He took off his cap, and dragged his forearm across his brow: David Yassine wasn’t the only one sweating. He said, ‘Charlie, this is Cyprus. Everything has to do with politics.’
‘Do you know where Pat Tobin went off on leave to?’
‘No, and you’re not the only one asking for him.’
‘Who should I ask next?’
‘You could always try praying.’ Bloody comedian; they can’t bloody resist it, can they? Before I left him I asked, ‘I suppose the German guy was killed?’ It was an afterthought, and one I was still ashamed of days later. It should have been the first thing I asked.
‘No. He took one in the back of a knee, and the other shot missed completely. Rank amateurs.’
‘He’ll be OK then?’
‘Apart from being on a stick for the rest of his life. Yes.’
‘I wonder what he did to annoy them.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. Don’t hold out on me if you hear anything, Charlie.’
I remembered his sympathy for the girl captured by the GCs.
‘No. Of course not. You’ll be the first to know.’ That was one better than Steve’s message to Yassine.
A civvy Brit policeman sauntered towards us like a model on a catwalk. He had git written all over his face. He looked me up and down as if I was a piece of dog dirt on his shiny shoe, and asked me, ‘ ’Elp you, squire?’ the way police do. He was telling me to buzz off, of course.
I gave Collins the look, and told the cop, ‘No, I was just leaving.’
When I was about ten paces away I heard him ask Collins, ‘Who was the titch? Someone you know?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Collins said, and that made me smile.
Chapter Eighteen
The Black Spot
When the captains and the kings had departed, taking their ambulances and cars with them, I went out again, but not very far. I remembered the Turkish café to which Pat had taken me soon after I arrived. It seemed like years ago. That’s what fear does to you: it makes you remember dangerous places as though you’ve known them all of your life. Your subconscious is scanning all the time for that little clue which tells you to run. I sat down at the back in deep shadow.
The place was empty at first, and the big man who ran the place came out from a door covered by a beaded curtain, to set a glass of raki – that’s what the Turks call the aniseed stuff – a jug of water, and a small black coffee in front of me. A few minutes later a couple of locals came in, and sat at a table near the door. They just had the coffee. Finally a third guy came in, and immediately came over to sit at my table. He said, ‘Can we help you?’ in good English.
‘An English policeman asked me that an hour ago. He didn’t mean it either.’
‘What did he mean? Your English policeman?’
‘He meant me to go away.’
‘Maybe I mean that as well. A man was shot near here today – this is a dangerous street.’
‘I’m a friend of Pat Tobin’s. He brought me here a few weeks ago.’
‘We know nobody of that name.’
‘Pity. He told me to stay away from you and your friends – that you would start a riot, and blame it on me.’
‘He sounds like a sensible man. You could always leave now. My friends will not stop you.’
‘Pat took off a few days ago, and nobody knows where he’s gone. That is not characteristic behaviour for him, and his friends are worried. I am not here because I wish to compromise you or your colleagues, nor for my health. I am here because I am one of his friends. You are a chance I was willing to take.’
He stared at me for a minute. I could hear flies buzzing against the window. One of the decent things about England is that we’re often short of flies. One of those frozen moments until he asked, ‘Why are you worried for him?’
‘The British police and the Island police are asking questions about him. He probably doesn’t know that. I wanted to warn him.’ That was about halfway along the road to truth, wasn’t it?
‘I still do not know him. I am sorry.’
His jacket had been expensive once. Tweed. Its cuffs must have frayed for they had been piped with leather.
‘OK. In that case I will not bother you further,’ and I leaned forward to stand up.
He held up both his hands, palms towards me. It has probably been a friendship gesture since the Neolithic.
‘No, stay. I did not mean to be rude. Have another drink. We are a hospitable people, and this is a friendly town.’ He stood up himself, and held his hands up again. This time I noticed his fingers and fingernails were stained by oil: a mechanic of some sort then. He registered my thought processes. ‘I have a carburettor to change on the nurse’s car. Then I will wash my hands and join you . . . for the other half. Isn’t that what you British say?’
‘Yes, it is, but—’
‘You will be safe if you stay here. I promise it . . .’
As he walked out he gestured to the two gorillas at the door. They, too, stood up. One followed him; the other, and larger, came to sit at my table in the chair my interrogator had vacated. He smiled. No teeth.
These Turkish Cypriots talked with their hands. The giant sitting opposite me held his up, but at right angles from his body, and made swivelling movements with them from the wrist, as if describing the heft of a woman’s breasts. This is not my fault, he was telling me. He grinned when the owner of the joint put an unlabelled bottle of wine on the table between us, and
