DAVID J CHRISTOPHER - WHAT GOES AROUND

"There," I point, and Terry follows my outstretched arm.

"Oh, that Helen," he says. "I sort of know her in that when she's away I go up and water her plants for her. Wouldn't say she's a friend though, keeps herself to herself. Perfect view from up there and peaceful too. I sometimes sit and do the crossword up there."

Terry is a passionate crossworder. He collects old English newspapers from all the expats on the island and even goes across on the ferry to pick them up. Mind you, the days can be long living on a boat, especially in the winter.

"Did she mention to you that she might be going away?"

Terry pauses to think and scratches the top of his head absent-mindedly as he does so.

"No," he finally replies. "But to be fair, she doesn't always tip me the wink if she's only going to be gone for a few days. More the longer trips that she needs me for."

We turn back towards the village. Lucy is finally arriving at Billy's after stopping and chatting with no less than ten different people on her journey of less than two hundred metres. She's in the process of expanding her business offering and is waiting on various workers to complete the new room. I notice her chatting to the electrician who is sitting enjoying a coffee in the sunshine. She had told me he was now three weeks late. Before I came to Greece I thought it was the Spanish that were famous for the "manana manana", but here the word "tomorrow" translates somewhere between "in a week or so" and "never in a million years, but I'm too polite to say that."

"What's the house like inside?" I ask Terry. My question has nothing to do with assessing whether or not Helen's disappeared. I'm just nosey. Although I don't live in a house at the moment, I've built a few in my time. "Architecturally it's interesting," I add.

By this I'm referring to the frankly bizarre design. Somebody, presumably Helen, had the idea of building a Tudor style mansion. Problem is that Tudor houses didn't tend to incorporate ground floor to ceiling windows or patios for that matter. As a result, the top half of the house tips its hat towards Tudor with fake beams and leaded windows, whilst the ground floor is conventional holiday villa design.

"Terry, to fagito is ready," Billy calls.

"Aha, my tuck is calling. I'm starving. I could do with another slurp too. You?"

"It would be rude not to."

We walk back together, wishing "Kalimera" to the old lady sitting outside one of the cottages enjoying the sun as we pass. She's wearing black as so many of the local elderly women do after their husband dies.

"Oh, I've never been inside," says Terry picking up the conversation about Helen's house.

"No?" I ask.

"Goodness no," he says. "Far too complicated. You should see the security up there, cameras, lights, electric this, electric that."

I mull this over. Was she expecting unwanted visitors, or did she also suffer from my best mate, paranoia?

"You look like Donald Trump on a day when he hasn't bothered with his hair," says Lucy.

"Thanks," I reply.

"Better than Worzel Gummidge I guess."

"Who's Worzel Gummidge?" asks Lucy.

I feel the thirty years between us sharply.

"Never mind."

Terry has his plate of food in front of him and has moved to the next table to eat it. He is seated with an audience of five harbour cats around him staring intently waiting for a scrap. He doesn't oblige them, but he does offer me a chip. I decline. I might have some chocolate cake later though. Billy's brother Pavlos bakes amazing cakes. I watch Terry eat. As he is distracted by a couple of attractive young women passing by, one of the cats leaps up onto the table, dives across Terry's plate stealing some of his egg as he goes. The theft is so slick that by the time Terry looks back at his plate the deed has been done. He is none the wiser and continues to eat. The cat stares at me. "Don't say a word," it says.

"So, Lucy, if you're through insulting me, tell us about Helen and why you think she's disappeared. I shall be your private detective, though after five 500ml beers I should warn you I'm more Inspector Clouseau than Sherlock Holmes."

"Inspector who?" she asks.

"Never mind. Actually, before you start, I'll order myself another beer. Terry? Coffee Lucy?" He nods but Lucy declines saying that she's had five cups already today. Only five I think, the equivalent of my breakfast on an average day.

"Of course, if we had an internet radio station on the island, I could put out a request for information," Lucy says.

I'm nonplussed by this. I haven't the faintest idea what an internet radio station is. What's wrong with the old sort?

"I was telling Georgios earlier that I think it's a great idea. The island could do with one. He thinks it's a brilliant plan too and wants me to come over for a drink later to discuss it."

"I bet he does," says Terry, voicing what I'm thinking too.

"Don't be stupid," replies Lucy, "he's married."

"Yes, but his better half is in Athens this week visiting her mother. Maybe suggest you should pop round when she's back?"

"Not everyone thinks like you boys do," says Lucy.

At that moment Antoinette's new barman wanders by. Lucy's head turns 180 degrees as he does so to follow his path.

"Who's that?" she asks.

"Antoinette's helper for the season," I say. "Looks a bit smooth to me," I add. "Anyway, if you've finished drooling over Jean-Paul or whatever his name is, perhaps you can fill me in on what's so important about Helen."

"What, oh yes, right," says Lucy reluctantly coming back to the present. She explains that Helen and she always meet once a week for coffee and a catch up. Thursday at noon, without fail apparently. Never once in the last 12 months has Helen failed to turn up without letting Lucy know beforehand.

"I'm teaching her about the internet. Social media, that type of thing. Helen thinks she has missed out and now that she's retired, she wants to get up to date. I've also been showing her how to build a web site."

"But this Thursday she never showed?" I ask.

"No, not a whisper. We usually meet at Fegaries, the cafe in the corner of the square. After a couple of coffees, we go back to my office and I give her a lesson for an hour or so. Afterwards we have lunch somewhere, Stavros' or Ericos'. Helen always pays as a thank you for the lesson. She's getting quite knowledgeable now."

I realise that I know virtually nothing about Helen. There is a soft divide here between the house dwellers and those that live on boats. The house dwellers are friendly enough to us but there is an invisible line that doesn't get crossed. Perhaps it operates both ways. I'm not invited round for dinner, and nor does Terry as far as I know. Equally we don't invite people to our boats which are private. The house dwellers have a different set of concerns that they talk to each other about. The cost of building being the main one, followed by the cost of maintaining and living in Greece. Put two house dwellers together and it won't take long for them to start moaning about the cost of filling their swimming pools. Shortly afterwards they will move onto the subject of the supposed failings of the utility companies or the local council. For us yachties these things are of no interest. We worry about the weather mainly. As long as I've got access to fresh water, cheap beer and the odd jazz CD or two, I'm happy. Well as happy as I get anyway.

"So, what do you know about Helen?" I ask Lucy.

"Not much really," she replies. "I think that she moved here from England after her husband died. He had some sort of business I'm guessing. She doesn't talk about her past very much."

"Join the club," I mutter, "Family?"

"She never mentions them."

"Photos on the mantelpiece?"