Gavin Lyall - Judas Country

'That's my bet. Even if he knows us he couldn't recognise us by this car. We just stopped; if we'd passed on, then nothing.' I stood up.

Ken turned, glanced quickly at Papa in the starlight, then at my hands. 'Did you find the letter?'

'Now, what do you think?' Papa had put on a nice fresh dove-grey suit, regimental tie, clean black lace-up shoes. And he'd filled his pockets with the usual keys, coins, banknotes, identification… and maybe other things.

Ken waved the Smith at my hand. 'What did you take?'

'Some of his money.' I shoved it in my hip pocket.

After a moment, he shrugged. 'Why not? So what now?'

I peered into the Volkswagen at the space behind the back seat. Nothing. Then wrapped a handkerchief around my hand, pulled the bonnet hood release, walked around and lifted the lid. Crammed in above the spare wheel were two suitcases. When I prodded them, they felt full.

'What next?' Ken repeated.

I slammed the lid. 'What does your average honest citizen do when a body falls out on his feet?'

He considered. 'Stuff it back and get out at the speed of a tiger-fart?'

'Correct. But we aren't average or honest. We don't even stuff him back in.'

The Escort came out of the ditch without, apparently, a scratch on her. Ken scuffed the roadside to wipe out any tyre marks and climbed in. 'Home, James?'

'Not through Turkish territory – that guard saw us once; I don't want to give him a reminder. And while we're at it, dump the gun.'

He looked at it regretfully.

I said: 'It's almost empty anyway.'

He nodded slowly, wiped the gun clean and threw it up the hillside. 'Naked again. Champagne for breakfast?"

'For Christ's sake.' I started us rolling downhill.

Kyrenia's narrow streets were bright but quiet. In a week or two they'd be busy and the harbour-frontcafés and bars would be swinging. But we turned west before the seafront and headed out on the coast road.

As we cleared the town again, Ken said: 'Papa's house should be out here soon.'

The seaward side of the road was a straggling wide-spaced line of small hotels, holiday homes, closedcafés and Coca-Cola signs. I slowed down. 'We can't stop there – hell, his mother may be home.' 'I doubt it. No, I was thinking: if somebody finds out we were over this way anyhow, we'd better have a reason.'

'We could go back to Kyrenia and get offensively drunk.'

'That's an idea – hold on, there's the house.'

I stopped. The only clue was a small signboard, a carefully irregular 'rural' shape, saying: Grosvenor House. A stony drive stretched away towards the sea.

I backed the car diagonally to throw our headlights on the house itself, fifty yards up the drive. It was a square modern stucco box, painted a streaky cream and with all the architectural charm of a rat trap. The metal-framed windows looked small and mean, and you could tell there was a garden because there were some plants and bushes that couldn't have died in that climate without some help. But not a light showed anywhere.

'Jesus,' Ken said, instinctively whispering, 'to think a man could live in Cyprus and want to retire to a place like that. And call it Grosvenor House.'

'D'you want to go and press the bell so we can say we did and nobody answered?'

'If we're sure they won't… Well, it's an alibi of a sort.' He got out.

'Don't rush: Lazaros should be along in anything over ten minutes.'

I parked a bit past the house, on a track on the inland side, and left the car facing away from the road. It looks less suspicious, somehow; people don't think they're being watched by theback of a car.

The sea muttered on the rocky coast beyond the houses, the countryside made all those creaking and groaning noises that are so much louder and less reasonable than city noises. I found my half-smoked pipe and lit it, then remembered to switch the interior light so it wouldn't come on when I opened the door. A few cars went by on the road, all fast.

Then a quarter of an hour had passed. No lights had come on in Grosvenor House. How long does it take to find a bell-push? Hell, the silly bastard wasn't trying to burglarise the house, was he?

I got out of the car and stood listening and not getting anything new. Then, down the road to the west, a car's headlights, moving jerkily, like somebody looking for an address…

I started to run, then remembered not to. Just briskly across the road and up the rutted drive of stones, with the headlights creeping step by step in on my left.

It took me perhaps two seconds to find the bell and morse out a quick SOS on it. Nothing happened, but I'd pretty much expected that, by then. I started around the side, away from the headlights, my rubber soles crunching in the stones, and me wondering why I hadn't picked out a Colt for myself from the collection I'd sprinkled into the sea so freely. I could use the comforting feel of heavy metal in my hand, the sense that one trigger-pull could cause instant fire and noise and death. It's a helpful way to get around a dark corner, even if you're flattering yourself about causing 'instant death'.

I put one hand against the wall – flakes of old paint, wet with dew, pulled off on my fingers – then took a wide step around the back of the house. And almost fell over Ken.

He lay on his face on the concrete patio that stretched out flush with the drive and with a lot of stones spilled over on to it. For a moment I thought… well, a lot of things, but my fingers were already feeling for a pulse in his neck. Before I found it, he said: 'God bugger it. Thathurts'

'Sorry.' So he'd been put out with some neck grip, on the carotid arteries, I think it is. 'Howd'you feel? '

'That's a bloody stupid question,' he grumbled, lifting carefully to a sitting position against the house. 'Did you get him?'

'No. Who?'

'Idon't know.' He put both hands under his chin and lifted gently.'Jesus!'

A car revved in low gear and tyres bit into the driveway. I stepped close to the house. I whispered: 'That'll be Lazaros. D'you want to meet him?'

'Only one person I want to meet-'

'Then on the feet, hup.' I got him effectively upright and we staggered across the patio towards the sea, keeping the house between us and the glow of headlights brightening in the driveway. There was no garage, no outhouses, no cover bar a few scruffy ornamental bushes before the ground began to crumble towards what Papa had probably described as a 'deserted beach'. True, but the sand had deserted it, too.

I helped Ken collapse behind one bush, then found my own. We waited.

Lazarostook his time. He rang the front bell, and again, then walked slowly round the house and tried the french windows that led on to the patio. Then he poked at a few windows, and even gave a drain-pipe a shake. Then he lit a cigarette and stared out seawards and we stopped breathing.

But at least there weren't any other buildings to snoop into, and Lazaros wasn't actually expecting people to be parked behind bushes, so he stood there and puffed and probably wondered what the hell else he could do to justify an eighty-mile round trip. Eventually he must have thought of something, because he went back and the car door slammed and the engine started.

I said: 'Stay there,' and ran around the other side of the house. Lazaros's car – a small blue Mazda – hesitated at the bottom of the drive, then pulled away towards Kyrenia itself. I waited until the noise had faded.

When I turned back, Ken had reached the corner of the house by himself and was leaning on it for a breather. 'He's gone into town,' I reported. 'I was a bit scared he'd just sit and put a watch on the place. Now let's get weaving.'

He looked longingly at the house. "The letter might still be in there.'