I pull out my mobile telephone from my pocket. My only concession to technology. On board all my navigation is by paper charts. I won't be caught out when the Americans next turn off the global positioning system to fight some new war. I flip up the cover and peer at the tiny screen trying to find Lucy's name on the contacts list. Holding the phone fully at arm's length, I take a stab at what I think is her number. I should have reception here on the top of the hill, before I go down the steps into the village. I hear the dialling tone before Lucy's business answerphone kicks in. She's using her lowest sexiest voice. I wait for the message to finish and leave her a reply telling her that I'm sorry if I was a bit rude earlier and that I will be at Billy's in an hour or so. I flip the phone closed. I saw in Lefkas last week that they've started selling phones just like mine all over again, calling them retro.
"Billy's" isn't called "Billy's" at all, but none of us ex-pats call it by its proper name, instead we use the name of the owner. Except that "Billy" isn't "Billy's" real name either but his Anglicised nom de plume so to speak. The ex-pats congregate at his cafe by the harbour most afternoons. In the winter we are mainly here because the sun warms it up, there being no other form of heating, and because the drinks are reasonably priced. To his credit Billy keeps his prices constant throughout the year, not for him the practice of some of his competitors who have a winter price and a summer price (for non-locals). Walking through the little village square I remind myself that I must get to the supermarket which will be closing at two o'clock for the afternoon siesta. I've been caught out many times before and been obliged to sit it out at Billy's until it reopens at six in the evening by which time I struggle to remember what I wanted in the first place. But not today, today I'm not going to drink. It will be coffee and only coffee today.
"Alright you old bastard?" A noisy bright orange moped pulls up beside me.
"Yeah. I'm really OK now," I reply. "Though first thing was a bit rough."
"Yes, I'm wondering if the chicken souvlaki was properly cooked. I felt a tad rough myself."
Given that my friend Terry had been on most of the three-day bender with me, blaming how we felt on the possibility that Agnon might have undercooked his chicken seems a bit disingenuous, but I let it go.
"You going to Billy's?" he asks.
"I'm going to pop in. I've arranged to meet Lucy there. I'm not drinking though. I've got to get to the supermarket first or else Kitty will be the latest in a long line of ladies to leave me."
"Jump on, I'll give you a lift if you want."
Billy's is at most only two hundred yards down the road, but on the other hand I have just walked about a mile, and earlier rowed another half. I'm tempted.
"I'll buy you a coffee."
That tips it. I'll catch the supermarket later.
"Don't let me forget the cat food," I tell him as I jump on behind Terry and he pulls away leaving a puff of diesel fume behind him.
"Two beers Billy, parakalo," cries Terry as we arrive and before he's turned off the engine.
There is a small group already sitting outside drinking coffee. A mix of Greeks and a few expats all talking loudly in various languages. I spot Antoinette sitting alone at one of the tables and join her. Terry follows me.
"Where's Eric?" I ask.
Antoinette's French accent is much more pronounced than Camille's and as a result much sexier. In her early forties she is also a bit of a looker.
"Where do you think 'e iz?" says Antoinette, pouting as she speaks.
Different options cross my mind. Talk has circulated of Eric having a ding-dong with an Italian who has a big house on the other side of the island. More likely is that he is working on his rock formations at the disastrously behind schedule new venture. I'm told they're something special. Who needs completed buildings if you've got stunning rock formations? Thinking better of stirring the pot with Antoinette, I say nothing, instead I look at her enquiringly.
"Wiz ze architect naturalement," she says. "I think 'e is in lurve with 'im, he spends more time with 'im than with me. Et toi?"
"Oh, I'm just having a coffee and Lucy wants to ask my advice on something, have you seen her?"
Billy brings the two beers that Terry ordered on our arrival and Antoinette orders another one for her. She and Lucy don't entirely see eye to eye on things. If Lucy operates at 100mph then Antoinette is dawdling along at 10. She runs her wine bar cum boutique for four months of the year and employs a bar man to help her. This year a young lad has arrived. I'm told, by female friends, that he is impossibly handsome and has the cutest French accent. I don't get what the fuss is about but there you are.
"And what does Lucy want with you?" asks Antoinette.
"Don't ask, all just so ridiculous," I start.
"Mai oui, elle est," she replies.
"Lucy thinks Helen has disappeared, been kidnapped in fact. Bonkers."
"This is very strange," Antoinette frowns as she speaks.
"What is?" I say, "not you as well."
"Je ne sais pas, mais, Panos the butcher tells me today that Helen hasn't collected her meat order for her party. He also went to her house, but zer woz no reply."
Chapter Three
"So, tell me more about the Agatha." Terry asks.
"Agatha?" I enquire.
"Agatha Christie, the mystery, get it? My latest rhyming slang."
I'm not sure I can usefully add anything, so opt to say nothing. Probably best not to encourage him. Instead I turn my focus towards Lucy's flat. She lives on the other side of the harbour, next door to her office. Through the clanking masts of the yachts I see her coming down her steps, followed by her rescue dog, Scratch, so called at least by me because that's all it ever does.
"Well?" prompts Terry, impatient to hear the juicy details.
To be fair not a great deal happens on the island, so his interest is genuine. Normally our entertainment in the summer is derived from critically appraising the inexperienced captains bringing their boats into the harbour. We have hours of fun from this. This is the first stop that most of them make after leaving Lefkas or Preveza. Often, they arrive a few hours after getting off their planes and spend much less time than that getting acquainted with the rented boat that will be their home for a fortnight. Tiredness, rustiness and the afternoon wind are an excellent cocktail for we spectators who have done and seen it all before. I tend to keep my thoughts to myself, but when he has had a few beers, Terry takes on the role of self-appointed harbour master, offering mostly unwanted advice at the top of his voice.
"Lucy is getting a bit carried away," I begin. "She thinks that Helen has been kidnapped though the evidence is a little thin and to be frank I'm not sure why she's come to that conclusion. Presumably something more than she forgot that the butcher was coming. Perhaps she'll enlighten us."
"Which one is Helen anyway?" Terry asks.
"You know Helen."
"Obviously I don't, or I wouldn't be asking."
"Helen, Helen. Don't know the surname."
"Helen," he says to himself, computing the data. We quite often have this sort of exchange. Could be our senior moments, or maybe the effect of the beer or the occasional indulgence in weed.
"She lives in that massive great white house on the hill overlooking the marina. I think you thought it must be owned by a Russian oligarch when you first saw it. You can probably see it from here."
I look across