but she couldn’t find anything unusual – just some old earthenware pots and a rusty old crowbar that looked as though it had been up there for years. As Jack said, in real police investigations they very rarely found incriminating buttons or convenient pieces of material caught on a nail, which instantly identify the villain. Of course, there was always DNA, assuming Jack could ever get it analysed out here. The bloke must have sweated a bit pushing the statue off the roof but even if he had, any dampness would probably have evaporated by now in this blazing sun. Maybe he had left some skin behind. She crossed to the front of the roof and looked to see if anything had snagged on the two remaining Gorgons. A few hairs would be good – one hair, even. What she found exceeded her wildest expectations.

Jack was in the kitchen, where Maria was bathing his head and gabbling apologies, clearly under the impression that the near fatal accident was caused by the instability of the hotel’s external fabric. He was clearly relieved to see Corrie safely in one piece, albeit with bumps and grazes and didn’t even give her the usual row about interfering. She had retrieved her handbag and prudently concealed in it the evidence she had found. She didn’t need DNA to know who it implicated but to her, it didn’t make any sense. Why would he want to harm Jack? Jack was still shocked and would have a formidable headache for a while. She decided it might be wise not to mention what she’d found until she had done a bit of investigating of her own, so when Jack gave her a questioning look, she shook her head. One sniff of her evidence and he would be in there with his handcuffs, reading the man his rights. That was, if an English copper could do that on a Greek island. One thing was certain, you couldn’t call a local policeman on Katastrophos. Better to let people think it was the result of structural subsidence for the time being – just an unfortunate accident. A case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Jack winced as Maria swabbed his gash with antiseptic. There was no chance of getting it stitched – not for a week anyway. He grinned ruefully.

‘Essentials everyone should pack for a carefree honeymoon on Katastrophos – sun cream, a swimsuit, your own supply of blood plasma and a couple of syringes of anti-toxin. I’m sorry Corrie. This hasn’t turned out the way I expected at all.’

Jack wasn’t entirely sure what he
had
expected. The operation had never been properly thought out. He’d been flying by the seat of his pants, as the Chief Super put it, since day one. But he was ninety-nine per cent certain he knew who was responsible for the attempt on his life and he was annoyed with himself. He should have been on his guard for something of the sort once he knew his cover had been blown. Now that his quarry was on to him it would be nigh on impossible to nail him.

That evening at dinner Ambrose appeared minus his hairpiece. He looked so completely different without it, like Humpty Dumpty in a suit, it was impossible that it would pass without a comment from somebody.

‘What’s happened to your wig, mate?’ asked Sidney without preamble.

Ambrose was clearly seething, having spent several hours confined to his room arguing with his wife. He had no intention, he told her, of appearing in public without his hair. It was a matter of personal pride and his dignity was at stake. They would therefore both remain in their room except for when they went into town and then he would go down wearing his panama. This meant they would have all their meals sent up. Marjorie, her derision barely concealed, informed him she would do nothing of the sort. She was going down to dinner with or without him. She also said that in her opinion, he looked quite ridiculous with a lump of dead hair glued to his scalp and his baldness was, if anything, a slight improvement. She privately suspected that, in addition to his hairlessness, he did not wish any of them to see her cut lip, now badly bruised and swollen.

Ambrose answered Sidney with cold disdain. ‘My hair enhancement was stolen this morning while I was in the shower. Quite outrageous. This place is nothing but a seething sewer of thieves, half-wits and the criminally insane. I’d report the theft to the police if there were any on this god-forsaken island. The sooner I get back to Hampshire and civilization the better.’

‘It’s a bit queer, though, isn’t it?’ said Sid. ‘Who’d want to nick your rug? You sure you haven’t just lost it somewhere?’

‘Of course not!’ Ambrose bristled with anger and embarrassment. ‘I know perfectly well where I left it and when I came out of the shower, it had gone.’

‘He hangs it on the door handle over night,’ said Marjorie, conversationally. ‘At home, he puts it on one of those wig stands on the dressing-table. Used to give me quite a turn when I woke up in the night and saw it reflected in the mirror. Like a dismembered head.’

‘Can you please stop discussing my private affairs in public, Marjorie? It really is extremely bad taste and you should know better. Goodness knows I’ve tried to teach you some refinement over the years but you’re clearly too crass to learn anything.’

‘Marjie, that’s a very nasty cut on your lip,’ said Sid, concerned. ‘I couldn’t help noticing. Looks real painful. How did you do it?’

‘She fell and hit her mouth on the corner of the bedside table,’ answered Ambrose, immediately. ‘Probably too much to drink, she always was clumsy. And my wife’s name is Marjorie, if you don’t mind. Diminutive names are the prerogative of the working class.’

Diana, furious at this put-down, both on behalf of Sidney and Marjorie, picked up a napkin and began to polish Ambrose’s bald head vigorously, making squeaking noises. ‘Never mind, Amby, honey,’ she cooed, mockingly. ‘I think you look real cute without your hair. Like a bad-tempered baby.’

He fended her off with a look of sheer menace. She laughed at him.

The food arrived then – rough lumps of meat stewed in a kind of brown slurry and served on a large metal dish.

‘Oh, good,’ said Sid gloomily. ‘Looks like braised armadillo on the half-shell again.’

They helped themselves, picking at it warily. The insubstantial but niggling possibility of food poisoning hung inexorably over them each time food was served. It was not the cheeriest of meals but when Sky appeared, the storm clouds really gathered. She looked as though she had seen a ghost. The tan acquired from bathing in the Incredible Light drained from her skin, and her deep-set, red-rimmed eyes burned with almost spectral intensity. Then, without a word, she turned and went back upstairs to her room.

Under cover of the general buzz about how ill Sky looked, probably due to lack of sleep while she was nursing Maria and Ellie, Corrie opened her handbag under the table and nudged Jack to look inside. He glanced down casually then his eyes widened in disbelief.

‘Would you excuse, us, please?’ He stood up, grabbing Corrie’s throbbing elbow making her wince. ‘There’s something I need to discuss urgently with my wife. We’ll be back shortly.’

He frogmarched her inside the hotel, across the lobby, and out through the front door where the shattered remains of Medusa still lay in a murderous heap.

‘Why the hell did you pinch Dobson’s wig, you daft bat?’ Jack was totally dumbfounded. It was a completely incomprehensible thing to do, even for Corrie.

‘I didn’t pinch it and keep your voice down.’

‘Well, who did then?’

‘No one. I found it – up there.’ She pointed to the two remaining Gorgons on the roof and the empty space between them, like a gap in a row of decaying teeth.

‘What? Why on earth didn’t you tell me before?’

Corrie was unrepentant. ‘You were wounded and dazed. I didn’t want to worry you. Besides, I needed to do some snooping first. Obviously I deduced immediately that it was Ambrose Dobson who heaved Medusa off the roof and lost his wig in the process. The glue melts in the heat and it slides about pretty easily – we saw that when Sid accidentally hooked it on his fork last week.’ She was animated now, warming to her theory. ‘Once I knew it was him, I wanted to march up and smack him hard in the mouth but I couldn’t because first I had to find out his motive. Why does he want to kill you? That’s the important question. Well, I reckon I’ve worked it out. He’s a wanted criminal on the run and he escaped to Katastrophos where he thought nobody would find him. All that talk about wanting to go home was a smokescreen. After all, he didn’t go when he had the chance, did he? And I remembered Marjorie saying he still had “some unfinished business”, meaning finishing you off. When he found out you were a copper, he thought you might recognize him from his mugshots, so he had to silence you before you got home to England and had him brought back to face justice. He’s a nasty piece of work – form as long as your arm, I shouldn’t wonder. Robbery with violence, blackmail, drug-running, money-laundering, you name it. I bet he’s travelling under an assumed name with a false passport. Anyway, I thought I’d wait till he and Marjorie went out, then I’d go up and have a bit of a snoop around. See if I could find out his real identity. Trouble is, he hasn’t left his room all day because he didn’t want anyone to see his bald head. I expect the wig’s part of his disguise and—’