His trips abroad for work have been few and far between. Many years ago, he had gone to Spain to escort home Billy Gill, a seventy-year-old antiques dealer from Hove, who had run a counterfeit pound-coin operation from a garage close to the seafront. It was a lovely little business that ran pretty much undetected for many years, until, with the advent of the two-pound coin, Billy had got greedy. His two-pound coins had looked terrific, but the middles kept falling out. After a lengthy stakeout of a Portslade launderette, Billy’s mint was tracked down, and he had fled for the sun, pockets jangling as he went.
Chris’s memory of that trip was of a cramped charter flight from Shoreham Airport, landing somewhere in Spain beginning with anA, being driven for forty-five minutes in searing heat, the van stopping and a handcuffed Billy Gill being shoved alongside him, and waiting seven hours for a flight home, all the while listening to Billy Gill telling him you couldn’t get Marmite in Spain.
Then a few years later there had been a compulsory IT course on the Isle of Wight. And so far that had been that for globetrotting.
But Cyprus was a bit more like it. Too hot, obviously, but still. He’d been met at the Larnaca airport and driven to the capital by Joe Kyprianou, theCypriot detective who now sat alongside him. The prison was nice and cool, and, Chris discovered, it’s impossible to sweat when sitting on a concrete chair. From the moment the cell doors closed, he had been happy.
Demir Gunduz was, Chris guessed, somewhere in his seventies, but was a lot less chatty than Billy Gill.
“When was the last time you saw Johnny?” asks Chris.
Demir looks straight at him and shrugs.
“Last week? Last year? Does he visit? Come on, Demir.”
Demir looks at his nails. Which, Chris notes, are immaculate for a man in prison.
“Here’s the thing, Mr. Gunduz. We have records showing that your son arrived back in Cyprus on May seventeenth, two thousand. Landing at Larnaca at around two p.m. And from that moment to this, nothing. Not a trace. Why might that be, do you think?”
Demir thinks for a moment. “Why do you want Johnny? After all this time?”
“I would like to speak to him about an offense in the UK. To rule him out.”
“Pretty big offense if you fly here, no?”
“A pretty big offense, Mr. Gunduz, yes.”
Demir Gunduz nods slowly. “And you can’t find Johnny?”
“I know where he was at two p.m. on May seventeenth, two thousand, and I’m hazy after that,” says Chris. “Where would he have gone? Who would he have seen?”
“Well,” says Demir, sitting up tall in his chair, “he would have come to see me.”
“And did he?”
Demir leans forward a little and gives Chris a smile. Then he shrugs once again. “Time up, I think. Good luck to you. Enjoy Cyprus.”
Joe Kyprianou leans forward now and regards Demir Gunduz.
“Demir and his brother Alper, they used to steal motorcycles, Chris,here in Nicosia, and ship them off to Turkey. Pretty easy if you have a guy in each port. They had a little workshop. File off the serial number, change the registration—that’s right, Demir, isn’t it?”
“A long time ago,” says Demir.
“Then it was cars every now and again. But they could go on the same boats, with the same men turning the same blind eye, so everything is okay for Demir and Alper. The years roll by, bikes and cars, cars and bikes. And the cars mean a bigger workshop, and a bigger lorry, and bigger crates.”
“And bigger money for Demir?” asks Chris, looking at Demir.
“Bigger money, for sure. So all is calm and everyone is happy, and Demir and Alper do very nicely, thank you so much. And then it’s nineteen seventy-four, and Turkey invades. You know the story?”
“Yes,” says Chris. He doesn’t, but he really wants a meal before his flight, and he can bet the story is a long one. He will look it up on Wikipedia if it becomes important.
“So the Turkish invade, they take over Northern Cyprus. Pretty much. The Greek Cypriots in the north come down south, the Turkish Cypriots in the south go up north—the few that hadn’t left in 1963, that is. And that’s Demir and Alper.
“So Demir moved north?”
Joe Kyprianou laughs. “You moved north, eh, Demir? Like, three streets north. Nicosia was cut in two—Turkish in the north of the city, Greek in the south. So they just moved north of the Green Line and found themselves in a whole new world.”
Google “green line,” thinks Chris.
