An Inch of Time by Peter Helton Page A

telly.’
    Chuffed was not how I would have described Margarita’s expression. ‘She gave me a very strange look. What’s private detective in Greek, then?’
    â€˜
Astinomikós idiotikós
.’
    â€˜Really?’ It didn’t sound all that clever.
    A minute later Margarita reappeared, rushing past us, calling something over her shoulder.
    Morva shrugged. ‘Says she forgot the garlic; she’s popping back to the village. I could have sworn we had strings of the stuff. But Margarita is so superstitious, I don’t think she’d feel quite
safe
without a crate of the stuff.’
    â€˜Vampires?’
    â€˜Vampires. Also water spirits by the wells, imps in the kitchen, goblins in the groves, ghosts in the churchyard and the evil eye. The list is endless. Her moped is encrusted with amulets for protection. But, of course, she wouldn’t dream of wearing a helmet.’
    Eventually, Morva walked me to her car, which she had offered to lend me. A rust-red Ford Fiesta from the last century, it looked only marginally better appointed than the van but would be a lot easier to drive around the island’s twisting roads. Not to mention cheaper. On closer inspection, the colour of the thing had been an inspired choice. I stuck my finger through a rusted hole in the door.
    â€˜You’ve no idea how wet Corfu gets in winter,’ she said guiltily. ‘Now, a word of warning, Mr Shamus: be discreet. And stay away from the police.’
    â€˜I usually try to. But I was hoping they might be able to tell me at least what the timescale was. And perhaps they’ve found out by now where she stayed.’
    â€˜Read my lips, Chris. Stay away from them. In fact, if you see one, scram. They don’t like competition from PIs anyway, that’s well known, but if they find a foreigner asking people questions, they can get downright nasty.’
    â€˜I’ll bear that in mind.’
    â€˜The police here are famous for being corrupt. Unless you have a lot of money to spend on bribes, don’t get into a situation where you might have to. You’d better have some kind of cover story, just in case.’
    â€˜I’m just looking for a friend, that’s all.’ Who could possibly object to that?
    â€˜I hope you’re a good liar.’ Morva waved me off with a doubtful look on her face. ‘Drive carefully – the roads are crap.’
    I had noticed. Though a crap road would have been a definite improvement on the track connecting old and new Makriá. In the village I parked as before by the palm tree. The grill that had been so busy before was shut. Dimitris’s
kafénion
was open, however, and I was being keenly eyed by the three characters sitting with their backs against the wall at the little tables outside. They watched my every move as though they were expected to sit an exam on the subject. I made a mental note to ask Morva if there was some arcane rule in Corfu that all
kafénions
had to have three old geezers sitting with their backs against the wall.
    It was the yellow kiosk at the edge of the square I was after. I had noticed these in town. Fulfilling the functions of a corner shop combined with post office and telephone exchange, they seemed to cram an extraordinary variety of goods into the tiny space, leaving just enough room for one surly proprietor to sit on a stool in the centre and mop his cabin-fevered brow. Whatever didn’t fit inside the hut hung from the outside: scarves, hats, sunglasses, kitchen utensils, plastic toys. A fridge and an ice cream freezer completed the set-up.
    As I walked towards it, I noticed just how quiet the village was. My footsteps on the hard ground seemed the noisiest event around. It wasn’t that there was nothing happening here – two boys were straining to load half a pig into the back of a van, a woman was sweeping her doorstep, an old man was checking a burden of sacks on a donkey