The front door opened as far as the chain allowed.

‘Hey, Alex,’ said the Fat Man in a stage whisper. ‘Let me in.’

Mavros closed the bedroom door on the sleeping Niki and took off the chain.

‘What the hell is that?’ he demanded, staring at the huge package his friend was carrying.

‘Double-layer galaktoboureko,’ Yiorgos replied. ‘I found a recipe of the old woman’s. Don’t know if I’ve cracked it, though.’

In the kitchen, they carefully removed the paper covering.

‘Christ and the Holy Mother,’ Mavros said, ‘one bite of that will bring instant death.’

‘Right,’ the Fat Man said, laying out two plates. ‘We’d better make a suicide pact.’

‘What?’ Niki said from the door, rubbing her eyes and peering at the great mound of custard-filled filo pastry. ‘Count me in.’

They ate, drank chilled water and moved on to Yiorgos’s superlative coffee. Mavros watched the pair of them, surprised that no sparks had started to fly.

Then the Fat Man went too far. ‘So, Alex, that Cara Parks? Is she really as well endowed as she looks on the screen?’

There was a brief pause and then Niki launched into a loud anti-male tirade.

Mavros laughed and left them to it. On the balcony, he looked southwards towards the light-blue Aegean, wishing for a few moments that he was back on Crete. Then he came to his senses and re-entered the domestic combat zone.