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all at once you don’t always appreciate it.’ He looked across at Patrick, still munching tiny fish. ‘Of course, you’re a young man yet,’ he added. ‘You wouldn’t know.’
    ‘I’m not as young as all that,’ Patrick protested. Some of his pupils thought he verged on senility.
    ‘You remember the war, anyway.’
    ‘Certainly,’ said Patrick, with asperity. And afterwards he had done National Service, serving with the army in Germany and emerging with a good knowledge of the language that he had found useful many times since. ‘Were you in the army?’
    ‘No, sir. I’d flat feet, would you believe it? I went for the navy, but no joy. So I went into a factory and in the end, I got to own it. I made shoes.’
    ‘Success story,’ Patrick said. ‘And ironic. Which part of Crete did your father come from?’
    ‘Further west. It was a village that suffered a lot in the war,’ said Loukas. ‘Most of the men were shot. I’d hoped I might find some kin there.’
    ‘You’ve been to it?’
    ‘Yes. All my folks were in the cemetery.’
    Two old men wearing the traditional baggy trousers and high brown boots walked past. Their hair was grizzled and their faces crinkled with lines.
    ‘Those two could tell you a few things, I imagine,’ said Patrick.
    ‘My wife’s first husband was killed in Crete early in the war,’ the other man confided. ‘She’s English. I guess it’s been too much for her, coming here. I thought she’d appreciate it – a kind of sentimental pilgrimage. I didn’t tell her I’d booked in here after Italy – kept it as a surprise. But she’s soft-hearted. She’ll be all right when we get to Athens. We’re off there on Thursday. Look us up at the Hilton if you’re in town.’
    Patrick promised he would, and invited Loukas to call on him at St. Mark’s if he were ever in Oxford.
    There was no baclava. Patrick made do with the ubiquitous cream caramel.
    As he walked back to collect the Fiat he saw Inspector Manolakis drive away from the police station in his large, official car. The man certainly worked late.

 
PART TWO
    Wednesday and Thursday
     
    Crete
     
I
     
    Early the next morning Patrick set off for Ai Saranda. As he left, he saw a group of people outside the hotel entrance waiting for the tourist buses that would collect them for their day’s excursions. They were hung about with cameras and string bags. New arrivals were shrimp pink or lobster red, according to their degree of exposure to the sun; a few were deeply bronzed. Apart from the group, looking elegant and pale, stood Ursula Norris.
    Patrick greeted her and asked where she was going.
    ‘It’s Phaestos today,’ she said. ‘Knossos on Thursdays. The tour companies do certain trips on certain days.’
    ‘I may see you there,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m going to look up someone for a friend of mine near there.’
    ‘I’ll look out for you,’ said Ursula.
    Further along the road, another group of tourists waited outside the Apollo hotel. Patrick saw George and Elsie among them. In Challika, he stopped at the travel agent’s office to see if the clerk had been able to discover the movements of the Persephone.
    An atmosphere of controlled panic prevailed here. Several people were trying to buy last-minute tickets for the day’s excursions and some refused to accept that there were no vacancies on certain tours. Others had different problems. All craved instant attention. Patrick decided to wait till the coaches had gone before adding to the confusion. He walked across the road and looked at the boats in the harbour, wondering if there was much illicit trading. Any strange craft would soon be noticed, he supposed. The Psyche was still at her mooring. One of the young men was on the deck, doing something to a length of rope, splicing it, perhaps. As he watched, the girl walked along the quay towards the boat. Her long, curly blonde hair was secured in a pony-tail; she wore brief cotton shorts, and her legs