Hand of God

46

Naoussa was a very typical little Greek town by the sea, with lots of winding, cobbled streets, low white buildings, and plenty of tourists, most of them English. The air was humid and thick with the smell of cooked lamb and wood smoke from many open kitchen-fires. Jaunty bouzouki music emptied out of small bars and restaurants and in spite of the English voices you would not have been surprised to have seen an unshaven Anthony Quinn step-dancing his way around the next corner. A line of Greek pennants connected one side of the little main square to the other and behind a couple of ancient olive trees was a taverna belonging to the Hotel Aliprantis.

The minute we entered the place I got a five bar signal on my iPhone and the texts and emails started to arrive like the scores on a pinball machine; before long there was a little red 21 on my Messages app, a 6 on my Mail app but, mercifully, fewer voicemails. As Svetlana led me through the restaurant and into the little hotel’s tiny lobby I uttered a groan as life began to catch up with me again. But worse still, I’d been recognised by four yobs drinking beer and all looking as pink as an old map of the British Empire. It wasn’t long before the innocent holiday atmosphere of the Aliprantis was spoiled as they struck up with a typically English sporting refrain:

and, just as offensive, although I’d heard half of this one before:

Svetlana spoke Greek to the hotel manager, a big swarthy man with a beard like a toilet brush, and then introduced me to him. We shook hands and as he led us both up to his office where I could make some calls in private and send some emails I was already apologising for what I could very clearly hear through the floorboards. Somehow, in the frustrating week I’d spent in Greece, I’d forgotten that when they wanted to be, a few English supporters could be every bit as unpleasant as the worst from Olympiacos or Panathinaikos. That’s football.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said.

‘No, sir, it is me who is sorry that you and your team should have had such poor hospitality while you are in Greece. Bekim Develi would often have a drink in here. And any friend of Bekim Develi’s is friend of mine.’

‘I ought to have realised I might be recognised. I should go. Before there’s any trouble.’

‘No, sir, I tell them to leave. You stay here, make your telephone calls, get your emails, I fix those bastards.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘But on one condition. That I pay for their meal.’ I laid a hundred euro note on the desk in the office. ‘That way, when you tell them to leave, they’ll think they had a free meal and just clear off without any trouble.’

‘Is not necessary.’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Take it from me. This really is the best way.’

‘Okay, boss. But I bring you something to drink, yes?’

‘Greek coffee,’ I said.

The manager glanced at Svetlana who asked for some ouzo.

I picked up the iPhone and started to read my texts.

Downstairs, the singing in the restaurant had stopped and moved outside where it continued for a while longer. I went to the window and looked out on the square and watched the four culprits as they sat on the edge of a fountain in front of the Blue Star Ferries office, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. One of them was wearing a T-shirt with a Keep Calm and Carry On slogan; another was wearing one that I’d seen almost as many times: Lookin’ to Score BRAZIL. They stayed there for a while and then, to everyone’s relief, left.

I picked up the iPhone and started to listen to my voicemails but these were just some of the same people and messages — more or less — as the ones who’d texted me already. There wasn’t enough bandwidth to download the document that Prometheus had attached to his email; the rest were unimportant. I called my dad to reassure myself that he really was okay; then I called Louise.

‘Hey, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you arrived,’ I said. ‘I should have met you at the airport.’

‘That’s all right. Where are you? I was getting worried.’

‘On the island of Paros.’

‘Paros? What are you doing there?’

‘I came to Bekim Develi’s house to check out a few things. I’m glad I did because things are a lot clearer to me than they were before.’

‘So are you finished down there, Sherlock?’

‘Yes, but I’m sorry, baby, I’m not going to be able to get back to Athens until tomorrow morning. There just isn’t a flight.’

I heard some laughter in the background.

‘Where are you anyway?’ I asked.

‘On Viktor Sokolnikov’s yacht,’ she said. ‘He invited me for dinner. Wait a minute. He wants to speak to you.’

There was a longish pause and then Viktor came on the line.

‘Scott? What are you doing on Paros? You should be here with your girlfriend.’

I told him what I’d just told Louise.

‘Paros is only half an hour away from here,’ he said. ‘I’ll send the helicopter for you right now. Drive to the Hotel Astir on the north coast where I happen to know there’s a helipad we can use. I’ll have it come and pick you up. You can be here within the hour.’

‘There’s no need to go to all that trouble.’ I was keen to see Louise again but somewhat mortified that I’d forgotten that she was coming to Athens; I was also nervous about the idea of taking a night-time flight in a helicopter. ‘I can catch the plane back to Athens tomorrow.’

At the same time I knew it was wiser to return to the mainland as soon as possible. I could hardly delay telling the police what I knew for much longer. Not only that but the Wi-Fi on The Lady Ruslana was as quick as any on the mainland and I was keen to read the email from Nataliya’s outbox. I had a feeling it would be a key piece of evidence in identifying her murderer.

‘Nonsense,’ said Vik, ‘it’s no trouble at all.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course, I’m sure. Look, you can both spend the night here on the yacht. And the tender will take you back to shore in the morning. Okay? Besides, I want to talk about this German guy, Hörst Daxenberger. And Kojo’s goalkeeper, Mandingo. And then you can tell me everything you’ve discovered since you put on your deerstalker hat and lit your favourite Meerschaum.’