A Darker God (4 page)

For the umpteenth time he composed in his head a stately letter of resignation. The words never made it onto a sheet of writing paper. Police work was what Percy Montacute did best. In fact, it was all he did, all he knew how to do apart from soldiering, and nothing would drag him back in that direction. Too old by now anyway. Thirty-five. Too old to be changing horses in midstream.

He drained his tea, rang the bell for Perkins, and picked up a pencil from the floor. Scrambling about, he found a large envelope, smoothed it out, and began to make notes. His best planning had always been done on the back of a used envelope or discarded ammo wrappings. And now he’d jot down the essentials of the ridiculous proposition he’d just been presented with while it was fresh in his mind. He had no intention of committing himself to a scheme he’d discover to have been subtly modified by the time the official papers made their way to his in-tray for his signature.

Departure in a fortnight’s time. Brief but adequate to familiarise himself with the task they were setting him. And a hellish task, by the sound of it! Destination: Athens.

“Ah, Perkins. Just remove the tea things, would you?” He looked thoughtfully at the younger man, watching as he stepped in a disapproving manner over the recumbent hat stand. “Forgive my asking, Constable … er … Harry, isn’t it?… You’re too young to have fought in the war?”

“Missed it by a year, sir. I’m twenty-five.”

“So you’ve no personal experience of enemy action? Never killed a man?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say that, sir …” the constable disagreed mildly. “Where I come from, on the Old Kent Road, there’s enemy action in full swing every Saturday night. Knives, broken beer mugs, rolling pins … Not guns so much since the crackdown. I’ve been taking care of myself since I could toddle. With four older brothers in the house and the Jubilee Court thugs out on the street, I had to learn to handle myself in a barney. And I
have
killed a man. Just the one.”

The constable timed his pause and, on catching the lift of Percy’s black eyebrows, he added: “It’s on the record, sir. In the line of duty. A peterman cracking his last safe. No blood spilled. His mates had all legged it and left him on his tod to carry the can. I chased him to his death, you could say. Daft old bugger should never have run! I gave due warning in the correct way. Loud and clear. Dropped dead of a seizure. Apoplexy, my old ma calls it. Croaked as I put the cuffs on him. Never quite been easy about that …”

Percy’s eyes narrowed in interest. “Remind me, Harry—you’re not married, are you?”

The constable showed no surprise at being asked the personal question. That was Montacute for you—took an interest in his men, encouraged them to speak out and actually listened when they spoke. Remembered to ask after the wife and
kids and the granny, getting their names right and all. His men would follow him anywhere, and “follow” was the operative word—however fast your feet, you’d always find the chief inspector a few strides ahead.

“Married? Me? Naw! Never taken the plunge, sir. Though I’ve had my offers. What about you, sir?”

“Lord, no!” A shout of laughter where most officers would have called him to attention for overfamiliarity. “Not even an offer! Still footloose and fancy-free. Right, then, Constable … That’s good. And that’ll be all for the moment.”

As the door closed, Percy made another note and his thoughts slipped back to Athens.

What did he know of Athens? Plenty about the ancient city in its glory days, but about the modern capital—nothing. End of the world. A sleepy, one-donkey town where not much of note had happened since Alexander of Macedon’s rough, tough highland regiments had laid claim to Greece. He’d admired Edward Lear’s watercolours and that was as close as he’d come to an interest. A gleaming, austerely beautiful temple poised on a high outcrop of rock and a froth of red-roofed, white-walled houses below was as much as he could recall.

Percy loosened his collar. It was warm enough here in London; God knew what the temperature was in Greece. Greece! He’d had enough of Greece for a lifetime. The dust and the flies of Salonika were still there somewhere, lodged at the back of his throat and in his belly, never to be entirely scrubbed or swallowed away. Percy had tried to object that he didn’t speak the language. But the Assistant Commissioner sitting smugly in front of him with his records open was not deceived. He’d pointed out Percy’s degree in the Classics. Arsehole didn’t even realise that modern Greek was not the same animal at all. If Percy had gone on protesting he’d no doubt have told him to just shout loudly at the natives like everyone else. But hadn’t the Chief Inspector shown a wartime facility for languages?
the Assistant Commissioner had enquired mildly. Bulgarian? Serbo-Croat? And—what was the language they spoke up there in Salonika, where he’d been based for two years … could Montacute recall? Demotic Greek? Ah, yes, that would be it-demotic Greek.

“Mainly Spanish and Turkish,” Percy had objected.

“How very cosmopolitan!” The bland smile again. “Well, there you are, then—you’ll be bound to be speaking the lingo fluently in a month or two, Montacute. And plenty of time to get to grips with it. Your secondment is to be for a minimum of a year. Or however long it might take …”

Warning bells had sounded in Percy’s head on hearing that smoothly spoken phrase, slipped in with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders. And what was all that nonsense about his war record? Mutinously, Percy had clammed up when the Assistant Commissioner had tried to draw him out, disguising his truculence as the becoming modesty of a tongue-tied Englishman.

“Quite the adventurous young captain in Salonika, it would appear?” his questioner had mused, running a finger down the page. “Something of a trench-raider? ‘Devising and effecting raids on enemy positions and leading dashes into occupied territory for the purpose of snatching prisoners for questioning,’” he quoted.

Percy had muttered that on some days he would have raided Hell to relieve the boredom. But at least his forays provided him with someone intelligent to talk to. The enemy of choice at the time were the Bulgars … His dark eyes had trained on the Assistant Commissioner a steady double-barrelled challenge. “Sportsmen like ourselves, good sense of humour and excellent conversationalists,” Percy had added.

The Assistant Commissioner had cleared his throat, hesitated, and changed the subject. “And all this on top of a distinguished performance in Flanders during the first year of
the war … Hmm … You’re just the chap to assume duties in a young and turbulent state like Greece, I’m thinking.”

Half of Percy’s anger was directed at himself. He’d failed again. He’d waited too long. The words he ought to have voiced half an hour earlier came to him now: “Sir, you must be aware that you are sending me out of the country at a pivotal moment in my career. A certain position is about to become vacant in the next month or two. We both know that I deserve this promotion. This next step ought, by right of ability, to be mine. By posting me to Athens you are deliberately denying me the opportunity.”

What had prevented him from speaking out? Cowardice? Percy required himself to consider this. He had medals and commendations enough, on the military and civilian stage, testifying to his courage. Old opponents on the rugby pitch still grimaced when they passed him, playfully giving his imposing frame a wide berth. If it ever came to a physical duel with his superior—anything from fisticuffs to pistols—Percy would prevail. But when the contest was a one-sided bout of aristocratic shadow-boxing with its underlying shibboleths, prejudices, and acceptances, he felt himself outclassed, anxious, the angry and impotent loser in a struggle he despised. Perversely, he’d have thought less of himself if he
had
been able to fight on their chosen terrain.

And so, unable to voice his true objections, he had cravenly quibbled about the small print—the language, the local police, the political implications, even his lodgings. And he didn’t give a tinker’s cuss about any of that. Percy sighed. It was done and dusted. Kicking the guts out of a wastepaper basket would get him nowhere. There was very probably a rosy side to all this if he could consider it calmly.

After a minute or two, the only thought he could come up with was that he was lucky to be still unmarried. He wouldn’t have wanted to find the words to tell a wife she was to pack
their trunks, that he’d been posted to the Balkans. If that was where he’d find Athens. He’d have to think of something to tell Vesta, of course. It didn’t have to be utterly convincing-she was hardly likely to wait for him anyway. Might as well tell her the truth.

The truth? Percy was quite certain he hadn’t been told the truth himself.

Athens—secondment to … That much was true.

“Old so-and-so’s already there … You’re bound to run into what’s-his-name … Systems, you’ll find, are in place … The new Prime Minister’s expected …” It sounded as though someone were planning a sort of awful house party. No, that wasn’t quite the flavour … And then Percy had it at last! It had sounded to his ears like the click of ivory chess pieces being set up on a board. He was being taken out of the box and dusted down, ready to play his part. Doubtless as a pawn in the front rank. Vulnerable. Expendable. But on whose side? Black? White?

Well, the game, any game, would find Percy, if confused, at least battle-ready. Pawns had been known to make it through to the far side.

He made an external phone call to a newspaper editor who owed him a favour and arranged a lunchtime drink at the Cock Tavern in Fleet Street. Might as well establish the lie of the land. He toyed with the notion of ringing down to Records to ask what files they had on interesting residents of Athens, but decided against it. He wouldn’t go through the switchboard; he’d go down after the top brass had gone off to the golf course or home for tea to their cosy nooks in Surrey. Then he’d personally charm whoever was on duty—with a bit of luck it would be Phoebe Carstairs—into leaving the material out on her desk while she went to powder her nose. Next, he seized a second envelope and began to make a list of hot-weather clothing to take to Lillywhites. And boots. He wondered if there was time to get his bootmaker to make up a couple of
stout pairs. It seemed they had activity of a physical nature in mind, and if they required him to go chasing brigands over rocky mountainsides, he wanted something more substantial than police-approved Oxfords on his feet.

He took down an atlas from his shelf. How in hell did you get to Athens these days? Maritime nation, Greece. Cut off from the rest of Europe (with its blessed railway network) by a tangle of mountains, it looked depressingly unapproachable by anything other than a boat. With dire memories of sweltering days on troop ships in the Mediterranean, Percy began to track his way overland, his finger hopefully following the railway lines. He made it as far as Rome, then crossed over to Brindisi. From there, the last leg—he drummed his fingers in irritation—would appear to be by ferry, either into Patras and on by train or through the Corinth Canal into Piraeus, the port of Athens.

The picture of himself arriving in port, seasick and sunburnt, triggered a certain self-deprecating humour in his situation. He took down his well-used copy of Alexander Pope’s translation of the
Iliad
, tugged off his tie, and settled back at his desk, putting up his feet rebelliously on the leather surface. He rummaged in his drawer for a cigarette, found an old pack of Senior Service, and lit one. It was crumpled and dry and bits of tobacco prickled his tongue, but he enjoyed the first coarse blast of smoke rasping its unaccustomed way down his nose. He retrieved his wastebasket and, against all the rules, flicked his spent match and tapped the ash from his cigarette into it. Now he was ready to squander a half hour of the Department’s precious time in silent mutiny.

Wherever his book fell open, he found inspiration and consolation. The most magnificent English ever written, Percy reckoned, and it always made his heart sing. And Homer’s ancient story, heroic yet pulsing with humanity, still awed him.

In that magnificent welter of blood, vengeance, and valour he could lose himself and his petty problems. It was no wonder to him that his hero, Alexander of Macedon, had taken a copy of the
Iliad
with him when he set out to conquer the world. Along with a dagger, he’d kept the scrolls by his bedside when on manoeuvres. And what a copy! In the margins—they said—were handwritten notes added by Alexander’s tutor, the great philosopher Aristotle himself. The scrolls had most probably gone up in flames on one of the occasions the library at Alexandria had caught fire, Percy reasoned, but his rational conclusion was always swept away by a rush of rebellious speculation. He still dreamed that one day the papyrus, crackling with age, would come to light, preserved in some dark space. Alexander’s own tomb perhaps? The book had never left his side in life—surely the conqueror’s grief-stricken generals would have buried his most prized possession with him? Historians seemed certain that Alexander’s last resting place lay hidden away in Egypt’s desert sands. It was to be hoped so. Everyone was, these days, aware of the almost magical power of the sands to preserve delicate artefacts. Well, why shouldn’t the book come to light again? All manner of wondrous things were turning up on people’s spades these days.

Percy, like everyone else, had been thrilled by the recent discoveries of gold, jewellery, and precious pieces of workmanship from antique times. But it was the written word he prized. Whether carved in stone, stamped on clay, painted on plaster, or—best of all—written on papyrus or vellum, words transmitted ancient thoughts and deeds. “In the beginning was the Word,” many religions agreed mystically in their different languages. Percy chose to take that literally. Words were more precious to him than philosophical ratiocination. The world could get by (and had for millennia) without looking on the face of Tutankhamen, but where would it have been
without the astonishing words of Homer, the sonorous phrases of the Old Testament, the stupendous story of the Babylonian hero Gilgamesh, a thousand years older even than Homer?