Mrs Pargeter 03; Mrs Pargeter’s Package

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

Thirty-One

Mrs Joan Frimley Wainwright, dressed in her beige dress, large cotton hat and sunglasses, had no trouble with Passport Control or Customs at Corfu Airport, and was met at the barrier by Larry Lambeth.

In spite of the darkness, the air was still fragrantly warm when they came out of the terminal. Because of the time difference, it was mid-evening in Corfu.

“Do you want to go straight back to Agios Nikitas?” asked Larry once they were safely in his car. “Or stop over in Corfu Town like you said you would?”

Mrs Pargeter had forgotten that her London mission had been achieved in less time than had been allotted for the fictitious Paleokastritsa trip.

“I think I’d better go back there tonight. I want to try and get this thing sorted out before the suicide verdict’s made official.”

“OK. What, straight to Agios Nikitas then – or have a bite to eat first? I know a great restaurant here in the town.”

“Well…” Mrs Pargeter replied cautiously. “I did have a snack on the plane, but… Oh yes, let’s go and eat. Then I can bring you up to date on what I found out in London.”

“And I can bring you up to date on what I’ve found out out here,” said Larry Lambeth.

♦

The restaurant was not on the tourist beat, set unobtrusively in a backstreet of the Old Town, away from the waterfront and the Liston. The functional lighting, plain white tablecloths and lack of menus in any language but Greek bore witness to its gastronomic seriousness.

Mrs Pargeter and Larry had been to the kitchen and selected their main courses. Both were having astakos, the saltwater crayfish that is translated (incorrectly) on most menus as ‘lobster’. Unflinching, they had witnessed the demise of their selections, plunged live into the boiling pot.

Now, as they nibbled on dolmades and olives, Mrs Pargeter filled Larry in on the results of Mrs Joan Frimley Wainwright’s visit to London.

“Fact is,” he sighed when she’d finished, “as one bit gets clearer, another bit gets muddier.”

“Yes. What do you know about Georgio, though?”

“Well – surprise, surprise – he’s a cousin of Spiro, and of Stephano.”

“Who’s Stephano? I haven’t heard of him.”

“Oh, sorry. Stephano – Stephano Karaskakis. The Tourist Police Sergeant.”

“Right. I was never told his Christian name.”

“Anyway, Georgio is a bit of a no-hoper. Sits around drinking ouzo all day devising money-making schemes which either never get started or never make any money if they do get started. I think he’s probably a bit jealous of Spiro having the taverna.”

“Spiro does well out of that?”

Larry Lambeth made a ‘so-so’ gesture. “By Corfiot standards, anyway. Not that he makes any money out of Georgio. Or Stephano, come to that. They both eat and drink there all the time, but neither one has ever been seen to pay a single drachma for anything.”

“That’s interesting. And Ginnie does live with Georgio, doesn’t she?”

“Oh yes. Doesn’t advertise the fact, mind you. Better the English punters think of her as single, unconnected with the locals.”

“They’re not married?”

“No, no. Might be a bit of local opposition if he actually made it legal with a foreigner. No problems having one as a chattel, though.”

“And does he beat her up?”

“I’m sure he does. That type has to take his failure out on someone.”

“Hm. Did you know that Georgio had been to England?”

“Yes, I did, actually. Couple of years back. That was yet another of his money-making ideas.”

“Oh?”

“Fact is, Georgio was going to go over to England to buy one of those JCBs – you know, big earth-moving truck things. He was going to buy it, ship it back here and clean up by renting it out. Not such a daft idea, actually. There’s always any amount of construction work going on, and lots of other stuff like shifting sand where they’re making artificial beaches, clearing seaweed, all that.”

“But presumably that project didn’t work out either?”

“No. Fact is, he never even bought it, did he? Probably hadn’t got enough of the old mazooma, anyway – they’re hellish expensive, those things. And no doubt when he got to London, he just drank his way through the money he had got.”

“Hm… And tried to investigate Chris Dover’s business affairs… Now why on earth would he do that?”

“Well, knowing Georgio, he must have reckoned there was some profit in it for him.”

“But how could there be?”

“Search me, lady.”