Gavin Lyall - Judas Country

'But why,' I asked, 'do you insist on a jack handle?'

'I'm not insisting at all,' Ken said reassuringly. 'Spanner, tyre lever – one has to keep an open mind, don't you agree? I'd say half the world's troubles-'

'Be quiet! 'Lazaros shouted.

'-come from not keeping an open mind.'

Lazarosreached under his jacket and took out an automatic and pointed it between us. 'You are arrested.'

Ken said: 'Browning 9-rml. Double-action, so he might get it to go off.'

Lazarosstretched and slapped the gun down on Ken's hand. Or tried. Ken's hands shifted like a card sharp's, Lazaros jerked back, the gun twizzled loose on the table.

Ken's expression was plain disgust. 'Tough Paphos Gate copper. Just preserving that station's reputation, I suppose. Better keep the gun.' He pushed it across and Lazaros caught it before it hit the floor.

Then straightened up slowly. In the silence we heard the phone ring in the lobby.

In a carefully controlled voice: 'You are still under arrest.'

I asked: 'Are we allowed the traditional phone call? '

'To who?'

'I was thinking the superintendent at Kyrenia who's in charge of the case.'

Ken said, almost to himself: 'Of course. It's Kyrenia's murder. And murder's a Super's job. I wonder how he likes his witnesses? – just lightly antagonised or given the full Paphos Gate treatment?'

The chambermaid – Papa's 'niece' – came in and told Ken the phone was for him. He stood up. 'Do I get an armed escort?'

'Take it,'Lazaros said impatiently, holding the gun out of sight. Ken and the girl went out; Lazaros sat down again.

'Have you told her yet?' I asked.

He shook his head. 'It is not my case.' He sighed and put the Browning back under his jacket. 'Did you see his car – the Volkswagen – on the road?'

'Not to notice.' Who remembers a car he saw five minutes ago, let alone ten hours? 'But on the way over, we didn't pass, anybody coming from Kyrenia.'

It was a small crumb of evidence, but he licked it up gratefully.

I went on: 'Why was Papa killed? Robbery?'

"They think not.'

'Had anybody busted into his house?'

He looked at me sharply. 'I do not think so. I went in with the Kyrenia police later and…' he shrugged. 'His mother is away, we think.' He leant his elbows on the table and rubbed his palms into his eyes, 'forget about being arrested. I will tell Kyrenia what you said and where you are. And then I will sleep.'

Ken came back looking thoughtful – no, disbelieving.

'Bad news?' I asked.

'No-o. Good, I think.' He shook his head slowly. "The Israeli Embassy – they've cancelled my deportation.'

Half an hour later we were sitting in a small, cool, sparsely-furnishedcafé down Ledra Street sipping gritty-sweet Turkish coffee and me sounding like an elderly uncle.

'You're just the bloody bird dog,' I told him. 'Now the Professor's dead, they think you could be the only one to sniff out the sword. So they let you back in, you find it, then clang! The dog never gets the bird; he ends up back in the kennel eating tinned rabbit.'

'They don't know there's a sword.'

They know there's a something. They know the Prof's reputation as a grave-robber – and maybe they overheard a hint in jail. They could know about our runaround the last few days. Enough other people seem to.'

He nodded calmly. 'I think you're right.'

'That's good.' I finished my coffee except for the sludge at the bottom. 'So now let's forget about the sword, concentrate on keeping our noses clean here and get back to England, home and booty.'

'But that's no reason not to go on to Jerusalem,' Ken added.

I slapped my cup down with a clang that made the tubby proprietor look at me wide-eyed. 'Now look, Ken: if you go back there you'll confirm everything they believe – that there's something hidden and you know where. They'll be sleeping in your pockets.'

'Maybe, maybe not.' True; how well a surveillance works depends on how experienced your target is. And Ken was.

'All right, so you find Gadulla and say: "Here, Oswarthy foreigner, hand over King Richard's sword." What does he do? D'you think he's even got the thing?'

'It doesn't seem too likely,' Ken admitted. 'I mean Bruno trusting anyone that much. More like, the letter told him how to find it-'

Tine. So whoever's got the letter doesn't need to go near Gadulla. He goes direct for the hiding-place.'

"The letter can't be everything,' Ken persisted. 'It can't have been complete, somehow. That's why he was torturing Papa, why he was snooping back at the house.'

There was something in that, but: 'That still doesn't help you. And, incidentally, Lazarosdidn't say anything about the torture, so we don't know. Remember that.'

'Ah. That's the hold-out, is it?' Every fancy murder case brings in false confessions from nitwits, so they always conceal one piece of evidence, something only the real murderer would know, to use as a cross-check.

He finished his own coffee and looked at his watch. 'Gadulla's still the only lead we've got.'

'For God's sake, leave the damn sword alone. Tell Mitzi about Gadulla and then leave it lay – you can't afford to go to Israel, anyway. We've got a business to start up again.'

He smiled wryly. 'The same one?'

'I don't know…' I stared at the tabletop. 'We're sort of running out of time on that, I think. But now – we know a lot more about air cargo generally; we can cost a job properly. We don't have to go for the big margins and risks.'

He shrugged. 'If you say so. You're the boss on the business side.'

'Oh hell, Ken-'

'No, you always were. I'm a better pilot, but how often does that matter? – twice, three times a year? You're the one whoknows how to bring in business; that matters all the time. I'm not complaining. But – just try and keep off strawberries and monkeys.'

I grinned. 'I'll try.' So maybe, after – how many? – three nights out of jail, he was cured. We could get back to work.

He stood up. 'I'll drop over and see Mitzi. Back at the Castle for lunch, no?'

I mooched about the town staring into closed shops and listening to church bells until noon, then back to the hotel for a first beer with Kapotas.

He was looking fresh and smart in a non-Sunday tie, but also gloomy and nervous. Then I remembered Papaand the partner from Harborne, Gough coming in that afternoon.

'Cheers. Have you got the books balanced?'

'On a tight-rope. You know about Papadimitriou?'

'I heard. Tell me – when we were in Beirut, was anybody here asking for him?'

'Would I know? Papadimitriou was the first person anybody coming here would meet, most of the time.'

I nodded. It was also possible that Papa had gone looking for a partner instead of one finding him.

'Somebody was asking about Professor Spohr,' Kapotas added.

'Who? When?'

'On Friday evening. Only by telephone. It was the Israeli Embassy.'

'Areyou sure?'

He shrugged. 'The voice sounded… well, right.' There's already a clipped, dry tone you could call an Israeli accent just so long as you don't expect all Israelis to have it. 'I said I knew nothing and put Papadimitriou to speak to him.'

'This was Friday evening? After dark?'

'Yes, why?' Then: 'Oh, of course,' as he got the point.

Naturally no Israeli Embassy can be strictly religious; they'd break the Sabbath, all right – but only on important business. Dead or alive, Bruno Spohr couldn't stand very high on Israel's list of problems.

'What happened then?' I asked.

'I don't know.' He took a mouthful of beer and tried to think. 'Papa went out soon after, and… and I never saw him again,' he suddenly remembered. 'Perhaps I should tell the police.'

I nodded. God knows what they'd make of it, but at least they'd have the authority to check with the embassy. I'd get told to go and unleaven my head.