WHAT GOES AROUND. DAVID J CHRISTOPHER
A yellow post-it notepad by the phone catches my eye. My subconscious tells me that there's something here, so without pausing to think I grab the top sheet as I close the door and the alarm resets.
"What's that?" Lucy asks pointing at my hand.
"Probably her meat order," I reply, "something just made me grab it."
"Well, let's see what you've got then."
We both look at the piece of paper. There's nothing on it. At least that's what we think at first. But a closer inspection reveals an imprint on the paper. I turn it at an angle so it catches the sun.
"I think it says Winston Churchill," I squint in an effort to focus as I don't have my reading glasses, "Under that it says Preveza and at the bottom 10 am Tuesday. Here, see if you agree." I give Lucy the post-it note. She studies it closely.
"I think you're spot on," she says. "This is an actual real-life clue just like on the TV. Well done for finding it." She pulls me towards her and gives me a sloppy kiss on the head, much as you would to a child. I'm sure she her wrinkles her nose a little as she does so.
"Steady on," I say. "There's probably nothing in it. Anyway, more than likely there's a perfectly boring explanation. Let's go back to Billy's and think it through." The beer is calling.
We jump back onto the quad and Lucy drives us back down the hill towards the village. If it's possible I think we are going even more slowly than when we came but at least I'm in no danger of dying. Lucy sits high and erect in front of me, but leans left or right as she takes the bends. We meet a couple of cars going the other way and I wave cheerily at them even though neither of us have a clue who they are. Probably tourists at this time of year. The cars are rentals. You can tell them from the locals because they aren't covered with scratches and dents. Terry is still sitting where we had left him an hour or so earlier. He has three empties in front of him so I'm guessing he's on number eight by now. His speech is starting to slur a little and he's getting louder. As we pull up, he's in full flight offering advice to some poor unsuspecting new arrival in the harbour. He clocks us and immediately calls for Billy to bring me a beer. I've earned it. We bring him up to speed but keeping his attention is pretty difficult especially when a day boat full of bikini clad young women pulls up at the water's edge. Terry is out of his seat helping them in no time.
"Looks like we've lost him," says Lucy.
"So," I begin, "to summarise, no signs of anything untoward at the house. Helen's car is still there. Shit, what about her quad, did you check?"
"I did, whilst you were breaking in. Yep it's there too."
"I was not breaking in; the door was unlocked. Nothing in her diary or e-post or whatever you call it," I continue, refusing to be goaded by Lucy.
"Just the one clue," Lucy says, "found by my Sherlock Holmes here."
I almost blush.
"Have you read Sherlock Holmes?" I fancy myself as a bit of a literary critic. "The story lines are puerile. How it ever got to be so successful I have no idea."
"Probably because of the TV series," says Lucy. "They've made it into books now have they?"
"Conan Doyle must be so grateful to the BBC," I retort assuming she must be joking.
"Conan who?" Asks Lucy.
"Never mind, Watson." The note flaps in the breeze once more grabbing my attention. "Winston Churchill, Preveza, 10 am Tuesday," I say. "Definitely sounds like an appointment," I say stating the obvious. "When was the last time you saw Helen?"
"Last week as usual."
"So, the chances are that it's this Tuesday just gone that she's referring too. That's her writing, is it?"
I slide the note across to Lucy. She shrugs her shoulders.
"Don't worry," I say. "It's all a bit of a dead end anyway isn't it? We tried, we failed."
"How do you mean?" she asks. Her forehead creases as she frowns.
"Well, if Helen has gone to Preveza as the note suggests, then that's her business. She certainly hasn't been kidnapped, that's for sure. I think we've done more than enough already and anyway I've got a busy few days coming up."
Lucy looks at me as if I've just stood on a fluffy kitten.
"You can't mean that," she says, "if Helen did go to meet this Mr Churchill last Tuesday in Preveza, why did she go, where is she now, and why hasn't she made contact? No nothing's changed at all. If anything, I think it's even more worrying. By the way I'm sure I've heard that name, Winston Churchill, before somewhere, I'll check my contacts later."
I can never quite tell if Lucy is serious at times like this or whether she's having a joke at my expense. She must know who Winston Churchill was, surely. I search her face for clues, but none are forthcoming. Her expression is earnest but otherwise blank.
"OK," she says, "I've made an executive decision."
"Which is?" I ask. I sense I'm not going to like this.
"We're going to Preveza to find this Mr Winston Churchill."
Chapter Seven
"You dirty dog," says Terry after Lucy has left us.
I look at him. He divines that further explanation is required.
"You sailing the Seven Seas with the lovely Lucy. Two days and a whole night alone with her. Paradise." He tails off, lost in his fevered imagination.
The difference between us is this. Whilst at a very superficial level I see Lucy as attractive, and occasionally she seems to quite like me, I can see myself through her eyes. I am the age of her father, probably older, and I look considerably worse than him. I know. I've met him. Disgustingly healthy bloke in his mid-fifties, I'd guess. Terry on the other hand has no such self-awareness of the ravishes of time, nicotine and alcohol. He is permanently on pause aged twenty something. His mind has a certain illogical symmetry to it. If he finds a naked woman attractive, then it must follow that women will also find a naked man, or more particularly him, desirable too. I guess that explains the amount of nude sunbathing he does.
"It will never happen," I say.
"Not if you don't work for it, it won't, but I can give you a few pointers. After all you know what they say, ask a busy man," he replies mysteriously.
"It won't happen for a thousand reasons, the main one being that I am nearly thirty years older than her."
"What about Charlie Chaplin," he says. "Or Paul Daniels, or Mick Jagger."
"Do you think those men have anything that perhaps I don't?" I ask, "like money, fame, success, money, oh, and money perhaps?"
I continue without waiting for his further thoughts. "Anyway, there's another good reason why it won't happen. I'm not going to Preveza with her."
Terry peers at me with one eye partially closed. I'm not sure if it's the drink or his attempt at a quizzical look.
"But you told her you would."
"I did no such thing. I just didn't disagree when she announced that we were going. After three, no make that four days of drinking far too much, my body needs a rest. Tomorrow will be a resting day. I might even make it an eating day."
"You little fighter," Terry says again. It's one of his favourite phrases but I've no idea what it means.
"And now," I say rising from my chair, "I think it's time to go." I squint at my wristwatch, it's a Rolex from a different, financially more secure, time in my life. "I've still got time to make it to Fotis's before he closes."
"You'll be lucky pal," says Terry. "I saw him leaving about twenty minutes ago with Effie. They were all dressed up like a pair of nines." He calls to Billy. "Where's Fotis and Effie off to tonight?"
Billy tells us that it's Effie's first cousin's baby naming ceremony on the other side of the island. He's heading over there too later. It's going to be a big