‘The main enquiry is going on back home. This is just a wild card, so to speak. We don’t hold much hope of finding anything but we obviously have to cover every angle.’
‘So what have your people found out about the dead man?’ asked India.
‘Not much. We know his name is Peter Venezelos, and his driving license is registered in Therma but apart from that, there’s not much to know. This island is very isolated and he doesn’t appear on any database we can find. In my experience the civil servants in these sort of places are pretty slow in computerising their records. Given time, I’m sure we could dig up all sorts of facts but that’s the one thing we haven’t got, time!’ He called the waiter and ordered more drinks.
‘So, what else can you tell me about this island?’
‘Not much,’ said India, ‘After the death of Elektra the Temple of the Gods went from strength to strength and lasted thousands of years, right up until it was torn down by the Byzantines in the fourth century.’
‘So that’s a dead end as far as the investigation goes then,’ said Brandon.
‘Possibly, though don’t forget, for all those thousands of years previous to that, it was a fundamental part of life to most people across this part of the world.’
They talked long into the night and eventually made their way back to the taverna in the early hours of the morning, slightly worse for wear. They spent an awkward ten minutes getting changed and organising the sleeping arrangements before India curled up on the squeaky bed under a sheet, and Brandon lay on the floor on a makeshift mattress made from two spare blankets they had found on top of the wardrobe.
‘You okay?’ asked India in the darkness.
‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘I’ve slept in a lot worse places than this.’
‘Good night then,’ she said, and closed her eyes, falling asleep within minutes.
— -
The following morning saw them both on a small bus heading along the coast road towards the town named for the natural warm springs that was its main attraction. The bus was filled with tourists, all keen to see more of the island and India could hear a range of languages including Greek, German and British. At the back, were a group of gossiping old women carrying baskets of various farm produce, and the noise of the chickens within some, competed with the bleats of a goat, perched on the shelf of the rear window.
They eventually arrived and India and Brandon got off to follow the tourists into the village. They spent an hour wandering around the market before eventually moving up into the side streets, finally finding the one named on Brandon’s slip of paper. They made their way into the cafe near the end of the row of whitewashed houses. Despite the language differences, they managed to order some coffees and they spent an hour making small talk as they took in the environment around them. They ordered a light lunch and struck up a conversation with a waitress who spoke English and Brandon eventually eased the conversation around to Peter Venezelos, explaining that he had met him on a previous holiday and would like to say hello.
‘Peter has been away for a long time,’ answered the waitress, ‘He left over a year ago, but I know not where.’
‘Does he live around here,’ he asked, ‘Perhaps I could pop in and say hello to his parents. It would be good to see them again.’
The girl paused.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said,’ I don’t understand. His parents have been dead for many years. He and his brother were brought up by Mama Christou. Where did you say you met him?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Brandon, realising he had made a faux pas,’ I must be mistaken. Perhaps I will catch up with him next time.’ He placed some money on the bar and led the way out of the cafe and away from the street. The girl watched them leave curiously before reaching for the handset of an ancient landline on the bar. Outside, India and Brandon crossed the square.
‘That was awkward,’ said India.
‘Schoolboy error,’ said Brandon. ‘I assumed too much too quickly. Still, at least we’ve got a name.’
‘Who?’
‘Mama Christou,’ he said, ‘Sounds like a name most people will know in a place like this.’ He was right. Within a few minutes they had directions to Mama Christou’s house and had found out she was now a frail old woman with failing eyesight. Brandon bought a bunch of flowers and they made their way to an old part of the village. India knocked on the door and a young woman answered.
‘Hello,’ said India, ‘Do you speak English?’
‘A little,’ said the woman.
‘We are looking for Mama Christou. Peter Venezelos said she lived here.’
The woman’s eyes widened.
‘You are a friend of Peter?’ she asked, ‘Have you seen him?
‘Yes,’ said Brandon, ‘He is in England. We have become friends over the last few months and when I told him I was coming here on holiday. He asked me to pop in and give Mama Christou some flowers.’
‘Not like him,’ said the woman, ‘Still, you had better come in.’
They entered a darkened room and immediately they could see an old woman sat in a battered chair with a shawl wrapped around her knees. The young woman pulled up two chairs from the table and placed them facing the old woman.
‘Mama,’ she said in English, ‘We have visitors, friends of Peter. They have come to pay their respects to you.’
The old woman peered at them through thick glasses.
‘Friends of Peter,’ she said. ‘Which ones. Better not be Aetosh. Not welcome here, bringing their trouble all the time. Tell them to go.’
‘No, mama,’ said the young woman, ‘They are not Aetosh, they are English. Nice people. Look they have brought you flowers.’
‘English!’ she said. ‘What are English doing in my home?’
Brandon stepped forward.
‘Peter said to pop in and say hello,’ she said. ‘We haven’t known him long but he said you brought him up.’
‘I did,’ said the woman, ‘And look how he repays me. No job, no grandchildren, and left us without any food in the cupboard. I should have known. Spent most of his time riding his moped with the rest of the hooligans. Waster, that boy is, Nothing more than a scoundrel.’ She leaned back and closed her eyes, mumbling something incoherently under her breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the younger woman. She gets a bit upset these days. Times are hard you see.’
‘No matter,’ said Brandon. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have come.’ They stood up to leave but as they left, he paused and pulled out a pile of Euros from his wallet before placing them on the table.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I forgot to say,’ said Brandon. ‘Peter told me to give you this. It’s not much but it will help a little.’
‘It’s not charity is it?’ asked the woman. ‘Mama would never accept charity.’
‘No, certainly not,’ he lied, ‘Peter asked me to bring it to you.’
‘You sure?’ she asked.
‘Positive,’ interrupted India, backing up his story. ‘I was there.’
‘In that case, I will take it,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘One more thing,’ said Brandon. ‘Who are the Aetosh, Mama refers to?’
‘Oh, take no notice,’ she said, ‘Just some silly gang Peter used to run with a long time ago. Anyway, how is Peter? I am surprised he ended up in England. He was always very patriotic and had no time for foreign people.’
‘Yes, I noticed that,’ said Brandon avoiding the question. ‘Anyway, we had better go. We don’t want to impose.’
‘When you go back, tell him to call the Mama,’ said the woman, ‘She misses him, really.’
‘We will,’ said Brandon and they made their way back down the hill in silence, both fully aware that the young man in question was laying on a marble slab in a London mortuary, Brandon’s bullet probably still lodged in the back of his skull.
‘What do you think?’ asked India. ‘Any help?’
