One Way Ticket (3 page)

Two stern looking, middle aged men were
sat behind a desk. One motioned me to sit in the chair opposite. He explained the
job involved providing admin support for the police unit that dealt primarily
with tourist crimes and the expatriate community. I explained the fact that I
was English was a big advantage as I could relate to the customers better and
their funny ways (I wasn’t sure if the police force used the term ‘customer’
but it was the only word I could think of under pressure). The other man frowned
through most of the interview but at least neither of them laughed when I tried
to reply to one question in Greek.

I left the interview with little hope but relieved
I still had my freedom.

Consequently, I was quite surprised to get
a phone call an hour later telling me I had gotten the job.

Oh, how we splurged that night, going out to
celebrate at a nearby taverna (one of the few not turned into an international restaurant)
and gorging ourselves on wonderful dishes of grilled halloumi and kleftiko.

“This is delicious,” my aunt tried to say
with a mouthful of slow roasted lamb. “Don’t normally have it, too expensive.”

“Make the most of it,” I warned her,
enjoying the squeaky sounds the cheese made on my teeth, “this job isn’t going
to stretch to this kind of feast very often. We’ll only be able to afford a few
small luxuries.”

“Ooh! My magazine. From England. Perhaps I can start buying that again?”

I smiled at her. “I expect so.” It was
nice to see such little things bringing so much pleasure. “We’d better hold off
any purchases until I actually start the job though.”

“Of course. But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll
be marvellous!” Aunt June raised her glass to toast me and I felt the pleasure
of something going right for the first time in a long while.

It reminded me something from earlier.
“Have you heard about that elderly woman they found dead? It was murder after
all.”

“I know, no one’s been talking of anything
else.”

I’d obviously been too caught up in my job
search to notice. “It doesn’t happen here a lot, does it? Murder? I mean, I
thought this was meant to be a safe place to live?”

“No, it doesn’t happen very often, not as
often as Spain,” my aunt said proudly as if that was a significant fact.

“Good,” I told her. “I think.”

A few security checks later (during
which I was expecting to be escorted from the island at any moment), I was
ready for my first day. I could hardly believe I’d gotten this far without
being detected but I had, I was in. Aunt June handed me a packed lunch and kissed
me goodbye proudly. She stood at the front door waving until I was out of sight
of the villa. She was probably quite glad to have the place to herself for a
while.

On arrival at the police station, I was
whisked away to get a security pass made and my photo taken, so it was mid
morning before I made it to the area where I would be working. My department
seemed to consist of lots of tiny offices leading off a main corridor, a
contrast to the open plan style popular back home. Like the rest of the place, the
rooms could have done with a lick of paint to liven up their dull beige
coloured walls. The office furniture had seen better days too, it looked like the
1970s were making another appearance.

As I was introduced around, I was
surprised to see a familiar face talking to one of the police officers: my taxi
driver.

“Addi,” I said, after a few seconds trying
to remember his name, “what are you doing here? Nothing serious, I trust?” Could
one hope they were investigating the exorbitant taxi rates? Or perhaps his
dodgy brandy dealing days were over?

“Know Detective Constable Markou, do you?”
the sergeant asked.

4 Don’t Talk To Me About Work

“Quite a few of us have second
jobs,” Addi clarified later.

That would explain why there were so few
to go around.

“I do taxi driving, Vara works at the
supermarket, Andreas gives boat tours to tourists.”

“You guys like to keep busy,” I said.

“We have to, sometimes the pay in Cyprus isn’t so good.”

Sometimes? All the time I’d say, but it
was certainly better than nothing.

I picked up the work easily enough,
although I’d have to improve my Greek if I wanted to follow all the
conversations in the department. A couple of my co-workers were particularly
suspect. Sometimes, after a little laugh, they would glance at me before
looking away. I was going to have to step up my Greek or burst not knowing what
they were saying about me. The others had been friendly though, especially Addi,
and Vara, the other admin assistant I shared my small office with. They helped
me to settle in and laughed at some of my silly English notions - paperless
offices, health and safety laws, data protection (they may have had a point).

With the summer season well past, there
were fewer tourists around so fewer tourist crimes. The department was instead
focussing on the expatriate community and their (numerous) complaints. That’s
where I came in.

“So, apart from the heat, the food, the
locals, the tourists, the cats, the insects, and the tv channels, you say you really
like it here, Mr Day?” The ex-plumber from Sheffield had actually come in to complain
about a parking problem but hadn’t been able to stop there. It was hard to
understand why so many had moved here when they moaned about it so much. My
first test in the job was keeping my mouth buttoned whilst they ranted on.

Of course, my talents were wasted in the role,
I mean I’d been an administrator back home, for goodness sake, but there were
some upsides to it. I’d never pay a parking fine again for a start, and I got
to read all the juicy details of what went on at the seedier end of local expat
society when I typed up reports of the investigations. And believe me, it got
quite seedy. Currency frauds, peeping toms, swingers parties (I’ll never look
at the words ‘come as you are’ on a party invite in the same light again). It
was gripping stuff, even though I didn’t know the people personally, better
than reading the newspapers.

When Aunt June’s friends found out where I
was working, I was inundated with requests to help their cousin’s
brother-in-law’s nephew get his building permit/lap dance club licence/golf
club membership. Okay, perhaps the lap dance club bit was an exaggeration. That
hadn’t hit Kythios yet, but it was probably only a matter of time. I’d adjusted
to the fact the place wasn’t an unspoilt haven anymore (lucky really as I’d
never have gotten a job otherwise), and come to enjoy living here, especially
now most of the tourists had gone home and the bakery was still staying open.

In fact, I’d already gotten into a routine
of sorts with Aunt June. She went out a lot with friends, I went out a lot to
work. I kept telling myself that was just the way it seemed and as soon as I’d
established my own friendships I’d be swanning off every evening as well. In
the meantime, I was getting quite good at d.i.y. (and I mean that in the home
improvement sense of the word).

“Good day off?” Vara asked me, as
I came in one morning after a day spent trying to tame the triffid that grew
around Aunt June’s villa. My co-worker was a friendly, if plain looking, woman
in her early twenties, with an interesting line of ear piercings running up the
edge of one ear, and a love of bright coloured clothing. Today, she was wearing
a turquoise shirt that would have given me the pallor of a corpse but made her
look gloriously sunkissed.

“Hmm, okay I guess. Got wet trying to do
some gardening.” The rain my aunt had warned me was on its way had come down
suddenly, one minute there were just a few clouds in the sky, the next enormous
raindrops were pounding down. In the couple of minutes it had taken me to get
indoors, I was soaked.

“Yes, isn’t it great the rain’s started?” Vara
said.

Her response had me flummoxed. That sort
of talk could get you slapped in England. “Is it?”

“I hope my father will stop going on about
his ruined garden now.”

I keep forgetting there’s been a drought
here and the locals really want rain, it’s an alien concept to anyone coming
from the British Isles. “My aunt’s plants seem to be doing well enough without
it,” I told her, rubbing an arm still aching from the effort of the day before.

“You should have seen my Enzo−” Vara
started.

But I never found out what or who her Enzo
was because Sergeant H strode into the office at that point and called me over.
(His surname isn’t really H, it’s just so long and involves so many ‘ou’, that
everyone calls him H.)

“Jennifer, we have a problem. Follow me.”

I knew it, they’ve found out what I did
back home. I could feel my mouth drying up as I pictured him frogmarching me
out of the building. Legs trembling, I followed him into an office where another
man was already seated. Sergeant H shut the door behind us.

“There was an incident at Whispering Hills
a couple of weeks ago,” the man behind the desk began.

Whispering Hills? That was a nearby suburb
of expats, mostly British. This couldn’t be anything to do with me and my ‘incident’.
I let myself relax a little.

“A resident was found dead. You’ve
probably heard about it. You will need to go there with the sergeant to, what’s
the word…?”

Interrogate? Strip search? Bribe?

“Liaise?” he queried.

I nodded, a little disappointed.

“Liaise with the other residents. You must
remain calm and ensure nobody panics, yes?”

Panic? Wasn’t it a bit late for that?

“It is very important for everyone to
believe Whispering Hills is still a safe place to live.”

“I understand,” I lied.

“Off you go then.”

Back at my desk, I collected my bag, plus
a notepad and pen, not really sure what they wanted me to do. I’d seen some of
the other admin staff go off sometimes, but this was the first time I’d been
asked to accompany one of the officers.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked H as
we pulled out of the police station car park. I wanted to be clear before we
arrived on site.

“You will be there when I interview the
neighbours. Sometimes, some of the phrases people use, you will explain them to
me.”

“Like a translator?”

“Yes, just like.”

Now that I could understand. “So, this is
the old lady?”

“Yes. At first we hoped it was natural
causes, but it wasn’t. We have a lot of old women living here, some of them on
their own. Like the captain said, we don’t want to create a panic. Tourism is
very important to the island.”

“I see.”

“We’re going to use a room in a nearby,
empty apartment to interview some more of the neighbours.”

Word must have gotten out about our
imminent arrival because there was already a crowd gathering outside when we
arrived. So much for keeping it quiet. The sergeant looked upset when he saw
them.

“What did you expect when you have a load
of old people with a lot of time on their hands?” I told him. “This sort of situation
is tailor made for them.”

“We’re meant to stop the people getting
upset,” he moaned.

“Upset? Are you kidding? Look at those
faces, they’re loving it. This’ll give them something to talk about for weeks.
You should probably give the murderer a community award at the end of this for
bringing people together.”

I could tell by the look on his face I had
overstepped things with that remark. I kept my mouth shut and followed him into
the apartment.

It was nice to see some 21st century
décor. After Aunt June’s place and the police station, I’d almost forgotten
walls and curtains came in colours other than brown. It looked like a high end place
- large, airy rooms and I could just spy marble topped surfaces in the kitchen,
the people living in these apartments must have some money. The place was empty
apart from a put-up table and three spindly looking chairs.

H went straight to the table and placed
his file on it. “You sit there.” He indicated a seat and took the one next to
it. “You will take notes. If I don’t understand what they say, I will look at
you.”

“Fair enough.” I sat down and pulled my
notebook out, hoping he realised I didn’t do shorthand. Perhaps I could feign a
hearing problem and get the residents to repeat everything a few times?

“You do not speak to the witnesses,” he continued,
“only write what they say, you understand? I am the policeman here.”

Touchy. When he had set out his file and
pen, he spoke to someone outside who ushered in our first customer. A mousy
looking woman, visibly trembling. Shock or guilt, I wondered?

“Name, please?”

I was so absorbed in watching the woman, I
almost forgot I was meant to be keeping notes and had to scrabble for my pen. Even
then, I had to ask her to repeat what she’d said.

It became clear to me, after only a few
minutes, that this woman knew nothing, had seen nothing, and would never in a
month of Sundays be involved in anything like murder, and yet we carried on
with the questions for a further ten minutes. It seemed a little cruel.

The next one looked a more likely candidate
and I gave H a lift of my eyebrows to show him I thought so. Not only did the
man have a very shifty look, he couldn’t remember where he’d been on the day of
the murder. Instead of going through the same set of questions though, to my
amazement, H dismissed him almost immediately.

The morning continued in that way with
each resident being subjected to, in my mind, a haphazard peppering of
questions from Sergeant H. Fortunately for me, most of them were elderly and asked
the sergeant to repeat each question before coming up with a reply, giving me
time to write everything down.

I was only called on to ‘translate’ twice.
Once for a very plummy voiced man who pronounced the word ‘house’ like ‘hice’,
and even I struggled to catch what he was saying, then for the other extreme, a
cockney, who threw in a few rhyming slangs (dog and bone) which had the
sergeant baffled.

After a couple of hours of this, we had
apparently covered everyone and Sergeant H began packing up.

“You don’t want to ask that first bloke a
few more questions?” I queried as he gathered his paperwork together.

The answer was brusque. “No.”

I couldn’t believe it, the old guy was
obviously covering something up. Why was the sergeant letting him get away?

“But he was so vague, so evasive, you
didn’t think he was suspicious?”

“The man who has, you pronounce it
dementia?”

Well, you can’t get everything right.

I picked up my notepad and we retired back
to the police station to type up the notes. When I say we, that’s in the royal
use of the word.
I
typed up the notes whilst the sergeant drank a cup of
coffee. I was asked to start a new file online and print out a copy as well (they
really hadn’t grasped the idea behind the paperless office). After depositing
such, I decided to take my lunch break and go home.

Alright, so I was busting to tell Aunt June
what they’d said about the murder. I know I signed a secrecy statement and all
that, but you can’t tell me people don’t go home and talk about this stuff or how
would newspapers get their stories? So, imagine my disappointment when I get
home and Aunt June already knows all about it. In fact, she knows more about it
than I do because she’s heard the main suspect is the victim’s sister.

“How do you know this? I’ve just left the
station and they never said anything. I only work there, it’s so unfair.”

“Expat community grapevine. I suppose if I
had a mobile phone I’d have found out sooner.”

“Sooner? That’s not funny. How did they think
at first it might be an accident? She was strangled. Did they imagine she got
caught up in her own washing line or something?”

“Poor Tina.”

“Did you know her?” It hadn’t occurred to
me that my aunt might have known the woman.

Aunt June squirmed in her seat a little.
“We were both on a local committee once. I wouldn’t say I knew her exactly.”

“Well, too late now,” I pointed out. (That
may sound a bit harsh but you have to be tough when you work in law
enforcement.) I got some ham and salad stuff out of the fridge and started
making myself a sandwich. “D’you want one?”

Aunt June looked a little tired. “No
thanks, dear.”

I stopped my sandwich assembly for a
moment. “You’re not frightened about this, are you? The murder.”

“No, no. I expect it was that sister of
hers. They were always rivals.”

There was a bump in the room next door.

“What was that?” I asked. It had come from
Aunt June’s bedroom.

“Probably just something fallen over.
Don’t bother,” she shouted as I went to the doorway.

Spooked with this talk of old ladies being
murdered, I picked up a frying pan from the stove on the way. I could hear Aunt
June shuffling behind me and held out a hand, motioning her to stop in case it
wasn’t safe. Holding the pan in front of me, I nervously reached for her door
handle.

Wrenching the door open, I gasped at the
appalling sight that greeted me.