Mrs Pargeter 03; Mrs Pargeter’s Package

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

Thirty-Three

It was Greek party night at Spiro’s when they got back to Agios Nikitas. The tourists who had paid for the evening’s entertainment had eaten up their cheese pies and barbecued lamb and were now vigorously applauding the dancing.

As Mrs Pargeter and Larry Lambeth arrived, Spiro and Yianni, side by side, arms locked on each other’s shoulders, were solemnly following the ritual of long-remembered steps, while the live group of bouzouki, guitar and drums built up the pace of their music. There was a pagan magnificence about the two men, Yianni justifying the cliché description of a young Greek god, and Spiro more solid but still impressive and surprisingly light-footed for his bulk. Both their faces were rigid with the concentration of the dance.

Their audience clapped along with the pounding beat. Mr Safari Suit was arranging Mrs Safari Suit in a suitable foreground pose for his next snap. Linda from South Woodham Ferrers was arguing with Keith from South Woodham Ferrers over whether it had been a good idea to bring Craig with them. The little boy evidently didn’t think a lot of Greek dancing and was bawling his head off. Linda wanted to take him back to the villa, but Keith insisted that they’d paid for the evening and they were jolly well going to get their money’s worth. An atmosphere had developed between the couple. Keith said in some ways it’d be quite a relief to get back to the office.

The Secretary with Short Bleached Hair and the Secretary with Long Bleached Hair lingered on the edge of the dancing area, eager for all this male display dancing to end and for the disco music to start. Their suntans had settled down a little; five days into their package, they looked proudly browner than that day’s air freight delivery of white-skinned English.

Mrs Pargeter and Larry found a vacant table, but it was some time before they could order a drink, as the masculine pas de deux gave way to a dance with brightly-coloured scarves which involved all of the taverna’s waiters.

Mrs Pargeter watched Spiro leading the dance with a preoccupied, automatic jollity, and thought perhaps now she knew some of the reasons for the underlying melancholy of his dark face.

The scarf dance ended. The audience, convinced they were getting an exclusive taste of the authentic Greece (just as the party night audience at the taverna did every Monday), clapped enthusiastically. After perfunctory bows, the dancers moved back into waiter mode and hurried towards the many hands that waved for drinks.

Yianni appeared at their table. “Please, I get you drinks, yes, please?”

Larry ordered retsina and brandy, but, rather than rushing off to get them, the waiter lingered. “Please, you see Conchita, please?”

“Sorry, I’ve only just come back here. Been away for a couple of days.”

“She say she come to party night. I not see her, please.”

His black eyes looked so moist and desolate that Mrs Pargeter had to say something to reassure him. “She’ll turn up. Don’t worry, it’s early yet.”

As the waiter slouched disconsolately back into the taverna, she felt very sorry for him. Dear, oh dear, had Conchita fulfilled her ambitions for a purely physical relationship, and had Yianni now served his purpose and been cast aside? Conchita gave the impression of being a tough, modern cookie. Nothing in Yianni’s culture or background could have prepared him – or any Greek man – for the novel experience of being used as a sex-object.

Recorded disco music started up, current British chart successes alternating with banal Euro-hits. The Secretary with Short Bleached Hair and the Secretary with Long Bleached Hair moved keenly into the dancing area where, to their great delight, they were quickly joined by two young men in fluorescent T-shirts and cycling shorts.

Mrs Pargeter sipped her retsina and took in the scene. Larry Lambeth, seeing that she was deep in thought, respected her silence.

She was convinced now that Christo Karaskakis had escaped from the burning boat which was believed to have killed him, and that its flames almost definitely explained the scarring on his face…

Yes! Another detail slotted into place. She remembered how Mr Fisher-Metcalf had started to respond to the overexposed photograph of Spiro. That must have been because Spiro’s face, with the distinctive features smoothed out, looked very much like the scarred face of his identical twin, the solicitor’s client.

She was now in no doubt that Chris Dover and Christo Karaskakis had been one and the same person.