DEATH WISH BY TOM COPPARD
A Klaus Hoffman Mystery...
CONTENTS
Chapter 1. 1.
Chapter 2. 7.
Chapter 3. 19.
Chapter 4. 46.
Chapter 5. 74.
Chapter 6. 110.
Chapter 7. 151.
Chapter 8. 164.
Chapter 9. 180.
Chapter 10. 192.
Chapter 11. 201
Chapter 12. 215
Chapter 13. 220
Chapter 14. 229
AFTERWORD. 231
'The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures.'
Lady Macbeth, Act II Scene II.
1: Arriving at Greece.
Captain Lucius Steele prepared to leave the Yorkshire office, he sighed strongly, prompting a slight condensation to form inside the window he was glancing over.
He had almost no hair, the small strands of remaining hair were an ominous shade of black. Steele's sky-blue military uniform was bolstered upwards by his corpulent frame and bulky greasy chest. He staggered as he walked out the village post office and was suddenly (and viciously) assaulted by a vast and striking wave of the typical English chill.
With a heavy heart, he then prepared for his voyage and excursion to Greece...
II
Sometime later, Capt. Steele found himself aboard the S.S Zartan, a lavish, enigmatic, and labyrinthine cruise travelling all around Europe. The sea was choppy that night; the waves' motion was shoddy and was dashed upwards, causing the ship to shake ruthlessly – almost as if it was in the midst of a cataclysmic earthquake.
Steele strolled onto the main deck. The main deck was nothing to write about: it was simple in its appearance—steel handrails were a universal thing on the great ship.
The drenched floor which only now comprised of salts and seawater, was materialled from solid black oak; and this made the uneven and slippery surface gruelling to converse.
A passenger was bent over the rail, his head leaned overboard. Steele noticed but he thought the young man of twenty was ok. For, there was nothing but dry heaving escaping him. The young male passenger's sweaty black hair hung over his bloodshot, icy blue eyelids.
His thin, untidy ebony black blazer also bore a shoddily fastened tie and an unbuttoned white dress shirt.
"I say," said Steele compassionately. "Are you ok?"
The young passenger with the black hair and horrible emerald face responded: "Yes, the sea is a little choppy, that's all."
Steele nodded and walked away. That morning after, the Zartan had found itself in Greece—on a harbour that was almost a habitat for the rambunctious flock of seagulls with sardines draping over their small and nimble beaks, the fish was bent backwards and could not make any protest as the seagull sored away; A small gust of water washed over the side of the platform that was laden with bits of sand.
III
Zoe Metcalfe, a perfervid young American, ambled down the dock, smiling with her big mouth gaping open; The white linen dress, accompanied with black, squared sunglasses, and of course, a ubiquitous, brilliant white hat, reminiscent of the white Greek villas surrounding, danced along her shoulders through a tropical breeze. Zoe's pace quickened, alarming the distant Lucius Steele.
"Lucy!" she exclaimed flamboyantly.
The girl hugged him hard and the air in the captain's lungs almost felt as if they were evacuating for an emergency. After some uncomfortable seconds, Metcalfe ceased her affectionate grab.
"Come, come!" Metcalfe pleaded.
"Lydia is up at the hotel, I'm assuming?"
"Yes! Yes!"
Inside Santorini's 'Noble Heirloom' Hotel, the two friends gathered at the site of a beautiful young woman. Lydia Penrose was sat at a circular white sheeted table; Lydia Penrose was a thin New Yorker; she wore a navy-blue sleeveless dress, partnered with a slightly exaggerated navy-blue sunhat that was mixed in with white stripes for decoration. Penrose was imbibing a large glass of blood-red wine, and after consumption, she smeared the equally red lipstick onto her pouting, inviting lips.
Then, with her fragile looking fingers, she interfered with the vexatious, curly knots in the coarse strawberry blonde hair that tumbled down to her broad and nubile shoulders.
Penrose jerked her head, her glamourous hair shivering slightly as she moved at noticing Lucius Steele and Zoe Metcalfe. The lighting of the room highlighted the tantalising porcelain looking skin of hers.
Zoe approached her friend with a flamboyant gait.
"Lydie!"
"Zoe!"
The acquaintances' bodies held close, lightly, and then, after some seconds, the hug stopped.
"Lydia," said Zoe, gesturing towards the distant captain in an enlivened state. "I am sure you remember Lucius."
Lydia's charming face brought on a fond, and alluring smirk. Now, Lydia Penrose's somewhat risible hat departed gently from her petite, ladylike head and onto the bright white cloth table behind her.
"Yes," said the young woman with her loving, green, and majestic eyes wide open in an inscrutable gaze, followed with another doting grin.
"How could I forget?"
"Oh, Lydie, how are you enjoying Greece?"
"Enough—it's nice," spoke the young woman in her soft, husky voice.
Zoe beamed.
"The beaches are lovely," she continued.
"The breakfast here is..." Penrose stopped, whispered, "Hit & miss,"
Lucius agreed, "Well, one can see that, can't one?"
Lydia Penrose inhaled gently, and asked amiably, "Well, can I invite you two for a drink?"
Steele's eyes met hers. "Of course, Lydia,"
With the greetings and welcoming out of the equation, the familial trio took their seats and relaxed in each other's company...
2: The Guests.
"Harry," called Zoe Metcalfe, drinking her glass of fresh orange juice intricately. She was ensconced in her hotel room, which had a milky white tiled floor and a simply mundane curtain rack; the luscious view of the island was seen through the vast, open windows. In the quaint, little room, sat a stone-grey rug, neatly displaying some embroidered artwork that was quintessentially Grecian.
"Yes, Zoe?" said Harold Lake in a questioning and casual cadence.
Harold was Zoe's friend and personal assistant, and was dressed in a neat, efficient linen suit. Harry's manner was one of cheery, charming confidence. Some adorably brown, dark, messy curly hair that's colour matched his suit, drooped somewhat woefully to his dashing, colourful green eyes. He adjusted his pair of round glasses – that sat on a pale, prolonged nose. Lake's nose, and indeed, the rest of his face, was marred by a couple of small dimples here and there, but he did not let that impinge on his own life.
"...We must discuss the summer collection."
"Really, Zoe?" he asked puzzledly. "Is there any piece you dislike?"
Zoe paced round the room, not anxiously, but thoughtfully, still drinking her juice. She smacked her lips.
"It's that damned floral spaghetti strap dress!"
"Ah, that." Mused Lake. "Do we need to fix the collection, though, or that one dress?"
"Yes, we should do something with the dress," answered Metcalfe bluntly, "but it wouldn't hurt to go over the whole collection. You understand?"
The young man nodded vigorously. "I see, Zoe; Don't worry, we will have it fixed."
"Thank you, Harry."
"My pleasure. Anything else we should go over?"
"What about that linen suit?" wondered Zoe. Her little muse forced Lake to look down, considering his own suit.
"What, this?" he asked.
Zoe chuckled lightly; "No, no. The blue one – for the men."
"Ah, of course. My apologies."
Zoe reared her head back to her assistant and close friend. "Don't apologise,"
Lake chuckled softly; his perfect teeth displayed themselves effortlessly. Zoe continued to grin, ever confident to not let it break as she stared at him. Harry glared with a mostly dubious manifestation, before questioning:
"Zoe, what do you think of Lydia Penrose being here?"
"In Santorini?"
"Well, yeah."
Metcalfe let out a weak scoff, "I don't see the problem," she then gave him an anxious look. "Why do you ask, Harry? Bad memories?"
"No!" he deflected. "Well," he continued in a softer cadence, "Yeah, kind of. Sorry."
Zoe Metcalfe paced calmly and adopted a soothing smile. She said lightly:
"I'm sorry she put you through that. Some people just don't understand the stigma men face."
"No," Lake admitted forlornly. "Although, Ms. Penrose seems nice enough." His lips peered up into a soft smile.
"Hmm."
"I can talk to her,"
"No, no. But thank you."
"I hope she sees that what she said and did to you was wrong."
"Yeah," agreed Lake, "I'm just putting that behind me."
Zoe sustained a delicate smirk. "We can leave it, but I can always talk to Lydia."
"Thanks, Zoe, but it's ok."
"Don't mention it, Harry, I love you."
"I love you too."
Sometime later, a considerable number of hotel guests had briefly departed from one another, as it was now quite late in the day. However, unlike Lucius Steele, Lydia (along with Metcalfe who was with Harold in her suite), was not alone at this moment.
The suites and rooms in The Noble Heirloom, (like most hotel rooms in a general sense), were almost undistinguishable from one another. The only notable difference could be attributed to a different picture, or an extra wardrobe.
The soft patter of Lydia's coarsely textured slippers against the squeaky, ivory toned tiles, was a pleasant sound and it was assuasive to the ears.
In a way that suggested utmost haste, Lydia's scholarly and punctual companion Vera Hudson, burst through the almond toned, large oak door. Tucked diplomatically in her weighty arms, a few of Hudson's books collapsed against the tiles with a sensitive clatter. Lydia inspected her friend's eruptive emergence. Hudson's once neat, brunette hair was inelegantly ruffled, and one strand of her beautifully textured hair dangled precariously between those enchanting eyes of hers. Vera's circular lensed glasses sloped leisurely off her great, big nose.
A quick finger nudge resolved that, and Lydia remained astonished.
"Are you ok, Vera?"
"Yes," she rasped through her tiny lips. "Yes, fine."
"Hmm."
Vera wobbled over to the bed and slammed her compendium raucously against it.
"There you are, Lydia." Hudson said frantically, trying not to asphyxiate.
"What are they, Vera?"
"Greek books," she replied, "History, and mythology and what-have-you."
"You...bought me history books?" asked Penrose, groaning slightly.
"Aren't you interested?"
"So-so."
"Come on, Lydia!", encouraged Hudson, nudging her friend incessantly. "We must know a bit about the place! What if we go sightseeing?"
Lydia shot her a blank stare. "I suppose you're right." She mumbled.
Vera surveyed her friend in a scrutinising and almost harsh stare.
"You never liked history in school."
"No, you're right."
"Why not?" probed Vera Hudson forlornly.
"Eh."
"Was it Ms. Lawson? I know you hated her!"
"She was a sow."
Hudson giggled. "We had different interests then, right?"
"Yes, I'd say so, Vera."
Lydia scratched her head tentatively before turning to her close companion.
"So," she uttered softly: "How are you finding Greece?"
Vera Hudson shot her a fond glance.
"It's glamourous. All that golden sand. The wind in my hair," she mused as she fiddled with it. "Why have we never been before, Lydia?"
"I'm not too sure, Vera."
Hudson tutted faintly. "It really is a crying shame, Lydia." she bemoaned.
"Yeah." Agreed Lydia Penrose quietly.
Vera Hudson again scrutinised with a prolonged and uneasy gaze. She articulated her next words gently. "I'm sorry, Lydia."
"Why?"
"I'm bothering you, aren't I?"
"No, why are you?" she repeated.
"You seem bored. Are you still struggling to sleep?"
"No, well..."
"'Well,' what?"
"I was always an insomniac," jibed the socialite humorously.
"Yes, well that ass-ton of Morphine did you good!" Vera's lips then dropped with slight dread at what she was going to ask next; she maintained a fierce eye contact with Penrose.
"You're still on it?"
"Yes, and no," responded the socialite. "I've been sleeping better."
Vera Hudson silently responded with a gesture; her head fell marginally. "I've not triggered you?"
"No!" she defused "You're looking out and I appreciate that."
"Of course. We never really got on in school, but then we did – and I want to keep going with you."
"I know. I agree, Vera."
Lydia's loving and friendly reaction forced out a soft grin from Hudson.
"In any case," Penrose bolstered suddenly, "My insomnia is going away, I think. Slowly."
"No more 'good stuff'?"
"No." Hudson supported with a smile. "No more..."
