14

A Fine Night for Dying

The moon was rising as he went down the hill through the olive trees and he could taste the salt on the wind. The farm was shrouded in the darkness of the hollow, still and quiet with no light showing anywhere, and he ducked under a fence and moved cautiously across the yard.

An old and battered pick-up truck, relic of the war years, was parked by the porch. The radiator was still warm when he touched it and he stood for a moment, a slight frown on his face, and then mounted the steps to the porch and opened the door.

There was a slight eerie creaking from the hinges, but no other sound. He moved into the kitchen, eyes probing the darkness, and paused suddenly, aware with complete certainty that he was not alone.

A foot scraped on a flagstone and Dimitri Paros said from the shadows, “Come right in, Mr. Lomax. We hoped you’d call.”

Lomax took a quick step backwards and something exploded in the pit of his stomach, doubling him over. He sank to his knees and keeled slowly over on to one side.

A lamp was turned on, flooding the room with light, and he lay with his knees drawn up, fighting for breath while his wrists were tied behind his back.

He was aware of voices speaking together in Greek and the sound of laughter and then someone grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him to his feet.

There were two others besides Dimitri and stamped in the same mold, young fishermen in shabby reefer jackets and patched jeans. One of them was shaking with excitement and the other kept wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

Dimitri’s head was heavily bandaged, his face drawn with pain. “You’re going to die, Englishman,” he said, and his eyes were like stone. “For making a fool of me in front of my friends with your dirty tricks and for sending my father to his death in Fonchi camp.”

Lomax was managing to draw air into his tortured lungs once more, but his mouth was so parched that he found difficulty in speaking. He moistened dry lips and croaked, “I didn’t send your father to his death, or anyone else. He was a brave man for whom I had only respect.”

Dimitri struck him back-handed across the face. “You are not fit to speak of him.” He turned to the other two. “Get him into the truck.”

They ran Lomax out through the door, bundled him into the cab of the old truck and pushed him down on the floor. One of them climbed behind the wheel and Dimitri and the other walked round to the far side.

Lomax twisted on to his front and as the headlights were switched on, found himself looking straight at Dimitri. The bouzouki player produced a Beretta automatic of the type issued to Italian officers during the war and handed it to the other man.

“If he gives you any trouble between here and town, shoot him.”

“What do we do when we’ve got rid of him?” his companion said.

“Come straight back to the farm. I’ll be waiting to hear the good news.” Dimitri turned to Lomax. “Sorry I can’t be in at the kill, but I’ve got other business to attend to, Riki here and Nikita will look after you just fine. They’ve got almost as good a reason for hating you as I have.”

“You’ll never get away with this,” Lomax said.

Dimitri spat full in his face. “That’s for luck, Englishman. You’re going to need it.”

He stepped back as Riki clambered up into the passenger seat and the truck moved away over the uneven surface of the yard. As they turned on to the track, Nikita moved into top gear and the roar of the engine filled the small cab.

Lomax twisted to one side and looked up. In the light from the instrument panel Nikita seemed almost subhuman, the bones of his face standing out in sharp relief as sweat dripped from his pointed chin.

Riki, who had been smoking a cigarette, tossed it out of the window and started to sing, and the roaring of the engine drowned his voice so that as his mouth opened and closed no sound seemed to come out.

There was an impossible, nightmarish quality to the whole thing and for the first time Lomax began to feel afraid. “Listen to me!” he shouted desperately.

If either of them heard him above the noise of the engine, they made no sign. The truck bounced over a ridge in the road, rolling him over on his face again, and as panic moved inside him he turned on his back and cried at the top of his voice, “For God’s sake listen to me!”

The effect was almost miraculous. The truck skidded to a halt and Nikita cut the engine in the same moment. They sat looking down at him, neither of them saying anything, waiting for him to speak, and Lomax said, “This is madness. Killing me will earn you nothing but grief.”

“You have a better idea?” Riki asked calmly.

“I’m a rich man,” Lomax said. “My life is worth a great deal to me.”

The very oppressiveness of the silence which followed told him that he had said the wrong thing. With a sudden curse, Riki raised a foot and pushed hard down on the unprotected neck. Lomax started to choke and a few seconds later the pressure was released.

“You ever hear of a man called George Samos?” Riki demanded.

Lomax nodded, feeling suddenly cold, realising what was to come. “I knew a shepherd by that name. He helped me when I was here during the war.”

“He was our uncle,” Riki said. “Our father’s brother. The Germans hunted him down up there on the mountain and shot him like a dog.”

“You think money could pay for that, Englishman?” Nikita demanded.

There was nothing Lomax could say, nothing they would have been prepared, to listen to. He lay there helplessly while Riki produced a large red bandanna and quickly gagged him with it, and Nikita started the engine again and drove away.

He was aware that they had entered the town because the truck had to slow to negotiate the narrow streets, and by turning his head slightly he could look up through the windscreen at the roofs of the houses.

When the truck finally rolled to a halt and Nikita cut the engine, Riki jumped to the ground first. He pulled Lomax out after him and held the Beretta under his nose.

“Do exactly as you’re told,” he said. “Don’t make me use this thing.”

They were parked at the end of the breakwater which was farthest away from the pier. It was dark and lonely, the only sound the lapping of the water against the pilings of the old wooden jetty below. When a car door was opened somewhere in the distance the music and laughter might have been coming from another planet, and Lomax shivered as they went down a flight of stone steps to the jetty.

The old forty-foot diesel launch moored at the far end was festooned with nets still damp from the day’s labour, and stank of fish, the deck slippery with their scales. They made him lie face down on the nets while they tied his ankles, and then Nikita went aft and returned with a pile of heavy chains which he dropped on the deck with a clatter.

Riki turned Lomax over and squatted beside him. “For you, Englishman. There’s a place we know a couple of miles out. Dark and quiet and very deep. You’ll have it all to yourself.”

He patted Lomax on the cheek, stood up and turned to his brother. “I’ll take her out. You see to the moorings.”

He went into the wheelhouse and Nikita cast off aft and moved into the prow. For a moment he was out of sight and Lomax swung on to his side, straining desperately at the ropes which bound him, but he was wasting his time.

The jetty lay quiet and deserted in the diffused, yellow light of a solitary lamp. There was no one to help him now, and then, somewhere in the shadows, a can was knocked on to its side and rolled across the deck with a clatter.

As Lomax twisted to look behind him, Nikita hurried aft, a frown of alarm on his face. “What the hell’s going on?” he demanded, and then a large, black-and-white cat moved out of the shadows and rubbed itself against his leg.

He picked it up and shook it affectionately. “Old devil, you had my heart in my mouth.”

As he put the cat down again and turned away, the engine burst into life, shattering the calm of the night, and the boat moved away from the jetty. A few moments later they passed the light at the end of the pier and turned out to sea.

Fog lifted from the water, giving it a peculiar luminosity and the sky was a jewel-studded delight As Riki increased speed, his brother moved to the rail and stood there, allowing the spray to fall across his face.

He stayed there for quite a while and then turned and lit a cigarette, the match flaring in his cupped hands, momentarily illuminating the strong-boned face.

He flicked it into the sea and looked down at Lomax. “A night to thank God for, Englishman. A fine night for dying.”

His teeth gleamed in the darkness and he walked away, humming to himself, and disappeared into the wheelhouse. In spite of the gag Lomax heaved a sigh of relief. For quite some time he had been aware that the cat had not been responsible for knocking over the can as they left the jetty and that someone crouched in the darkness behind the pile of nets.

He started to push himself backwards, and as hands started to untie the knots of the bandanna, Yanni Melos whispered into his ear, “Take it easy, Mr. Lomax. Let’s get this off first.”

Lomax spat out the gag and gulped in a mouthful of fresh salt air. He didn’t waste time on pointless questions. “If you’ve got a knife, you’d better move fast, son. He’ll be back any minute.”

There was a sharp click as the boy pressed the button of a spring knife, and a second later Lomax was rubbing his wrists, wincing with pain as the blood started to move again.

As Yanni sliced through the rope which bound his ankles, the engine was cut and the boat started to slow down. The boy moved back into the shadows and Lomax said quietly, “Stay out of this. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

There was a burst of laughter and Nikita emerged from the wheelhouse and came towards them. He squatted beside Lomax and grinned. “Not long now, Englishman.”

He stiffened suddenly, the smile leaving his face, and as he leaned forward Lomax slashed him across the windpipe with the edge of his hand.

Nikita gave a terrible, choking cry and went over backwards to writhe on the deck, hands tearing at his throat. Riki emerged from the wheelhouse at the same moment, the Beretta ready in his hand. He loosed off a quick shot and Lomax did the only possible thing and went over the rail in a shallow dive.

As the water closed above him he was already turning to swim down and under the boat, the keel scraping his back painfully. He surfaced on the other side beside a short ladder of the type used by sponge divers and hung there for a moment to catch his breath.

The water was surprisingly cold and he was shivering as he went up the ladder. Riki stood with his back turned peering down into the sea, and as Lomax started to climb over the rail, Yanni moved from behind the pile of nets.

His arm rose, the blade gleaming like silver in the moonlight, and Riki chose that precise moment to turn. He swayed out of harm’s way then twisted the knife from the boy’s hand and threw it into the sea. As Yanni backed away, he went after him, face contorted with rage, the Beretta extended threateningly.

A six-foot gaff used for hauling in the big fish hung from a hook beside the wheelhouse. It was the only possible weapon and Lomax grabbed it and moved forward quickly.

“Here I am, Riki!” he called.

The Greek glanced sideways, jaw going slack in astonishment, and then he started to turn, bringing the gun to bear. Lomax lunged awkwardly with the gaff and the blade sliced through the heavy reefer jacket into the right armpit.

Riki screamed, dropping the gun at once, and staggered backwards, jerking the gaff from Lomax’s grasp. He pulled it from his armpit and sank down on the pile of nets, moaning in pain.

Yanni stumbled across to the rail and leaned over the side, his small body heaving, and Lomax picked up the Beretta and moved after him. The boy turned, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, trying hard to hold back his tears and failing.

“I thought you were dead,” he said. “I thought you’d gone down for good.”

Lomax pushed him gently towards the wheelhouse. “Go inside and wait for me. I won’t be long.”

He pushed the Beretta into the waistband of his pants and went into the galley. It was dark and airless, but he managed to find a towel and went back on deck.

Riki crouched beside his brother who lay very still, head turned to one side, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the diffused yellow light from the wheelhouse.

Lomax dropped to one knee, folded the towel into a thick pad and held it out. “If you hold this under your arm as tightly as you can you might live long enough to see a doctor.”

Riki’s face was sickly yellow in the lamplight, the eyes fixed and staring. “He’s dead,” he said stupidly. “My brother is dead.”

Lomax lifted the man’s arm away from his body and pushed the padded towel into position. Riki made no attempt to stop him. He sat there beside the body of his brother holding his damaged arm against his side and Lomax turned wearily away and went into the wheelhouse.

He leaned against the door and closed his eyes and it was as if he was alone and the darkness moved in on him, pushing against his body with a terrible weightless pressure. He was lost, alone in that darkness groping for a light and then a hand tugged at his damp sleeve and he opened his eyes and looked down at Yanni.

The boy’s face was white and anxious and Lomax patted him reassuringly. “It’s all right, Yanni. I’m not as young as I used to be, that’s all.”

But there was more to it than that—much more. He glanced down through the window at Riki crouched beside the body of his brother and turned away hurriedly, sick to his stomach.

His hands were shaking when he pressed the starter. The engine coughed once asthmatically and then roared into life, and he took the boat round in a long sweeping curve and said, “Now you can tell me how you managed to turn up when you did.”

“I followed you over the mountain to the farm instead of going back to the villa when you told me,” Yanni explained. “When they brought you outside and put you in the truck, I climbed on to the spare wheel at the rear.”

“You must have had a pretty rough ride,” Lomax said.

“It could have been worse.” The boy shrugged. “I wanted to go for Kytros, but I didn’t like to leave you. I couldn’t walk along the jetty because of the lamp, so I swam out from the beach and climbed over the stern. That’s when I knocked the can over.” He hesitated and said diffidently. “Did I do right, Mr. Lomax?”

Lomax grinned down at him. “I’m beginning to wonder how I ever managed without you.”

The fog that curled up from the surface of the water had thickened a little, but within a few minutes he saw the harbour lights on the port side and altered course.

As they passed the end of the pier, Yanni moved out on deck and stood ready with one of the mooring lines. Lomax reduced speed and cut the engine when they were a few yards from the jetty. He had miscalculated slightly and the boat drifted broadside on against the pilings with a splintering of wood, the shock sending him staggering across the wheelhouse.

When he moved out on deck, Yanni was already on the jetty expertly hooking the line over an iron bollard.

He grinned. “How long since you brought a boat into harbour, Mr. Lomax?”

“I got us here,” Lomax said. “That’s all that counts. How far is it to the police station?”

“Just around the corner,” Yanni said. “A couple of minutes, that’s all. Shall I get Sergeant Kytros?”

Lomax nodded. “I’ll wait here.” A hollow booming echoed across the water as the boy ran along the wooden planking of the jetty to the wharf and disappeared into the darkness.

When Lomax turned, he saw that Riki was on his feet.

He stood looking down at the body of his brother, legs braced apart, damaged arm held firmly against his side.

“Who sicked you and your brother and Dimitri on to me?” Lomax said. “Was it Alexias Pavlo?”

Riki looked up slowly. In the yellow light of the lamp his eyes were black holes, the face glistening with sweat, a mask of pain.

He said nothing and yet his hatred lay between them like a living thing and Lomax shivered as if somewhere, someone had walked over his grave. A small wind lifted from the water, slicing through his damp clothing and he turned, stepped over the rail and walked along the jetty. When he reached the wharf he hesitated, knowing that the sensible thing to do was to wait for Kytros, to let him handle things. And then he thought of Dimitri waiting out there at the farm for news that he was dead and anger moved inside him. He climbed into the truck and a moment later drove rapidly away.

A solitary light greeted him from the darkness of the hollow when he took the truck down towards the farmhouse. He braked to a halt, cut the engine and sat there looking towards the porch. After a moment, he jumped down to the ground and moved up the steps.

He took the Beretta from his waistband, held it against his right thigh with the safety catch off and went in. The kitchen was in darkness, but a thin strip of light showed at the bottom of the door leading to the living room.

He stood there, conscious of the uncanny stillness, the absolute quiet, and somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled menacingly. He opened the door and stepped into the living room in one smooth movement.

A fire crackled on the hearth and a lamp stood on the table in the centre of the room, its yellow glow beating the shadows back into their corners.

And then he noticed the bottle lying on the sheepskin rug where it had fallen. Red wine spilling across the floor like blood, reached out towards the legs that protruded from the shadows behind one of the great whig-backed chairs beside the fire.

Dimitri Paros stared up at the ceiling, eyes fixed for eternity, a half-smile frozen into place. The horn-handle of a gutting knife jutted from beneath his chin, the long blade passing through the roof of the mouth into the brain.

In one hand he still clutched a wine-glass, its contents spilled on the floor beside him, and Lomax pushed the Beretta into his waistband and dropped to one knee.

When he touched the white face with the back of one hand, he found it still warm. He was only just dead, that much was obvious, and Lomax sighed and started to get to his feet.

A slight breeze touched the back of his neck and the door creaked. A familiar voice said, “Please to stand very still.”

Alexias Pavlo moved into the room leaning heavily on his cane, a Mauser clutched firmly in his other hand. He removed the Beretta, slipping it into his pocket, and glanced down at Dimitri.

When he looked again at Lomax, his face was dark with vengeance and as implacable, hewn out of stone.

“Now I will see you hang, Captain Lomax,” he said.