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 party.
"You coming?" Terry asks me.
"I'm not," I reply, "but you knock yourself out."
I'm standing now and I place my hand on Terry's shoulder in a gesture of farewell. I say goodbye to some of the other ex-pats who are sitting in the late evening sun sipping beer, and wave to Antoinette who is busy flitting from table to table outside her wine bar. Her new young helper, the one Lucy had clocked so obviously earlier, is behind the outside bar mixing expensive cocktails. He is dark haired, young and seemingly carefree. I can appreciate that he's a good-looking boy. I sense that Lucy will come to know him very well in the next few weeks.
As I make my weary way back towards my boat I try and work out whether it is better to take the shorter route, even though it involves one hundred and two steps, I know because I've counted them, or the longer way by road with no steps but steep hills. I opt for the steps. It doesn't involve walking past Tony's place. He was one of the first Brits to build a house here. At the time he was limited as to where he could build so he got stuck with a plot which by today's standards is substandard. His lack of a view, and the fact that he's neither in nor outside the village, a kind of commuter belt, makes him a pretty disgruntled fellow. I'm not up to listening to his gripes about the way the island is going to the dogs tonight. It's getting dark now. The night sky is just stunning. The more you stare into the darkness the more glittering stars you can see. I don't bother with a torch, I've excellent night vision which is just
