Philip Kerr - Hand of God

‘He must have eaten something with chickpeas in it before the match,’ I said. ‘There’s no other explanation.’

‘Okay, let’s work this out. How long before the match did you have lunch?

‘Three or four hours.’

‘Then that can’t have been it. When you have an allergy it’s almost instantaneous. He’d have gone into anaphylaxis the minute he ate the stuff. On planes they’ll sometimes tell you that they’re not serving nuts just in case a person who suffers from an allergy should inhale a tiny piece.’

‘Yes, you’re right. Which makes you realise that for someone who has got an allergy a nut or a chickpea can be as powerful as a dose of hemlock.’

‘And anyway,’ she asked, ‘why would someone do such a thing?’

‘Simple. Because on the night that Bekim died, someone in Russia took out a very big in-play bet on the match we played. These days, people will bet on anything that happens during a match: ten-minute events, the time of the first corner, the next goal scorer, the first player to come off — anything at all. It means that someone from Olympiacos, or someone from Russia, must have nobbled Bekim somehow. A ten-minute event like Bekim scoring and then being taken off. That must be it.’

‘Nobbled. Yes, I understand.’

I looked at my iPhone but as before there was no signal. ‘Shit,’ I muttered. ‘I really need to make some calls.’

‘You can’t,’ she said. ‘Not up here. But I could drive you into Naoussa where there’s a pretty good signal at the Hotel Aliprantis. I have a friend there who’ll let us use the internet, as well. If you think it’s necessary.’

‘I’m afraid I do. Svetlana, if I’m right, it wasn’t just Nataliya who was murdered, it was Bekim, too.’

Naoussa was a very typical little Greek town by the sea, with lots of winding, cobbled streets, low white buildings, and plenty of tourists, most of them English. The air was humid and thick with the smell of cooked lamb and wood smoke from many open kitchen-fires. Jaunty bouzouki music emptied out of small bars and restaurants and in spite of the English voices you would not have been surprised to have seen an unshaven Anthony Quinn step-dancing his way around the next corner. A line of Greek pennants connected one side of the little main square to the other and behind a couple of ancient olive trees was a taverna belonging to the Hotel Aliprantis.

The minute we entered the place I got a five bar signal on my iPhone and the texts and emails started to arrive like the scores on a pinball machine; before long there was a little red 21 on my Messages app, a 6 on my Mail app but, mercifully, fewer voicemails. As Svetlana led me through the restaurant and into the little hotel’s tiny lobby I uttered a groan as life began to catch up with me again. But worse still, I’d been recognised by four yobs drinking beer and all looking as pink as an old map of the British Empire. It wasn’t long before the innocent holiday atmosphere of the Aliprantis was spoiled as they struck up with a typically English sporting refrain:

and, just as offensive, although I’d heard half of this one before:

Svetlana spoke Greek to the hotel manager, a big swarthy man with a beard like a toilet brush, and then introduced me to him. We shook hands and as he led us both up to his office where I could make some calls in private and send some emails I was already apologising for what I could very clearly hear through the floorboards. Somehow, in the frustrating week I’d spent in Greece, I’d forgotten that when they wanted to be, a few English supporters could be every bit as unpleasant as the worst from Olympiacos or Panathinaikos. That’s football.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said.

‘No, sir, it is me who is sorry that you and your team should have had such poor hospitality while you are in Greece. Bekim Develi would often have a drink in here. And any friend of Bekim Develi’s is friend of mine.’

‘I ought to have realised I might be recognised. I should go. Before there’s any trouble.’

‘No, sir, I tell them to leave. You stay here, make your telephone calls, get your emails, I fix those bastards.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘But on one condition. That I pay for their meal.’ I laid a hundred euro note on the desk in the office. ‘That way, when you tell them to leave, they’ll think they had a free meal and just clear off without any trouble.’

‘Is not necessary.’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Take it from me. This really is the best way.’

‘Okay, boss. But I bring you something to drink, yes?’

‘Greek coffee,’ I said.

The manager glanced at Svetlana who asked for some ouzo.

I picked up the iPhone and started to read my texts.

Downstairs, the singing in the restaurant had stopped and moved outside where it continued for a while longer. I went to the window and looked out on the square and watched the four culprits as they sat on the edge of a fountain in front of the Blue Star Ferries office, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. One of them was wearing a T-shirt with a Keep Calm and Carry On slogan; another was wearing one that I’d seen almost as many times: Lookin’ to Score BRAZIL . They stayed there for a while and then, to everyone’s relief, left.

I picked up the iPhone and started to listen to my voicemails but these were just some of the same people and messages — more or less — as the ones who’d texted me already. There wasn’t enough bandwidth to download the document that Prometheus had attached to his email; the rest were unimportant. I called my dad to reassure myself that he really was okay; then I called Louise.

‘Hey, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you arrived,’ I said. ‘I should have met you at the airport.’

‘That’s all right. Where are you? I was getting worried.’

‘On the island of Paros.’

‘Paros? What are you doing there?’

‘I came to Bekim Develi’s house to check out a few things. I’m glad I did because things are a lot clearer to me than they were before.’

‘So are you finished down there, Sherlock?’

‘Yes, but I’m sorry, baby, I’m not going to be able to get back to Athens until tomorrow morning. There just isn’t a flight.’

I heard some laughter in the background.

‘Where are you anyway?’ I asked.

‘On Viktor Sokolnikov’s yacht,’ she said. ‘He invited me for dinner. Wait a minute. He wants to speak to you.’