The Greek Key

'Again, your subtle turn of phrase. I liked Harry. Now. Marler, just piss off…'

Petros sat in his cane chair on the veranda of the farmhouse in Devil's Valley. His shirt front was open, exposing the hair on his barrel-like chest. Across his lap rested a shotgun. The sun had sunk behind the cliff-like wall of the mountainside to the west. The valley was dark with shadows like blue smoke.

His son and two grandsons stood outside the veranda, keeping their distance, showing their respect. Anton was the most confident. Still wearing his dark blue English business suit, he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar at the neck.

Compared with his two nephews, Dimitrios and Constantine, who were clad in shabby peasant garb, Anton was small and dapper. He smoked a cigarette while he waited for Petros to speak – something the other two would not have dared do. Petros leaned forward.

'Anton is smart,' he began, his voice grating. 'He has just returned from England and the English don't even know he was there.'

'But Passport Control…' Dimitrios began.

Tell me, tell these simple-minded cretins how you did it,' Petros suggested.

'It was easy. Just like that.' Anton snapped his fingers. 'An English gesture,' he lectured his nephews with a superior smile which infuriated them. 'You are right, Dimitrios. I was able to enter England without any check by Passport Control.' He paused. It amused him that he had fooled Petros, an old brigand – an illiterate who couldn't speak a word of English. Well-educated – at Petros' expense – he secretly despised his father. 'I think it would be unwise to reveal my route – it could be given away by Dimitrios in one of his drunken stupors.'

'Now, listen to me, all of you,' Petros growled. 'I taught you, since you were mere children, family honour demands that we revenge ourselves on the killers who dishonoured our family name. Your father, Dimitrios and Constantine, was Stephen, my son who was murdered in Egypt during the war. Christina's father, Andreas, was murdered on Siros. Not that she cares…'

'We know this,' Dimitrios muttered in a feeble show of defiance, but Petros heard him.

'Silence! Both of you are in disgrace. You blundered badly on Siros today. More of that later.' He sank back and the chair creaked. Hooding his eyes like a hawk, he spoke again.

'Anton. Tell us what you found in England. Make it brief.'

'There is a lonely area called Exmoor. Also a place like here called the Doone Valley. The three men who went with Andreas on a commando raid to Siros – Barrymore, Kearns and Robson – live close together on that moor. Which is strange. They are not related…'

'Tell them about the places where they live,' Petros prodded.

'Each house is well defended. Like small castles expecting an invasion. One has television cameras watching all approaches. Another is guarded by a fierce dog called Wolf. The third has tall walls topped with barbed wire and a single separate wire. I was suspicious. I scaled a wall carrying a cat. I dropped the cat on the single wire. There was a flash. It screamed, died. Electrified. They are afraid – after all this time…'

'How did you find these three men?' asked Dimitrios.

'Christina went to England and used a newspaper advertisement which attracted the attention of a Harry Masterson…'

'That's enough,' Petros interrupted, eyes wide open. 'No need to give details. But which of the three is guilty, has our blood on his hands? Or were all three involved in both murders?'

'I don't know.' Anton made a resigned gesture with his manicured hands – hands which contrasted with the roughness of his nephews' who, Petros reflected, were poles apart. 'I made discreet enquiries in the pubs on Exmoor,' Anton continued. 'The three men meet twice every week – for lunch in one place, for dinner in another.' His manner changed, became more nervous as he talked more quickly. 'Then there was the strange incident of the murder of the Englishman, Partridge, on the moor.'

'Partridge, did you say?' asked Dimitrios, quick to sense Anton's change of mood. 'We know an Englishman of that name was poking round Athens, asking questions. That he later visited Siros.'

Anton looked at Petros before replying. The old patriarch nodded agreement for him to continue. 'It was the same man. There was an old picture of him in a newspaper reporting the murder. It is worrying – the report said he was a detective for most of his life with Scotland Yard. The Homicide Branch.'

'There was a man of that name in Cairo when Stephen was killed,' Petros reminded him. 'We found out later. He was one of the military detectives who supposedly investigated Stephen's death. Very young, he was. Is Partridge a common English name?'

'Not as far as I know,' Anton replied. He hurried on. That is why I returned here quickly. They were hunting for the killer.'

'And why should they think it was you?' demanded Dimitrios.

Anton hesitated again, looking at Petros. The old man frowned. It was a good question. 'Answer Dimitrios,' he ordered.

'I happened to be riding on a different part of the moor when he was killed,' Anton replied. 'Watching the homes of the three men who were the commandos.'

'I see.' Petros frowned and Anton shuffled his feet.

The old man turned on the two brothers, determined to humiliate them, to exert his authority. 'Now, tell us what a mess you made of things on Siros today. Describe in detail. Anton should know what fools his nephews can be…'

Petros sat staring into the distance while Dimitrios recalled the day's events. It was when he came to describe their visit to the home of Sarantis, the archaeologist, that he transferred his gaze to Dimitrios who seemed uncomfortable.

'Constantine,' he broke in suddenly, 'do you agree with all that Dimitrios has said?'

'Yes.' The more passive brother paused. 'We tried to make him talk, to tell us what he knew about where Andreas died. We broke his wrist, then his arm. The old fool slipped on the polished floor, fell over backwards and cracked his skull on the tiles.'

'Go on.'

'We decided to leave quickly aboard the chopper. We knew you would not want us to be tangled up with a police investigation…'

'So, you leave in the kitchen the cutlery and things you used to eat a quick meal. With your fingerprints on them, of course.'

'No, Petros! We wiped everything clean. Knives, the glasses. We would have put them away but we were afraid someone would arrive.'

'You ate when you first questioned him, then took him into the living room to apply more pressure?'

That is how it happened.'

'I wonder whether to believe you.' He was silent for a moment. 'And these two Englishmen Christina reported on – Newman and Marler. You fouled that up as well. No information from Sarantis.' He raised his voice to a shout. 'Do I have to be everywhere to make sure you do the right thing? All of you, get out of my sight. No, wait!

Christina has disappeared. Last seen with those English.' His tone was venomous. 'Tomorrow you go to Athens, find her. Do not let her see you. Follow her and tell me what she does, where she goes. Later I decide what to do about her. Now, go! Prepare the meal. If you can do that properly…'

Petros sat alone on the veranda, a grim smile of satisfaction on his lined face. Frequently it was necessary to crack the whip to remind his family who was the chief. He looked up as Anton appeared and spoke, his voice low.

'While I have been away. Papa, has anyone been seen near the silver mine?'

'No.' He smiled bleakly. 'You worry too much. Leave me alone. I have to think.'

Despite the mild rebuke, Petros approved: it showed Anton was using his brain. At least one of the litter had turned out well. Odd it should be his second wife's only son. The wife who had died from overwork like the first -driven on by Petros' insistence they run the farm. Early in Anton's childhood Petros had realized he was the bright one. How he had scrimped and saved to educate the boy.