Read Online The Grave Tattoo by Val McDermid - Free Book Online Page A

above an open fireplace a group of small Minoan figures clustered. They were the only decoration in the room. Caroline made a soft noise of satisfaction. She crossed the room in a few strides and opened one of the two doors leading off. ‘This is the bedroom,’ she said. ‘Just dump the bags in there.’
It was another plain room, dominated by a wide, carved wooden bedstead. A mosquito net hung from the ceiling. The only other furniture was a simple wardrobe. All that lifted it above the most basic backpacker accommodation was a pair of magnificent silk Bokhara rugs, one on either side of the bed. Christ, he thought, this was a scant step above bloody peasant life. Jake had dropped their suitcases on the floor and returned to the living room. Caroline gestured to the other door. ‘The bathroom,’ she said. ‘A little better than primitive Greek, I think you’ll find.’
Curious, he’d opened the door. He knew from Caroline’s London house that she was serious about her ablutions, but he’d experienced Greek plumbing before and had no high hopes. To his astonishment, he found himself in a smaller replica of the Highgate master bathroom. Marble floors, a deep bathtub, a two-person shower cubicle, twin washbasins; all the luxury modern design could provide. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, backing out. ‘How did you manage that?’
Caroline tossed her dark blonde hair away from her face in a familiar gesture of indifference. ‘Contacts, darling, contacts.’ She walked into the bedroom and unfastened her suitcase. ‘Clean clothes, then a very big drink.’
Sounded good to Jake. ‘It’s wonderfully simple,’ he said, following her lead and raking through his case for some shorts. ‘But how on earth do we work here?’
Misunderstanding, Caroline laughed. ‘I know. It’s so tempting. The sea, the beach, the taverna. It’s hard, but I have to remind myself that the only way I can justify spending two months a year here is to keep the wheels turning.’
‘No, I meant practically. You don’t have a computer, a fax, a phone line as far as I can see.’
Caroline straightened up, shorts and T-shirt in her hand. ‘Honestly, Jake, you’re so twentieth century sometimes. Laptop, Blackberry, wireless internet connection–that’s all I need. I get the auction catalogues online, and if there’s anything I want to bid for, I do it by phone. And I have good contacts locally who keep an eye out for anything they think might interest me. Believe me, there’s some extraordinary stuff to be had over here. Wonderful illuminated texts from the monasteries, beautiful sheet music from the Middle Ages that is so lovely one wants to weep. I promise you won’t be disappointed with what we find on this trip. It never fails to astonish me. Reminds me of the sheer joy of having this wonderful stuff passing through my hands. You’ll see.’
‘I thought they were pretty strict about antiquities not leaving the country?’ Jake asked idly as he stripped off jeans sticky from the plane and the drive.
‘They are. But there are always ways,’ she said, her tone repressing further questions.
He’d realised by now what she meant by that. For someone whose principal business lay in the buying and selling of bits of paper–holograph letters, manuscripts ancient and modern, illuminated sheet music–it was easy to send irregularly acquired material back to the UK. As long as the envelope looked like an innocuous piece of business post–a brochure for a villa, say, or a prospectus for a new commercial development–nobody in the Greek or British post office was going to look twice at it. ‘In a dozen years of doing this, I’ve only lost one item in the mail,’ Caroline had told him matter-of-factly the first time they’d visited the main post office in Chania. ‘And it wasn’t especially valuable. People only take an interest if you start dressing it up as recorded delivery and insuring it. Otherwise, it gets taken for