drinking ouzo with some cronies. The man seemed such an incompetent that it was hard to visualise him planning murder. But when it came to crime, as the late Mr Pargeter had frequently remarked, appearances can be terribly deceptive.
Sergeant Karaskakis certainly made a more obvious suspect. He was confident, calculating and in his eye at times there burned a light of pure evil.
Mrs Pargeter looked over towards the taverna doorway and saw the object of her speculation talking to Spiro. They were in exactly the same positions that they had been in when Joyce saw them the evening she died, Spiro with his back to her and the Sergeant visible over his shoulder.
Another possibility slotted into place. Maybe it hadn’t been the Sergeant who had prompted Joyce’s panic. Perhaps it had been the sight of Spiro’s backview, identical to that of her late husband. If that had been the case, Joyce’s looking as if she had seen a ghost had been almost literally appropriate.
Immediately Mrs Pargeter recalled the second time her friend had panicked. Inside the taverna. When she saw Theodosia over the bar counter.
Fiercely excited, Mrs Pargeter rose to her feet and, unaware of Larry Lambeth’s curious look, rushed towards the taverna entrance.
Sergeant Karaskakis saw her approach and deliberately stood in her way. “Mrs Pargeter,” he said.
“Yes.”
“The Tourist Police keep records of where all visitors to our island are staying.”
“Oh?” She looked up at him, all innocence.
“There is no record of your having stayed in a hotel in Corfu Town or in Paleokastritsa last night.”
Mrs Pargeter smiled. “Isn’t that dreadful? People are so inefficient these days, aren’t they? You’d think it was a simple enough thing to keep proper records, but for some people even that’s too much trouble.”
Sergeant Karaskakis wasn’t fooled by her bluff and she knew it. He held her in a long stare, which was undisguisedly threatening. Mrs Pargeter continued to smile her defiance up at him, but she felt a little trickle of fear in the small of her back.
After a moment, he drew curtly to one side, and let her pass through into the building.
She stood exactly where Joyce had stood, and looked exactly where Joyce had looked.
Theodosia was not behind the bar this time.
There was nobody behind the bar.
But directly in Mrs Pargeter’s eyeline was the enshrined photograph.
The photograph of old Spiro. Of the person Larry Lambeth would have described as Christo Karaskakis’ ‘old man’.
“If you want to find out, the explanation for everything will be found behind the old man’s p – ”
“Photograph?”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Package ?
Thirty-Five
“Ah, it’s locked. That’s good.” Larry Lambeth’s whisper was gentle on the night air.
“Good?” Mrs Pargeter echoed. “Why good?”
“Because it means no one’s here. Often during the season Spiro sleeps in the taverna rather than going back to Agralias – particularly if he’s been late after a party night. But the fact that it’s locked means he’s gone home.”
“Will you be able to get in all right?”
He laughed at the idea that she had even asked the question. “No problem. Not that much choice of padlocks available here on the island.”
He fished a bunch of keys out of the pocket of his shorts and started testing them. Mrs Pargeter, hunched in the shadow under the taverna awning, looked nervously about her. The darkness was total, but in Agios Nikitas she could never fully relax into a feeling of being unobserved.
What they were doing, she knew, was risky, but she was determined to follow through her latest theory. And Larry Lambeth, of course, gave her unquestioning cooperation. He would have done anything – laid down his life without a murmur, if required – for the widow of the late Mr Pargeter.
She hugged the brown-paper-wrapped package that – in what seemed like another life – Joyce Dover had given her at Gatwick Airport. At least now she knew what it contained. And what the contents were for.
There was a click as the padlock’s tumblers turned. Larry Lambeth pushed the glass doors open and gestured Mrs Pargeter to follow him in. Safely inside, he clicked on the thin beam of a pencil torch.
There was no prevarication. Both knew exactly what they were looking for and crossed to behind the bar. Larry climbed adroitly on to the counter, reached up and unhooked the enshrined photograph from its niche.
Mrs Pargeter remembered Spiro’s proud words. “My father. It was taken just before he died – thirty years ago – but still he keeps an eye on his taverna. Spiro brings good luck to Spiro. The photograph keeps away the Evil Eye.”
Larry Lambeth put the picture face down on the counter and handed Mrs Pargeter the torch. She trained it on the back of the frame as he brushed off dust and cobwebs. Deftly he slid a knifeblade through the brown paper tape that held the mount in place, then lifted out the rectangular cardboard backing.
“On this or the photograph itself, do you reckon?”
“The photograph,” she breathed.
He eased out the thick sheet and placed it, blank side upward, on the counter. Mrs Pargeter was ready, the ouzo bottle opened and a paper duster bunched over its top.
Their breathing was fast and shallow. Larry Lambeth nodded. She upended the bottle, felt the duster fill and moisten, then squeezed out the excess fluid.
Her eyes met Larry’s for a second before she made the first firm wipe across the back of the photograph.
For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Maybe there was nothing there… Or maybe the effect of the chemical had simply worn off over the years… The whole edifice of conjecture and connection she had built up swayed and threatened to topple.
Then, mercifully, the first purplish streaks showed and quickly the swathe of card she had wiped was marked with spidery Greek lettering.
Involuntary sighs of relief burst from both of them.
Confident now, Mrs Pargeter wiped another stripe across. And another and another, until the entire rectangle had been covered.
Her efforts were rewarded by more lettering. “What does it say, Larry? What does it say?”
He translated what he read fluently but slowly, draining all emotion from his voice.
“‘I write this, knowing that I will soon be dead, but I do not wish to die without recording the act of evil that I have witnessed. I write this in sadness and in hatred, and that hatred is for my own flesh and blood.
“‘Christo, you have committed an offence that can never be forgiven. You have tried to kill your own brother by sabotaging the outboard motor on the boat you stole. I know that you had help from Stephano in your evil plan, but he is weak and does whatever you tell him. The outrage was your idea and you must bear the full responsibility of it.
“‘Spiro told me what happened. He is here with me now. Spiro, who is so clever at his studies, has shown me how to write this so that you will never find it.
“‘When I die, which as I said will not be long away, I will die hating you, Christo, more than ever father hated son. You have brought shame on our family and you will carry my curse upon you till the end of your life. Your death will be violent and terrifying – you will feel the fear you tried to inflict on your brother. You tried to kill by fire one whom you should have respected above all others, and so by fire you will yourself die. The day may come soon, or it may be many years away, but the fire will catch you eventually. That is a father’s curse, a curse spoken in the name of St Spiridon. And though you try to hide behind a new name, my dying curse will still find you out to destroy you, Christo.” And it’s signed ‘Spiro Karaskakis’.”
Mrs Pargeter was about to speak, but a terrible sound froze the words on her lips.
