Philip Kerr - Hand of God

It was all over in less than sixty seconds; neither of them showed any intention of getting up and carrying on. I thought about kicking them both when they were on the ground and immediately rejected the idea. Knowing when to stop is as important as knowing when to start. I didn’t even say anything. I’d said all there needed to be said. I figured it would be a while before they sang anything again, least of all some crap about a man’s death.

I got back into the car, unbuttoned my shirt collar, calmly put on my watch again and then checked my appearance in her rear-view mirror; I wasn’t injured. I didn’t even have a headache.

‘Drive,’ I told her.

‘Feel better now you’ve done that?’

The wind took hold of the distant music and hurried it to our ears. Pharrell Williams.

‘I feel...’ I grinned. ‘I feel happy.’

And the truth is I felt great. Like I’d scored a winning goal in an important match. Even the local cicadas seemed to be cheering.

As the helicopter rose into the air above the Hotel Astir I took off my shoes and socks, tightened the belt on my cream leather seat and pushed my bare feet into the thick pile carpet in a futile effort to relax. On the flat-screen TV above a polished walnut cabinet I could see a map of Paros, and an altitude and speed indicator. In a few minutes the island itself had disappeared into the sky’s thick, purple blanket and we were flying just below the aircraft’s fifteen thousand foot ceiling and heading northwest at a speed of 150 mph. Cocooned in a four-million-dollar helicopter equipped with every conceivable luxury, I ought to have felt more comfortable; instead I was as nervous as a white rat in a laboratory. Already I was opening the drinks cabinet and generously helping myself from a bottle of cognac. After a few moments studying our progress on the map I picked up the remote control and found a BBC channel with a football match to watch instead; Burnley playing someone or other. I didn’t really care; it was a very good cognac.

About forty minutes later the Explorer’s skids were on the deck of The Lady Ruslana , although these were probably not as big as the ones in my underpants. I stepped gingerly out of the helicopter and onto the deck which felt reassuringly solid. Inside the ship I was met by one of Vik’s crew and she ushered me down to a lower deck where I had a quiet moment alone in a luxuriously furnished state room with Louise.

‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she said.

I folded her in my arms and kissed the nape of her neck and then her mouth.

‘You seem tense,’ she observed. ‘Preoccupied.’

I shook my head but this was true, of course. Some of my mind was still up in the air with my stomach, but mostly it was on my iPhone: before I answered the text from Chief Inspector Varouxis I was keen to read the email from Nataliya’s phone that Prometheus had forwarded to me.

‘And I know what it is,’ she added. ‘I see that face almost every day. It’s a cop’s face. It tells me you have a dark secret you really wish you didn’t know, or an important question you’re struggling to answer. If you were more interested in me you might have seen the same thing in my own face, sometimes. That’s all right. It’s my fault, actually. I should have realised before I came to Athens that your head would be somewhere else.’

‘I should have known you’d be able to see what’s inside my head.’

‘I’m a detective, remember?’

I kissed her again. ‘I’m very glad you’re here. But I have to pee.’

But the first thing I did when I went to the bathroom was not to pee but to take a quick look to see if I could open Nataliya’s email now that I was near a better Wi-Fi signal. Irritatingly, I found the email was written in Russian and I realised that if I wanted it translated there were only two people on the boat who could do that: Vik or Phil. I hardly wanted to bother Vik and decided I would ask Phil to send me a translation of the email before breakfast the following morning when I would have to contact the Hellenic police again.

I came out of the bathroom and kissed Louise again, only this time like I meant it.

‘That’s better,’ she said.

‘Sorry.’

‘Come on,’ she said, taking me by the arm. ‘Let’s go and join the others. But I’m tired. I’ve been travelling all day. And the flight was delayed. So if you don’t mind, I won’t stay long. Besides, I’m just dying to go to bed in this room.’

Arranged around a horseshoe of cream-coloured sofas, enjoying the evening sea air and a magnum bottle of Domaine Ott rosé wine under the stars, were Gustave Haak, Cooper Lybrand, Phil Hobday, Kojo Ironsi, the two Greek businessmen I’d seen before and several rented girlfriends who were so young and fit they looked like they were crew members on their night off. Vik introduced me to the two Greek guys. Five minutes later I’d already forgotten their names. In view of the cognac I’d consumed earlier I asked for a bottle of water; I thought it best I try to clear my head a little. A lot of what I was going to say to Vik and Phil when we were in private wasn’t going to be easy to hear and I certainly had no wish to spoil the evening for the others; so, for a while, I was happy to submit myself to being teased about the rumour that I was set to become the new manager of Malaga FC.

‘You’ll like the Costa del Sol,’ said Phil. ‘It has probably the warmest winter of anywhere in Europe. My boat is moored near there. In Puerto Banús. It’s about the one part of Spain where you don’t see any unemployment. Which is probably why I like it so much.’

‘Forget the weather,’ said Vik, ‘what’s the team there like?’

Phil shrugged. ‘Arab-owned, I believe. Kojo? What’s your opinion of them?’

‘Malaga?’ Kojo pulled a face. ‘Underperforming. The Qataris bought the club in 2010 and Manuel Pellegrini was manager. He was doing well there and got them to fourth place in La Liga. He even managed to help them qualify for the Champions League for the first time in their history. But clearly something must have been wrong otherwise he wouldn’t have gone to Manchester City.’

‘It sounds as if they really do have need of Scott,’ said Gustave Haak.

‘He’s a man of many parts,’ said Vik.

‘So I believe,’ said Haak. ‘The last time we spoke he was investigating the death of a prostitute in the harbour.’ He left off playing with the hair of one of his girlfriends for a moment. ‘That is true, isn’t it, Scott? And near my boat, too, I believe.’

I thought it best to keep off that subject; I had the strangest idea that the idea of high-end call girls being found at the bottom of the harbour might have been the cause of some distress to at least two of his companions. Politely, I steered the conversation back to Malaga.

‘I’ve no idea where this rumour has come from,’ I said patiently. ‘Paolo Gentile, probably. You know how it is with agents and narrative IEDs.’

‘What’s a narrative IED?’ asked Louise.

‘I was wondering that myself,’ admitted Lybrand.

‘That’s the new buzzword phrase for a communications weapon: a rumour that’s designed to disrupt the efforts of your competitors. Football is full of them. In a way they’re almost as destructive as the ones in Afghanistan. The quickest way to get someone to join club A is to start a rumour that he’s leaving club B and headed for club C. Unsettling football players is easier than waking a baby. All you have to do is gently rustle some money.’

‘Equally, the best way to get a good price for a player is to say he’s not for sale under any circumstances,’ said Vik. ‘Isn’t that right, Kojo?’

Kojo nodded. ‘If you’re going to do something in business it’s always best never to say that you can do it until you’ve done it. And sometimes not even then.’