Nemesis of the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

walnut-skinned crones in black headscarves dozed in the shade of magenta bougainvillea as the afternoon sun gonged down out of a brazen sky.
    Jack wondered what the traffic cops back home would make of the driver’s road safety. Occasionally he drove on the right, but more often than not he steered straight down the middle, hooting and shouting Greek obscenities at the drivers coming the other way. Since they were also driving down the middle, they responded in a similar manner with much gesturing and cursing but there was no real malice, as far as Jack could tell. To them, it was perfectly normal. The rationale seemed to be that you drove on whichever part of the road was shady and had the fewest potholes.
    The atmosphere freshened as the bus began to drop back down to the coast on the west side of the peninsula. The road looped around the headland and Corrie had a fine view of a pretty bay and the closer group of islets. According to the short and vague directions that Jack had managed to pull off the Internet, the ferry port that served Katastrophos was roughly five miles south of Methóni.
    The bus driver pulled up next to the harbour of a tiny fishing town alongside a dilapidated wooden jetty and everyone clambered out, hot and sticky. Still with pendulous cigarette, the driver heaved everyone’s suitcases out of the luggage compartment and dumped them on the quay-side. Jack and the young man each put coins in his outstretched hand but ‘short-and-portly’ blatantly ignored him, and started fussing with his bags and his panama hat. His wife looked embarrassed.
    The driver trousered the cash, smiling happily. ‘Which island you go? Sapientza – see lighthouse? Schiza? Venetiko? Very nice – very secluded.’ He winked at the young couple, still joined at the hip.
    ‘Katastrophos.’ The reply was unanimous.
    It might have been Corrie’s imagination but she thought the driver’s smile faded fractionally. He fingered the bunch of St Christophers at his throat. ‘Good luck!’ he called ambiguously and climbed back into his bus. ‘Ferry leave in one hour. Maybe.’ Soon he was jolting back down the bumpy road to Kalamata.
    The six travellers stood in an awkward circle around their bags like girls at a nightclub waiting for the music to start.
    ‘Well,’ said Jack, affably. ‘I suppose we should introduce ourselves since we’re all headed for the same island.’
    ‘I don’t see why,’ said ‘short-and-portly’ pompously. ‘My wife and I dislike holiday friendships. They impinge on one’s privacy.’
    Now they were up close and she had her glasses on, Corrie could see that his dull brown hair was actually a hairpiece and a not very convincing one. How pretentious. She smothered a giggle. The Greek sun would play havoc with the glue.
    ‘I wasn’t suggesting friendship.’ Jack gave Corrie a look that said: I told you this bloke was a pain in the arse . ‘I just thought that as Katastrophos is so small, with just the one hotel, we’re likely to keep bumping into each other.’
    ‘Absolutely,’ said the young man. He withdrew an arm reluctantly from around the waist of his beloved and held out his hand. ‘I’m Tim Watkins, and this …’ he looked at her adoringly, as if he could not believe his luck, ‘… this is my wife, Ellie.’
    The two were wearing identical shorts, T-shirts and trainers and were physically intertwined to such an extent that it was hard to see where one started and the other finished. They had short matching haircuts and scrubbed freckled faces. For modern youngsters, they were quaintly wholesome and distinctly uncool, thought Corrie. Like presenters from a very old Blue Peter programme.
    Ellie smiled at Tim, blushed and lowered her eyes to look at her wedding ring.
    ‘We’re on honeymoon.’
    Looking at the agonizingly young newly-weds, Corrie suddenly felt embarrassed. She and Jack were on honeymoon, too, but they were in their forties and it seemed slightly indecent