Nemesis of the Dead Read Free

for the beach and reckoned he didn’t look half bad in them. Apart from these and some photochromic sunglasses, Sid had worn the same holiday gear for the last ten years, regardless of his destination. This consisted of a selection of off-white T-shirts printed with obscene lager slogans (free gifts from grateful breweries), army-surplus combat shorts that had seen action on beaches from Blackpool to Benidorm, market-stall trainers, the treads still clogged with hallowed Emirates Stadium turf and, unbelievably, a floor-length Arsenal scarf that went everywhere with him. Now all he needed was something to protect his head from the sun. The temperatures in the Greek islands that summer had soared to record levels. He grabbed last year’s sombrero with a Union Jack on it from the top of his wardrobe and crammed it into his holdall.
    Sidney wondered idly what the plumbing was like on Katastrophos. If it was still the ancient Greek variety, it must be pretty grim by anyone’s standards. While he grappled routinely with ceramic disc technology and the hazards of differential pressures, he balked at the thought of a 4000-year-old khazi. But he wasn’t going there to work, he reminded himself, he was going to have a good time. He was a free spirit. No wife or girlfriend to worry about. Not for want of trying though. Unfortunately it was one of life’s vicissitudes that the ladies he fancied never seemed to fancy him, especially on holiday. Perhaps he’d meet a real stunner this time. No harm in dreaming.
     
    In a stylish townhouse on the Upper East Side in the borough of Manhattan, New York City, between Central Park and the East River, Professor Gordon looked impatiently out of his dressing-room window at the humid afternoon. The five-square-kilometre neighbourhood, with its elegant rows of landmark mansions, once known as the ‘Silk Stocking District’ constituted some of the most expensive real estate in the United States. Some believed it to be the greatest concentration of individual wealth in the nation. Cuthbert Gordon was glad to be back in the States. He had wasted far too much time in England and to little advantage.
    Behind him, his English valet was packing his clothes for the trip to Katastrophos. Whatever was the man doing packing silk shirts and his white tuxedo? He wouldn’t be needing anything of that nature. This was a working trip and a vital one in terms of the success of his ongoing research. Shorts, anoraks and plenty of surgical gloves, that was what was required. He sighed. No doubt his beautiful wife Diana had a hand in this. She rarely accompanied him on his trips to the island, finding it interminably boring. Having agreed to go with him this time, it seemed she proposed to liven things up, at least in the evenings, and was doubtless packing low-cut evening gowns at that very moment. Well, he had no problem with that. She was a party animal and no doubt she would soon find someone to party with. She usually did. Men flocked around Diana like scavenging flies around an Amorphophallus , although in fairness, she didn’t stink of rotting flesh like a carrion flower. Just the opposite, given the enormous sums she spent on perfume. He left his valet to finish packing. What harm would it do if he had to dress up a bit and spend some time with his wife? As long as he achieved his objective, nothing else mattered.
     
    Corrie Dawes had been packing since seven in the morning. She peered into her wardrobe and chewed her lip. What kind of clothes do you take to a Greek island so small it isn’t even in the tourist guide? She took out her one posh frock – then put it back again. She and Jack were hardly likely to go clubbing. What did it matter what she wore, anyway? It would be enough just to have her husband to herself for two whole weeks without the blasted phone ringing and Jack grabbing his coat and shooting off to another crime scene. She wondered if she should have bought a new suitcase. She was