‘I don’t know, I do the work but he just ignores it.’

‘Shut up, Yiorgo, I’m reading.’ He ran his eye down the page, which was a series of extracts from Cretan and Athenian newspapers, mostly dated from the time of the gangster’s arrest.

‘He’s reading, is he?’ the Fat Man continued. ‘There was me thinking he was running around the Great Island waving a huge great pistol.’

‘I was actually.’

‘Really?’ Yiorgos’s tone changed instantly. ‘Did you shoot someone? What kind is it?’

‘No, and a Colt Double Eagle.’

‘A forty-five?’ The Fat Man had always been fascinated by firearms, mainly because he’d never been allowed to use one by the Party.

‘Yes, a forty-five. Will you let me read this?’

‘I’ll save you the bother. The only thing linking “the Bat” to Crete is a trip he made there in 1995. He was given a hero’s welcome in Kornaria.’

‘What a surprise.’

‘During which he met that well-known agent of imperialism David Waggoner.’ The Fat Man mangled the Englishman’s surname with relish.

Mavros stared at the extract, which said that Kondoyannis had visited the house of the ‘wartime British commander’, along with the Mayor, Vasilios Dhrakakis.

‘Are you still awake?’ Yiorgos demanded.

‘What? Of course I’m awake. Thanks, Fat Man, this is useful.’

‘No chance of you telling me in what way?’

‘Er, no. Talk to you tomorrow.’ He knew his reticence would drive his friend to distraction.

Too bad. He was even more convinced that everything he was doing on Crete was linked, but he couldn’t see exactly how. The idea that the highly decorated former SOE man had got involved in the international drugs trade was surprisingly easy to swallow.

Then his mobile rang. Niki’s number was on the screen. He answered with apprehension.

EIGHTEEN

As it turned out, Niki didn’t give him a hard time.

‘Still busy?’ she asked pleasantly.

‘Even more than before,’ Mavros replied, fingering the dressing on his neck. When she saw that, he’d get several earfuls. ‘But I hope to be home in a day or two.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Niki said. ‘I’m busy too.’

‘Everything all right?’ he asked, remembering how disaffected she’d been.

‘Oh, the usual stuff, but I can cope. See you soon, my love.’

To his surprise, she rang off. He looked at the phone and tried to work out what lay beneath her strangely buoyant tone, then gave up. He swallowed a couple more of the painkillers, had a shower with a towel round his neck, and collapsed into a dreamless sleep. .

. . until the early dawn, when he heard the bell of a nearby church and found himself in the limbo between wakefulness and oblivion. Faces flickered before him — David Waggoner’s with its craggy features; Rudolf Kersten’s contorted death mask; Hildegard’s soft skin; and his father, eyes flashing and lips set in an unmoving smile. Then Waggoner reappeared, leaning forward avidly as he had been when he was with Tryfon Roufos in the taverna. Waggoner, that was what Spyros was telling him — concentrate on the SOE man, who spread lies about me. .

Mavros sat up with a start. Waggoner had told him he had a place in Chania. With the filming in progress, it seemed likely he would be staying there. Early morning would be the perfect time to catch him unawares. But how to find where he was? The obvious thing would have been to call Rosie Yellenberg, aka Tzannetaki, but he couldn’t trust her. There was one person on the production crew he thought was reliable.

‘Alice Quincy.’ The voice was faint and full of sleep.

‘Alex Mavros. Sorry it’s so early, but I really need to find David Waggoner.’

‘What?’ the young woman mumbled. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t have to understand, Alice. It’s to do with Maria Kondos going missing again. He may have seen her.’ Phrasing the untruth that way reduced his guilt.

‘Ah, right. Hang on.’ He heard her fingers fly across a keyboard.

‘Sarpaki Fourteen,’ she said. ‘Do you want the phone number?’

‘Yes.’ He entered it into his mobile’s memory. ‘Thanks, Alice. Could you do me a favour? My talking to him is a bit sensitive. Could you keep this between us?’

‘Oh. OK.’

He cut the connection before she could ask more, then dressed quickly, pulling on a classy striped shirt of his brother-in-law’s that flapped about his thin frame.

OdhosSarpaki was only a few minutes’ walk away. Mavros thought about calling Mikis in as back-up, but decided he could handle the old soldier on his own. He’d also borrowed one of Nondas’s kitchen knives, one with a worn handle but a very keen edge. He reconsidered ringing Waggoner first, but decided warning him wasn’t a good idea. Not for nothing did the police make house raids in the early morning — catch the bad people at their most befuddled.

A seagull took off from the deserted street when he turned the corner, leaving behind a partially consumed chicken carcass. The scent from the flowers on the plants hanging from the wooden balconies covered the whiff of decay. Mavros found number fourteen, which had Waggoner’s name neatly printed on a card, and pressed the bell for over half a minute. Then he started pounding on the door.

‘Who is it?’ came a shocked voice from behind the door, in Greek.

Mavros kept thumping away.

The door opened to reveal David Waggoner in a striped silk dressing gown and leather slippers.

‘Morning,’ Mavros said, brushing past him. ‘You and I need to have a chat.’

‘What do you mean coming-’

‘What do you mean consorting with known drug traffickers and antiquities thieves?’

That put a stop to the old man’s protestations.

‘You’d better come up,’ he said, heading for the wooden staircase.

The house contained floor tiles and ornate ceilings that suggested it was several hundred years old. On the first floor, a double door led into a large open space, furnished at one end as a saloniand the other as a dining room, both full of antique pieces. There were several vases of cut flowers.

‘Do you own this place?’

Waggoner nodded.

‘And the house at Kornaria? Your army pension must be very generous.’

The old man looked at him combatively. ‘I went into business after I left the forces.’

‘Yes, that’s one of the things I want to talk to you about.’

‘What makes you think I’ll take part in any conversation?’

‘This,’ Mavros said, pulling the knife out from under his shirt.

Alarm flashed across Waggoner’s face. ‘You. . you wouldn’t. .’

‘Strange you haven’t asked about this,’ Mavros said, pointing at the dressing on his neck.

‘What. . what happened?’

It was clear he was prevaricating. ‘You know exactly what your friend Tryfon Roufos ordered.’

Waggoner’s head dropped. ‘He’s not my friend.’

‘Business associate, then. You know how untrustworthy he is, don’t you?’

‘I. . I’ve heard things, yes.’

Mavros plunged the knife into the wooden table between them and left it vibrating to and fro. The former SOE man’s eyes followed it like those of a small jungle creature being hypnotized by a snake.

‘I’m not leaving till I find out what you’re doing,’ Mavros said, glancing at the knife. ‘If you don’t want your throat to end up with a deeper cut than mine, start talking. Now!’ His anger surprised him — the Cretan urge to violence had taken him over again. Then he remembered that Waggoner had killed many times in the past and watched him even more closely.

‘I. . Roufos made me a proposition.’ He hesitated, but continued when he saw the intensity in Mavros’s eyes.

‘He knew I had free access to the Heavenly Blue — and he found out what I thought about Rudolf Kersten.’

‘What was the proposition?’

‘That I — what’s the expression? — case the joint to see how Kersten’s coin collection could be stolen.’