A Colder War

9

The offices of Villas Angelis were located above a small, family-run restaurant on the harbour in Chios Town. Kell reached the first floor by an external staircase at the side of the building, knocking on a part-frosted glass door through which he could see a small, strip-lit office occupied by a woman in her late thirties. The woman looked up, turned an inquisitive squint into a welcoming smile, then crossed the room and invited Kell to enter with a flourish of bosom and bonhomie.

‘Hello, sir, hello, hello,’ she said, on the correct assumption that Kell was a visitor to the island and spoke no Greek. She was wearing a floral-print summer dress and blue espadrilles that were squashed by her swollen feet. ‘Come and sit down. How can we help you?’

Kell shook the woman’s hand and settled into a small wooden chair facing her desk. Her name was Marianna and she was no taller than the water cooler beside which she was standing. The screensaver on her computer showed a photograph of an elderly Greek couple, whom Kell took to be her parents. There were no photographs on the desk of a husband or boyfriend, only a framed formal portrait of a child in knickerbockers — her nephew? — flanked on either side by his parents. Marianna was not wearing a wedding ring.

‘My name is Chris Hardwick,’ Kell said, handing over his card. ‘I’m an insurance investigator with Scottish Widows.’

Marianna’s English was good, but not good enough to untangle what Mr Hardwick had told her. She asked Kell to repeat what he had said, while studying the card closely for further clues.

‘I’m investigating the death of a British diplomat. Paul Wallinger. Does that name mean anything to you?’

Marianna looked very much as though she wanted the name to mean something to her. Her eyes softened, so that she was looking at Kell with something like yearning, and her head tilted to one side in an effort to accommodate the question. In the end, however, she was obliged to admit defeat, responding in an apologetic tone that suggested frustration with her own ignorance.

‘No, I’m sorry that it does not. Who was this man? I am sorry that I cannot help you.’

‘It’s quite all right,’ Kell replied, smiling as warmly as he could. To the left, a poster of the Acropolis was peeling off the wall. Beside it, three digital clocks in pale grey cases displayed the time in Athens, Paris and New York. Kell heard the sound of footsteps on the external staircase and turned to see a man of similar age and build to Andonis Makris pushing through the door of the office. He had thick eyebrows and a heavy black moustache, with two different shades of dye battling for prominence in his hair. Seeing Kell in the chair, the man grumbled something in Greek and moved towards the furthest window in the room, throwing open a set of shutters so that the office was suddenly flooded with morning sunlight and the noise of gunning mopeds. It was clear to Kell that the man was Marianna’s boss and that his words had been some sort of reprimand to her for a sin as yet undetected.

‘Nico, this is Mr Hardwick.’ Marianna offered Kell a conciliatory smile, which he interpreted as an apology in advance for her boss’s erratic temperament. She then began tapping something into her computer as Nicolas Delfas crossed the room and invited Kell to move to a seat beside his own desk. The body language was page one machismo: I’m in charge now. Men should deal with men.

‘You’re looking to rent a place?’ he asked, offering up a dry, bulky handshake.

‘No. I’m actually an insurance investigator.’ Delfas had braced his arms across his desk and was busily searching for something among a pile of papers. ‘I was just asking your colleague if your office had had any dealings with a British diplomat named Paul Wallinger?’

The word ‘diplomat’ was barely out of Kell’s mouth before Delfas looked up and began shaking his head.

‘Who?’

‘Wallinger. Paul Wallinger.’

‘No. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t know him. I did not know him.’

Delfas met Kell’s eye, but his gaze quickly slid back to the desk.

‘You don’t want to talk about him or you don’t know who he was?’

The Greek began moving objects on the top of a battered black filing cabinet, an exertion that caused him to breathe more heavily and to shake his head in frustration. After a few moments he looked at Kell again, as though surprised to see that he was still in the office.

‘Sorry?’ he said.

‘I was asking if you had met Mr Wallinger.’

Delfas pursed his lips, the bristles of his thick moustache momentarily obscuring the base of his nose.

‘I have told you, I do not know about this man. I don’t have any questions to answer. What else can I help you with?’

‘Wallinger’s flight plan listed your office as a contact number on Chios. I wondered if he had rented a property from Villas Angelis?’

Kell glanced at Marianna. She was still absorbed in her computer, though it was clear that she was listening to every word of the conversation: her ears and cheeks had flushed to scarlet and she looked tense and stiff. Delfas barked something at her, then uttered a word — ‘gamoto’ — which Kell assumed to be a close Greek cousin of ‘fuck’.

‘Look, Mister, uh …’

‘Hardwick.’

‘Yes. I do not know what it is you are talking about. We are very busy here. I cannot help you with your enquiries.’

‘You didn’t hear about the accident?’ Kell was amused by the idea that Delfas and Marianna were ‘busy’. The office had all the bustle and energy of a deserted waiting room in a branch-line railway station. ‘He took off from Chios airport last week,’ he said. ‘His Cessna crashed in western Turkey.’

At last Marianna turned her head and looked at the two men. It was obvious that she had remembered Wallinger’s name, or was at least familiar with the circumstances of the accident. Delfas, seeming to sense this, stood up and tried to usher Kell towards the door.

‘I do not know about this,’ he said, adding what sounded like a further brusque denial in his native tongue. Pulling at the door, he held it open with his eyes fixed on the ground. Kell had no choice but to stand and leave. Long exposure to liars — good and bad — had taught him not to strike in the first instance. If the perpetrator was being wilfully stubborn and obstructive it was better to let them stew.

‘Fine,’ he said, ‘fine,’ and turned to Marianna, nodding a warm farewell. As he left, Kell quickly scanned the room for evidence of CCTV and burglar alarms, making a rapid assessment of the locks on the door. Given that Delfas was plainly hiding something, it might be necessary to arrange a break-in and to take a closer look at the company’s computer system. Kell informed him that Edinburgh would be in ‘written contact regarding Mr Wallinger’s relationship with Villas Angelis’, and said that he was grateful for the opportunity to have spoken to him. Delfas muttered: ‘Yes, thank you’ in English, then slammed the door behind him.

The office opening hours and telephone number were engraved in a sheet of hard white plastic at the base of the external stairs. Kell was studying the notice and thinking about arranging for a Tech-Ops team to fly out to Chios when a far simpler idea occurred to him. The muscle memory of a cynical old spook. He knew exactly what he had to do. There was no need to organize a break-in. There was Marianna.