The Holiday (51 page)

No, not even the most far-fetched Agatha Christie plot would have her down as a potential killer: she was much too delicate and refined for such rough work. When she had applied for the job as his cleaner he had been so surprised he had asked her why she wanted to do it — he couldn’t imagine her baby pink little hands scrubbing out his bath. ‘It’s not the money, pet,’ she had told him, ‘I just need to be out from under Mother’s feet occasionally.’

Then there was Dale, the young garage mechanic who wrote bloodcurdling Gothic horror
à la
Bram Stoker and Anne Rice. In fact, he lived and breathed Gothic horror, spending his weekends and holidays working at the Dracula Experience in Whitby - the one-time home of his hero Bram Stoker. With the aid of a pair of fangs and a black cape lined with red silk, his job was to scare the punters, which he said he loved doing. But had the ghoulish world of vampires worn thin for Dale? Had he looked around and seen a more satisfying way to thrill himself?

He went through the other members of the group, but could find no reason for any of them to want to terrorise him, let alone kill him.

He cast his mind further, beyond Robin Hood’s Bay to London. Had he offended some writer at one of the countless literary dinners he was invited to? Someone from the Crime Writers’ Association perhaps? Someone who felt aggrieved that he had got the award that they had thought was theirs. But that was madness. Okay, the priesthood of crime writers was known for attracting a weird and cranky old bunch who took themselves too seriously, but not your actual real-life murderer, surely?

No, the probable culprit was one of his readers. Somebody he didn’t know. An obsessed fan who was psychotically at the mercy of a controlling inner voice. He let his thoughts wander down this more convincing path, recalling any number of strange incidents he had encountered at his book signings, which invariably brought out the anorak crowd. Once, in Leeds, a woman had turned up purely to tear him off a strip for using such foul language in his novels, calling him an affront to the English language. Another time, down in Plymouth, there had been a man dressed in black biker gear with a stark skull of a face. He wouldn’t speak but silently, almost menacingly, he had pulled the latest Terry Pratchett book out of a carrier-bag and thrust it at him to sign. Mark had tried to explain that he wasn’t Mr Pratchett, cracking a joke that he wished he was, but the man had deepened the scowl on his gaunt face and pushed the book further towards him. He had signed it just to be rid of the screwball.

But no amount of recollection was helping Mark. It was an exercise he had been through before, anyway. He had got nowhere then, and he was getting nowhere now. With a bitter sense of irony, he thought that maybe it was the publicity department at his publisher’s who were behind the letters; after all they had every reason to hate him. Perhaps they had decided to get their own back on him for being such an awkward bugger.

So lost in his thoughts was he that he didn’t hear the slow footsteps approaching. Nor did he sense the hands raised behind his head. Not until they were covering his eyes.

‘Guess who?’

He leaped in the air so violently he nearly knocked Izzy off her feet. ‘Holy shit, Izzy!’ he cried, his voice ringing out with raw nervous energy. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ He fell back into the chair, his whole body flooded with the electricity of so much adrenaline pumping through it. ‘You scared me half to death.’

She sat beside him, her face pale with shock.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, ‘it was meant to be a joke. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

He heard the anxious concern in her voice and saw her distress. He forced a smile. ‘Hey, it’s okay. It’s me. My fault. I shouldn’t be such a nervous wreck.’ And, straining to add some normality to the situation, he said, ‘How’d you get on with Dolly-Babe? Did you take her to task?’ He took a surreptitious kick at the ball of paper by his foot, knocking it under the table out of Izzy’s line of sight.

 

That evening, and while soaking up the quiet cool of the night and watching the stars come out, Izzy was positive she wasn’t imagining it: Mark was acting strangely.

He had spent most of the evening ignoring her, glancing frequently at the growing shadows in the garden as the sky darkened and the trees grew taller and more solid. Restless and uptight, he was withdrawn and uncommunicative. She had asked him several times if he was okay.

‘Sure I am,’ he had said. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ He had spoken easily enough, but his jaw tightened and there was a darkness in his eyes, which were alert beneath the fine sun-bleached fringe.

To gain his interest, she had tried telling him about Dolly-Babe and the baby she had given away all those years ago. But his attention had soon wavered. For something to talk about now, she returned to the subject once more. ‘You were right all along,’ she said. ‘Poor Dolly-Babe certainly has had her problems to deal with, hasn’t she?’

‘Yeah, I guess it would explain her obsession with the psychic world,’ he said absentmindedly, fingers picking at a shoelace, his gaze skimming the top of Izzy’s head. ‘There’s nothing like diverting one’s thoughts from the past by trying to predict the future.’

‘I asked her how she knew so much about Nick and Sally, and she said she’d got it from Sophia. Apparently Laura had told Sophia everything, so at least my curiosity is settled on that account. And the reason it was a week before the journalists turned up was that at first they didn’t believe her. They thought she was just another crackpot, but then they got a tip-off from somebody at the airport.’ Izzy could see that she had lost him again, that his mind wasn’t even half on their conversation - so where on earth was it? ‘And later I thought I’d tie you to the bed and tickle you with a feather duster,’ she added.

‘Yeah, that makes sense.’ His gaze had switched to the far end of the garden and his fingers were drumming an irritating tattoo on the table.

‘Or would you prefer a wet kipper?’

‘Whatever you think. I’ll leave it to you.’

After a long pause, his fingers stopped moving. He turned sharply. ‘A wet what?’

‘Ah, I’ve got your attention now, have I? Come on, Mark, tell me what’s wrong. Ever since I got back from Dolly-Babe’s you’ve been acting oddly.’ She saw him hesitate and knew then with certainty that something had happened when she had been away from him. ‘Did someone phone you with bad news? It’s not Theo, is it?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s nothing. Nothing that you need worry about.’ His tone was casual but not convincing.

‘But if something’s bothering you — ’

‘Please, Izzy, just leave it. I don’t want you involved. In fact you’re the last — ’ But he stopped himself short. ‘Forget it, it was ... it was my publisher, that’s all. They always rattle me like this.’

 

As Izzy slept, Mark lay wide awake beside her. The room was unbearably hot. It was the hottest and muggiest night he had known, but nothing would persuade him to open a window. While Izzy had been in the bathroom getting ready for bed, he had checked all the doors and windows, making doubly sure that they were locked. Coming out of the bathroom Izzy had commented on the stuffiness of the bedroom and had suggested she open a window to let some air in, but he had told her not to, that he was fed up with being bitten in the night by all the mosquitoes that made straight for him. Accepting this without argument, she had climbed into bed and fallen asleep almost immediately, her head resting against his shoulder.

As sleep continued to elude him, he thought of what he had said to Izzy outside on the terrace, or what he had very nearly said —
I don’t want you involved. In fact you’re the last...
What he had been going on to say was that Izzy was the last person he wanted anywhere near him right now.

If a crazy psycho had come here to Áyios Nikólaos to satisfy an inner voice that was telling him to kill Mark St James, then what was to stop him having a go at Izzy as well?

He didn’t know what to do for the best.

Should he get Izzy the hell out of here and on a plane back to England - frightening her silly in the process - or should he keep quiet and go on watching their backs until the threat had passed?

But the threat might not pass.

If the stalker was going to stick to the script of
Silent Footsteps,
an attempt would be made on his life.

He had never felt surer about anything.

The day started as idyllically as any other morning Izzy had woken to during her holiday - the sky was a faultless blue, the sun dazzling, the air fragrant with the scent of pine, and the sea glimmering peacefully in the bay below - but a cloud of tension hung over her, and it just wouldn’t go away.

It emanated from Mark, and nothing he said or did helped to lift the bad feeling that had descended upon her since yesterday evening. Every time she looked at him she could see that he was unreachable, that his distracted thoughts were elsewhere. His troubled face and distant eyes only confirmed her belief that something was terribly wrong. Though he had sat at the table in his usual working spot in the shade, she knew he hadn’t written a single word all morning. She had frequently caught him staring at her, his expression dark and puzzling. It was as if he was worried about her. But why? Or had she got it wrong? Had she annoyed him? Had she said or done something?

She had tried wheedling the truth out of him, but had got nowhere. He was a firmly closed book to her. He didn’t seem to want her near him, preferring to sit in remote silence, yet neither did he want her where he couldn’t see her. When she had said she was going down to the beach for a swim, he had asked her what was wrong with Theo’s pool.

‘Nothing,’ she had said. ‘I just fancied a dip in the sea. It’ll be cooler.’

‘Then I’ll come with you. I could do with a change of scene.’ He was on his feet before he had even got the words out.

Now, and while she swam in the refreshing water, he was sitting on the shore, tense and watchful, his hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun as he scrutinised her every movement. And scrutinised everybody else’s movements on the beach. Especially anyone who came near her.

‘Paranoid’ was the word that kept going through her head.

It was as if a switch had been flicked inside him and he had become a different man. A man who jumped at the slightest movement or sudden noise; a man who suspected trouble at every turn.

What on earth had got into him?

She was so concerned, she wished that Theo was here already. He was arriving later that afternoon, but for Izzy his arrival couldn’t come fast enough. She felt sure that if anyone could get Mark to relax and open up, it would be Theo.

 

Not in any particular hurry to get home, Theo ignored the turning for Ayios Nikólaos and drove on to Kassiópi so that he could buy what he wanted to cook for dinner that evening. Parking his car between two open-topped Jeeps, he strolled round the harbour to his favourite bar for a drink before he went shopping. He greeted its owner, Michalis, with a warm handshake and asked how business was.

Michalis gave the obligatory could-be-better shrug and said,
‘Étsi kyétsi.’

Theo smiled, knowing that business was always good for Michalis. As well as this popular harbour bar, he also owned several apartments in Kassiópi, another bar up in Róda, and a villa in Majorca, where he and his wife spent their winters once the olives had been harvested from their highly productive olive groves.
‘Étsi kyétsi’
meant that Michalis was confident he would be banking enough money this season to extend his interest further on the island, ready for next spring. ‘And your mother?’ Theo enquired. ‘The last I heard of her from Sophia and Angelos was that she had been unwell.’

‘Ah, plenty of life in her yet,’ Michalis said, with a hearty laugh, ‘Eighty-five and still able to lift a shovel. She was helping my son, Andonis, to repair a drain only the other day.’

‘You work her too hard,’ remonstrated Theo.

Michalis threw his hands in the air. ‘It is her, not me, she is not happy unless she is busy. You know how it is.’

Theo knew exactly how it was. Greek women: the older they got, the more determined and fiercely independent they became. His grandmother had been the same. Despite advice and warnings from her doctor to slow down, she had continued to live her life just as she had always lived it: to the fullest. Taking it easy had been anathema to her.

Waiting for Michalis to bring him his drink, Theo watched a brightly painted caique disgorge a group of noisy, sunburnt tourists, most of whom started heading towards Michalis’ bar. Still dressed in his expensive handmade suit, and despite having removed his tie and unbuttoned his collar, Theo knew that the contrast between his appearance and that of this crowd of scruffy holidaymakers could not have been greater. One man, wearing only shiny football shorts and trainers and a pair of boxer shorts on his shaved head - was this the ultimate in sun protection? - was staring at him as though he were mad. One of us has a problem with his mental faculties, thought Theo, as he removed his jacket and hung it carefully on the back of his chair, but it is not me.

Michalis brought him his ouzo and ice, and after a further exchange of words, he left Theo alone so that he could tend to the needs of the rest of his customers - the Full English Breakfast Plonkers, as he called them, the ones who thought plates of chips and mushy peas were sold the world over. ‘What? No mushy peas, mate? Are you having me on?’ But in spite of their ridiculous foibles, the British punters were well liked here: their plump wallets were open all hours when they were on holiday. Unlike those of the Scandinavians, who, according to Michalis, were so tight they preferred to stay in self-catering accommodation and cook for themselves.

Sipping his drink, and his thoughts turning closer to home, Theo wondered if he would be successful in hiding his feelings of envy and disappointment when he saw Mark and Izzy together. Though he had gone to great lengths to convince Mark that he held no grudge towards him, he hadn’t been able to pretend to himself that he was happy with the way things had worked out. The trick was to make light of the matter, he knew, which so far he had managed to do. But that had been on the telephone when there had been no danger of his expression betraying him. He had deliberately lied to Mark about the necessity of prolonging his stay in Athens - he had acquired the chain of hotels early on - but he had not had the courage to return home immediately. So he had stayed and immersed himself in work; routine stuff he could easily have organised by phone, fax or e-mail from the comfort of his villa here on Corfu. From somewhere he had found the strength to tease Mark that it was so good and generous of him to let the eager lovers have their time together. Not a word had he said about his own cowardly need to keep away because he didn’t trust himself to behave in a reasonable manner.