When he moved out on deck, Yanni was already on the jetty expertly hooking the line over an iron bollard.
He grinned. “How long since you brought a boat into harbour, Mr. Lomax?”
“I got us here,” Lomax said. “That’s all that counts.
How far is it to the police station?”
“Just around the corner,” Yanni said. “A couple of minutes, that’s all. Shall I get Sergeant Kytros?” Lomax nodded. “I’ll wait here.” A hollow booming echoed across the water as the boy ran along the wooden planking of the jetty to the wharf and disappeared into the darkness.
When Lomax turned, he saw that Riki was on his feet
He stood looking down at the body of his brother, legs braced apart, damaged arm held firmly against his side.
“Who sicked you and your brother and Dimitri on to me?” Lomax said. “Was it Alexias Pavlo?”
Riki looked up slowly. In the yellow light of the lamp his eyes were black holes, the face glistening with sweat, a mask of pain.
He said nothing and yet his hatred lay between them like a living thing and Lomax shivered as if somewhere, someone had walked over his grave. A small wind lifted from the water, slicing through his damp clothing and he turned, stepped over the rail and walked along the jetty. When he reached the wharf he hesitated, knowing that the sensible thing to do was to wait for Kytros, to let him handle things. And then he thought of Dimitri waiting out there at the farm for news that he was dead and anger moved inside him. He climbed into the truck and a moment later drove rapidly away.
A solitary light greeted him from the darkness of the hollow when he took the truck down towards the farmhouse. He braked to a halt, cut the engine and sat there looking towards the porch. After a moment, he jumped down to the ground and moved up the steps.
He took the Beretta from his waistband, held it against his right thigh with the safety catch off and went in. The kitchen was in darkness, but a thin strip of light showed at the bottom of the door leading to the living room.
He stood there, conscious of the uncanny stillness, the absolute quiet, and somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled menacingly. He opened the door and stepped into the living room in one smooth movement.
A fire crackled on the hearth and a lamp stood on the table in the centre of the room, its yellow glow beating the shadows back into their corners.
And then he noticed the bottle lying on the sheepskin rug where it had fallen. Red wine spilling across the floor like blood, reached out towards the legs that protruded from the shadows behind one of the great wing-backed chairs beside the fire.
Dimitri Paros stared up at the ceiling, eyes fixed for eternity, a half-smile frozen into place. The horn-handle of a gutting knife jutted from beneath his chin, the long blade passing through the roof of the mouth into the brain.
In one hand he still clutched a wine-glass, its contents spilled on the floor beside him, and Lomax pushed the Beretta into his waistband and dropped to one knee.
When he touched the white face with the back of one hand, he found it still warm. He was only just dead, that much was obvious, and Lomax sighed and started to get to his feet.
A slight breeze touched the back of his neck and the door creaked. A familiar voice said, “Please to stand very still.”
Alexias Pavlo moved into the room leaning heavily on his cane, a Mauser clutched firmly in his other hand. He removed the Beretta, slipping it into his pocket, and glanced down at Dimitri.
When he looked again at Lomax, his face was dark with vengeance and as implacable, hewn out of stone.
“Now I will see you hang, Captain Lomax,” he said.
A Prospect of Gallows
The cell was small and bare with whitewashed walls and illuminated by a single bulb. There was a small, barred window, a washbasin and the bunk on which he was lying.