Philip Kerr 14 страница

‘I never thought I’d hear myself say this, ’ said Charlie, ‘but it’s a pity you weren’t watching Olympiacos. It’d be nearer and we’d have more time. ’

‘Can’t be helped. But if we miss full time it won’t really matter that much. The important thing is that we’ve given the cops the slip again. ’

Charlie glanced in his mirror as if just making sure and then nodded.

Dimitrakopoulou was the north street on a little square of neat gardens with tall trees and a playground where several children were having noisy fun on the swings under the watchful eyes of their mothers.

Charlie got out of the car and fetched an old blue police sweatshirt and matching baseball cap from a plastic bag in the boot.

‘I brought these from home, ’ he said, putting on the sweatshirt and the hat. ‘They wouldn’t convince a real policeman, of course, but for anyone else they’ll do fine. Let me do the talking. And don’t speak to anyone. It’s probably best if you seem bad‑ tempered and overworked and keep your sunglasses on; that way, you’ll look like a real detective. ’

Nataliya Matviyenko’s apartment was on the top floor of an ochre‑ coloured building with so many green canvas canopies shielding its several balconies from the strong afternoon sun it looked like it was under sail. There was a pharmacy on the ground floor that, according to the plastic clock on the door, was about to close for the afternoon and, next to the pharmacy, a modern glass door with several bell buttons.

‘There’s a Nataliya Boutzikos here, ’ said Charlie, ‘but no Nataliya Matviyenko. ’

‘Has to be her, ’ I said. ‘Don’t you think? ’

Charlie nodded and rang the bell; it was always possible someone else lived in the same apartment – Mr Boutzikos, perhaps – but there was no answer.

‘Now what? ’ I asked.

‘Now we wait for the cavalry. ’

‘Holy shit, ’ I said. A police car was coming slowly along Dimitrakopoulou with its blue light on.

‘Relax, ’ he said. ‘This is them now. The cavalry, I mean. These guys are nothing to do with the GADA. They’re friends of mine. I put a call in to the Piraeus Police for a squad car to turn up and make things look a bit more convincing, at least for the benefit of people who live around here. They’ll keep watch for us while we break into her flat. Have you got a couple of twenties? ’

I gave him four tens and watched as Charlie went over and leaned into the driver’s window. I didn’t see him hand over the money but I suppose he must have done because the police in the car switched off their blue light, lit up a couple of cigarettes and settled down to wait for us to do what we wanted to do. Charlie returned to the door as the pharmacist came out of his shop, still wearing a crisp white coat, and curious to know why the police were in his neighbourhood.

Charlie started talking to him and, after a while, the pharmacist went inside the shop again. In an effort to contain my nerves I took out my phone, checked the recent calls list and then rang Francisco Carmona, from Orientafute.

‘Frank? It’s Scott. Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier. ’

‘That’s okay, Scott. I’m used to people pretending they don’t know me. ’

‘I was a bit taken aback to discover you’re coming to Athens, Frank. When I called you before it was because I wanted to speak to you about a player at another club. Someone you represent. Hö rst Daxenberger, from Hertha. ’

‘You’re looking to replace Bekim Develi? ’

‘That’s right. Why don’t you cancel your flight to Athens and get on a flight to Berlin and see how much that German lad wants to come and play in London instead of trying to upset some of my players with some of that Orientafute bullshit. ’

‘It’s not your players I’m interested in, Scott. It’s you. You’re the reason I was coming to Athens. I want to represent you. From what I hear, you might need an agent. ’

Charlie came back from the police car.

‘Look, I can’t talk now. Just speak to that German lad and find out if he’s interested. ’

I finished the call and looked at Charlie.

‘That’s a stroke of luck, ’ said Charlie. ‘Mr Prezerakou is Nataliya’s landlord and he’s gone to fetch some keys for us. I told him we were looking for illegal immigrants and naturally he’s only too keen to help. No one around here likes illegals. He hasn’t seen her in days but that’s not unusual at this time of year. He says she often goes on vacations to Corfu. Apparently, she’s a good tenant and always pays her rent on time and he insists he saw all of her paperwork before he rented her the apartment. Originally, the apartment was rented to her husband, Mr Boutzikos, but he’s working in London now and Nataliya manages the place herself. ’

Ten minutes later we were inside Nataliya’s apartment and nosing around her belongings which, for me at least, felt oddly transgressive. Charlie didn’t look remotely bothered by what we were doing although we both wore latex gloves and it wasn’t for the sake of appearances: Mr Prezerakou had stayed downstairs in his shop but the cops already had my fingerprints and it wouldn’t have done for them to have discovered my dabs all over Nataliya’s flat.

Everything was neat and tidy and furnished with that Ligne Roset sort of stuff that people on the continent seem to think is smart and contemporary. There was a large, signed Terry O’Neill photograph of Faye Dunaway lounging by the pool of the Beverly Hills Hotel that prompted me to think that Nataliya might reasonably have supposed she resembled the Oscar‑ winning actress. Otherwise the place spoke of a person who loved reading and not films – there was no TV and her shelves were groaning under the weight of books in Greek, Russian and English. Her closet was full of designer labels and in her tiny bathroom was a make‑ up trolley that could have supplied a large girls’ school.

Charlie had found her passport in the door of a small desk.

‘She was Ukrainian, ’ he said. ‘Born Kiev 1989. ’

He handed it to me and I placed it on the kitchen table before I stepped onto the balcony and looked out at the rooftops of the surrounding buildings; with their numerous water tanks, washing lines and satellite dishes it was not a particularly inspiring view but it was a typical one.

On the balcony itself was a yoga mat and a number of carefully arranged weights, including some kettlebells, and I wondered if Nataliya’s murderer had helped himself to one of these to tie to her feet before dropping her into the nearby marina. I took a picture of them with my iPhone camera. Meanwhile, Charlie had found her handbag – or at least the bag she had probably been using on the night of her death; I had a vague idea that it matched the one I’d seen her carrying on the CCTV footage Varouxis had shown me of her visiting Bekim Develi in his bungalow at the Astir Palace hotel. Like everything else it was designer‑ made and expensive.

Charlie emptied the contents onto the kitchen table beside the passport and we both sat down to go through these. There was a make‑ up bag, a purse containing a thousand euros in new one hundred notes, credit and identity cards, a driving licence, a mobile phone, a small scented candle, some eyedrops, some earrings, some shoe clips, a bunch of keys, a picture of a man we took to be Boutzikos, several condoms, some lubricating gel, a pair of handcuffs, a vibrator, some antiseptic hand gel, a packet of wet wipes, a change of underwear, a pair of stay‑ up stockings. The pharmaceuticals were, said Charlie, more interesting: four epinephrine auto‑ injectors, a bottle of ceftriaxone and a bottle of flunitrazepam.

I took a picture of everything – including the passport and licence – on my iPhone.

‘It looks as if she was allergic to something, ’ I said, taking one of the auto‑ injectors out of its box. It hadn’t been used. None of them had.

‘Not necessarily, ’ said Charlie. ‘Epinephrine is a vasodilator. A lot of hookers in Greece use epinephrine as a fast‑ acting substitute for Viagra when clients can’t get it up. It’s just adrenalin after all. And unlike cocaine, epinephrine won’t get a girl busted if a cop finds it in her possession. ’

‘What is ceftriaxone? ’ I asked.

‘That’s her just‑ in‑ case, ’ he said.

‘Just in case of what? ’

‘Just in case of gonorrhoea. A lot of VD is penicillin resistant in Greece, so they prescribe ceftriaxone. Or azithromycin. If you can get it. Looks like she wasn’t about to take that chance. ’

‘And Levonelle? ’ I asked examining a small pharmaceutical box with Greek writing. ‘What does that cure? ’

‘Unwanted babies. It’s the morning‑ after pill. ’

‘And the flunitrazepam? ’ I emptied out some little blue and white tablets on the palm of my hand. ‘That’s a sedative, isn’t it? For depression. ’

Charlie laughed. ‘If you could read Greek you would see that the trade name for flunitrazepam is printed on the box, also. This is Rohypnol. The so‑ called date‑ rape drug. A lot of hookers slip it into the drinks of their more badly behaved clients. No, this little girl looks like she was prepared for anything. ’

‘Except the thing that happened. She wasn’t prepared for that. ’

‘No, I guess not. ’

Charlie swept everything back into Nataliya’s handbag. ‘No one is ever prepared for a trip to see Persephone, ’ he said.

I picked up Nataliya’s iPhone 4, which was in a neat little plastic case with a gold chain that made it look like a girl’s evening bag, took off one of my latex gloves and tapped the screen. The battery was in the red but there was enough juice left in the thing to see that, like my own phone, a security code was needed to access its contents.

‘We need to get into this, ’ I said. ‘We can use it to find out who she saw that night. So we’ll keep it for a little while. At least until Monday when our lawyer will have to tell the police about this place. ’

‘Then we’d better take the handbag as well, ’ said Charlie. ‘Otherwise that detective will think it looks strange. We can always bribe some Roma people to hand it in to your lawyer for the reward when you’re done with it. They can say they found it in a wheelie bin on the marina. ’ He shook his head. ‘He’ll think it looks strange anyway when the apothecary downstairs tells him about the police having been here already. But cops in Greece are used to other cops doing a bit of freelance work. He’ll know it was you, of course; or someone you paid to do it. ’ He looked at his watch. ‘So we’d better get you back to the game and your alibi for this afternoon. ’

As I put the phone in my pocket, Charlie added: ‘But as to how you’re going to get past that code, your guess is as good as mine. I don’t know anyone who can break into these things. ’

‘Don’t worry, ’ I said. ‘I know just the man. ’

About a minute after I took my seat again Panathinaikos scored the only goal of the match. It wasn’t a great goal; the OFI back four defended like they were wearing ankle weights and the goalkeeper managed to go the wrong way even though the forward in the green shirt had already telegraphed where he was planning to kick the ball. But none of that stopped the crowd from partying like it was 1999: a huge green firework exploded at the Gate 13 end, so loud it had every one of the London City players and staff – myself included – ducking down like a missile had been fired into the stadium by an Apache helicopter.

‘Christ’s arse, ’ yelled Simon. ‘What the fuck was that? ’

A cloud of green smoke drifted across the pitch, turning everything in the stadium opaque and, for a minute, it looked as if we were at the bottom of the sea, like those drowned sailors from the Battle of Salamis.

‘I think that was just the beautiful game, as celebrated by Zorba the Greek, ’ I said.

‘Makes you wonder how they kicked off back here when they won Euro 2004. I tell you what, if I could speak Greek they’d think I was fucking Plato. Each one of those Greeks thought that someone else was going to make the tackle. Four players in the box and not one of them marking his man. Whenever another team get anywhere near our box, you know what I want? I want our back four to die in a ditch to defend those eighteen yards. That’s the way you used to defend and it’s the way I used to defend. It takes heart to play football like that, boss. And those lads just didn’t have it. Look at them: all those fucking tattoos they have on their bodies. There’s only one tattoo, only one slogan that should be inked on every great centre back’s chest: ¡ No pasará n! They shall not pass. That’s what I’d have tattooed on me if I was a defender today. ’

I took the coach back to the Astir Palace with the team and sat next to Prometheus.

‘What did you think of that? ’ I asked.

‘Not much. And they’re racists, too. I could hear monkey chants every time one of the black players got the ball. I thought Greeks were supposed to be civilised. ’

‘Whatever gave you that idea? ’

‘It’s the birthplace of democracy. ’

‘Perhaps. But it certainly didn’t count for much even then, I reckon. If you hear monkey noises on Wednesday night, here’s what you’re going to do. Score a goal. And then score another. That’s the best way to shut these bastards up. But as a matter of fact, if you’d been on that park you’d have scored three. Before half time. ’

Prometheus grinned a big grin.

‘That lot we just saw are the Greek champions, ’ I said. ‘By default, maybe. But they are a top side. Same as Olympiacos. And when we play them on Wednesday night, I want you to go and score a hat‑ trick, not for Bekim Develi but for yourself. As Aristotle says, “Blessed is he that opens the eyes of the blind. ” So, I want to see the player I know you can be. ’

‘Okay, boss. ’

‘This morning you were telling me that you used to jail‑ break stolen phones, ’ I said. ‘When you were a kid. ’

He shrugged. ‘Still do. Just to keep my hand in. I love knowing about that shit. ’

I handed him Nataliya’s iPhone.

‘Could you sidestep the passcode on this one? Only you’ll have to do it quietly, without talking about it, because what I’m asking you to do could get us both arrested. ’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened, boss. ’

‘I don’t doubt it. But this is serious stuff now. And these are serious people. If we get caught it’ll be six months in a Greek nick. ’

Prometheus took the phone from me and tapped it awake.

‘Leave it with me, boss. I’m from Nigeria. If I don’t know how to do it I can just as soon call someone at home who does. ’

Back in my bungalow at the Astir Palace I checked my emails and then took another look at the contents of Bekim Develi’s Louis Vuitton Keepall and matching toilet bag; I already knew what kind of underpants he wore but I was looking for something else – a key to understanding Nataliya’s death that was going to enable me to steal a further march on the police. I guessed that just having her name and her phone wasn’t going to be enough; it seemed to me that you couldn’t have too much information when you were investigating a crime like murder.

I spread the contents of the Keepall on the floor, the same way ex‑ cop Charlie had done with Nataliya’s handbag. I’m a quick learner that way. I was still looking at these as if I was playing a memory game with objects on a tea tray when Skype gurgled its watery ringtone. It was Sara Gill, the Englishwoman who’d been raped and almost murdered in Athens. I’d Skyped her earlier and left a message to Skype me back.

I clicked on the little green bubble for a video call and found myself looking at an Asian woman with short brown hair who was probably in her thirties; a little overweight, she wore a white T‑ shirt and a grey jacket. The room she was in was typically Cotswolds, with a big fireplace and a dog sleeping on the floor behind her.

‘Hello, Mr Manson, ’ she said. ‘I’m Sara Gill. You Skyped me earlier. I was in the garden at the time. Detective Inspector Considine explained your situation on the telephone. And I read about that unfortunate young woman in the newspapers, of course. So I’ll help you if I can. ’

‘Thanks for calling me, Sara. It’s a long shot, I know, but I wondered if there was a possibility that her death might be connected with what happened to you and a number of other woman in Athens only a few years ago. You see the woman who died this week was a prostitute and it struck me as a little odd that the police didn’t mention that the other women who were murdered were also prostitutes. Nor did they think to mention that there might be a football connection; Thanos Leventis drove a bus for the Panathinaikos football team, didn’t he? ’

She listened patiently while I stumbled around my explanation like a flat‑ footed drunk. I tried to explain, with all the diplomacy of the England rugby team, that there was no suggestion that she herself was a prostitute; no more was I comfortable asking her about what had happened, but even on Skype she could see this and tried to put me at my ease. Then she told me her story clearly and patiently and it was several minutes before I realised that a slight tremor had crept into her voice. When she got to the end of her harrowing account she swallowed an egg and I saw her hands were shaking.

‘Thank you, ’ I said. ‘That can’t have been easy for you. ’

‘It wasn’t, ’ she said. ‘But I’ve decided that it’s only by talking about it that I will ever get justice. ’

‘Why do you think the police didn’t believe what you said – that there were two men who attacked you? ’

‘For one thing, they had a confession from Thanos Leventis. And what’s more Leventis said he had acted alone. I don’t think they wanted to risk anything to mess up his story. For another, I’d been beaten to the point of unconsciousness and it was several days before I was thinking straight again. I was in shock, of course, which meant I contradicted myself during the initial interview. But they had already decided I was unreliable as a witness. By the time they caught Leventis I was back in England, and no one was much interested in what I had to say. I called the police a few times and reminded them that there was another man but they didn’t seem to care very much. That’s when I called the Greek newspapers and told them. But I think most people were happy to sweep it all under the carpet and forget about it. And let’s face it, this was when the Greek economy was collapsing around everyone’s ears. There were riots in the streets as people tried and failed to get their money out of banks. The newspapers had bigger fish to fry. The police didn’t even ask me to attend the trial as a witness. It was all over before I knew it and I didn’t even get a chance to confront Thanos Leventis in court. ’

She wiped the corner of an eye with a handkerchief.

‘I’m sorry to make you talk about this again, Sara. ’

‘Don’t be, ’ she said firmly. ‘If there’s any chance that what you’re doing might help to catch this man then you have my thanks, Mr Manson. ’

‘Can you give me a description? Of the second man. ’

‘Yes. He was older than Leventis. In his late thirties, I should say. Tall, with dark hair and a very hairy body, like a lot of Greeks. I know that because he made me perform oral sex on him. I do remember that he had very sweet breath, like he’d been eating mints. ’ She laughed. ‘Not like a Greek at all, if you know what I mean. ’

‘Oh, I do. I do. ’

‘And here’s the bit I think made the police think I was deluded; it was like he had three eyebrows. ’

‘Three eyebrows? ’

‘At least that’s how it seemed to me. ’

‘Would you recognise him again? ’

‘I think so. Yes, I’m sure I would. ’

‘What was he wearing? ’

‘Jeans and a T‑ shirt, with a sort of UN logo on it. Again, I’m not sure about that. Sort of... sort of like a wreath made of olive branches? Except that it wasn’t a map of the world within the branches, but it looked more like a sort of labyrinth. ’

‘A labyrinth? ’

‘Like the one in the story of Theseus and the Minotaur. Only I don’t think this one was as complicated as that. I sometimes think that’s the key to everything, not metaphorically, but in reality. If I could work out what that sign meant it would help me find the man who raped me. Not Leventis. Because the truth is, Leventis couldn’t get it up, if you’ll pardon my French. That’s why he knocked me out. And that’s why I’m alive today. Because they thought I was already dead. They dumped me in the harbour and the water was so cold that I woke up. But when they left I’m sure they thought I was already dead. ’

‘They dumped you in the harbour? I didn’t know that. Where, exactly? ’

‘I’m not sure exactly. Somewhere in Piraeus, I suppose. The actual assault took place on a piece of waste ground next to a football stadium. Which wasn’t very far away from the harbour, because that’s where I’d been walking when I was attacked. I do remember that the people who fished me out took me into the lobby of a nearby hotel. ’

‘Can you remember the name of the hotel? ’

‘Yes, it was the Hotel Delfini. They were very nice to me, and called the police. From there they took me to the Metropolitan Hospital, which was right next door to the stadium where I’d been attacked. I could see it from my hospital bed. Only it wasn’t the one where Panathinaikos play; it was the other Athens team that plays there: Olympiacos. Yes, I remember now; that was the other football connection. Besides the fact that the driver of the coach worked for Panathinaikos. ’

‘What day of the week did the attack take place, Sara? ’

‘It was a Saturday night in September. ’

‘And would you happen to remember if there’d been a football game that day? ’

‘No, I don’t. But it was the last Saturday in September, so you could probably find out. ’

After we finished our Skype conversation I called up Google Maps and saw that the Karaiskakis Stadium where Olympiacos played was exactly 3. 5 kilometres from the Hotel Delfini in Marina Zea; and there was a large patch of waste ground immediately to the southwest of the ground, on the Piraeus side. Given where she’d been dumped after the attack, it was beginning to look like a real possibility that Nataliya’s death might be connected with the attack on Sara Gill and others. In view of the racism of the Greeks, had she been attacked because she was Asian? The Greek newspapers were often reporting attacks on Romas and Pakistanis by the far‑ right Golden Dawn organisation. And I knew from my own experience that a dark skin was enough to bring hatred and contempt down on your head. I was equally intrigued by Sara’s description of the logo on her attacker’s T‑ shirt: the word labyrinth had of course reminded me of the tattoo on Nataliya’s left shoulder. Was this a connection, too?

Absently I stared at Bekim Develi’s belongings laid out on the bungalow floor, thinking about Sara Gill’s closing remark. At the back of my head, a half‑ perceived thought began to gain clarity. After a moment or two I realised that perhaps the key that I’d been looking for was staring me in the face. I bent down and picked it off the floor.

It was the key not to a suitcase, or a car, or a hotel room, or a left‑ luggage locker, but to Bekim’s house on the island of Paros.

The next day I caught the lunchtime flight to Paros aboard a DHC‑ 8‑ 100, a propeller plane with more vibrations than the Beach Boys and none of them good. Paros was just one of a group of islands known as the Cyclades which, from the air, resembled a betting slip torn up and its pieces scattered on a bright blue carpet. Paros wasn’t the smallest island of the group although you could have been forgiven for thinking that it might have been when you saw the tiny airport with its postage stamp of a runway.

I hired a little Suzuki 4x4 at Loukis Rent‑ a‑ Car immediately opposite the sleepy little airport terminal, and using the directions from the guy in the office I set out for the southwest tip of the island, where Bekim’s house was to be found. The island itself was like a large links golf course – scrubland with drystone walls and very few trees. But for the omnipresent noise of cicadas you might almost have thought yourself in a remote part of Ireland suffering an unusually severe heat wave. The locals were just as wizened and peasant‑ like. Nearly every building I saw was made of white stone with all of the doors, window frames and shutters, balcony railings, and gates painted the same shade of blue, as if only one colour could be obtained at the local hardware shop. Either that or everyone on the whole island was an Everton supporter.

Less than fifteen minutes later I was driving up a rutted track to a collection of rectangular white buildings surrounded by empty rough land that bordered a perfect little private beach. Bekim’s house resembled an outpost in some forgotten French colony. I parked my car around the back in the shade and tried to call Prometheus, to see how he was making out with Nataliya’s iPhone, but I couldn’t get a signal.

Inside, the house was much less traditional, with open‑ plan rooms, polished wooden floors and the sort of Eames furniture that belonged in an episode of Mad Men. On the wall, in pride of place opposite a huge fireplace, was a wonderful painting of a football match by Peter Howson which, instantly, I coveted. In the dining room was another picture by Howson, this one a portrait of Henrik Larsson painted during his seventh season for Celtic in 2003–2004; again I wanted it. Elsewhere I found numerous modern sculptures in white marble and polished black granite by an artist called Richard King that were as beautiful as they were tactile. As far as I could see there was no television and no telephone, and very little post on the doormat, or anywhere else, for that matter.

In the kitchen I made myself some Greek coffee, sat down at the kitchen table and flicked through some old copies of the Athens News, an English‑ language newspaper. It made depressing reading. On most of the front pages there were colour pictures of the Hellenic police taking on rioters outside the Greek parliament building. On another front page I saw a thuggish‑ looking man holding a big black flag with a symbol that looked a bit like the UN logo; inside the branches was a sort of small golden labyrinth. Except that this wasn’t really a labyrinth at all, but a sort of simplified swastika. I turned the page and found another photograph, this time of a man wearing a black T‑ shirt with the same sign. According to the caption the man belonged to the Order of the Golden Dawn, the far‑ right political party. And suddenly I knew the kind of T‑ shirt that Sara Gill’s attacker had been wearing. He was a neo‑ Nazi; a fascist.

I finished my coffee and then conducted a thorough search of the house which yielded precisely nothing else of interest except that Bekim had a peculiar fondness for tinned Heinz soups and spaghetti hoops. There were cupboards full of the stuff. I was on the point of concluding that the whole trip had been a waste of time when the back door opened and a small hobbit of a woman came into the kitchen, carrying a basket of cleaning things. She gave a scream and dropped the basket to the floor when she saw me and, having apologised for giving her a fright, I explained that I was a friend of Mr Develi’s.

‘He no here right now, ’ she said and it was quickly obvious that the woman – whose name was Zoi – had no idea that her employer was even dead. I thought it best not to tell her, at least for the present: it was information I wanted, not tears. ‘He is playing football in London. ’

‘Yes, I know, ’ I said dangling the door key. ‘It was Mr Develi who gave me this key. ’

She nodded, still suspicious.

‘I’ve been staying on the mainland, in Athens, and Bekim said I should come and stay here if I got the chance. ’

That much was true at any rate.

‘You stay here tonight? ’ she asked.

‘Yes. If that’s all right. Just until tomorrow. ’

‘You want me to fix a bed for you? ’

‘No, I think I can manage. ’ I looked around. ‘Have you worked for him long? ’

‘I clean this house for Mr Develi since he came to the island. Eight years ago. He like it here very much because Paros is quiet and people leave him alone. Most locals don’t even know that he is such a famous footballer. He very private here. Like other rich people who live on Antiparos. ’

Antiparos was the neighbouring smaller island to the west.

It felt strange to hear Bekim described in the present tense; as if he wasn’t dead at all. Of course, in this woman’s mind, he was still very much alive.

‘Bekim Develi. The Goulandris family. Tom Hanks. His wife, Rita Wilson, she is Greek. Everyone like it here because nobody knows they’re here. Is a big secret. ’

I couldn’t help but wonder about that, given the alacrity with which Zoi had told me of their presence on the island.

‘Do you cook for him, too? Bekim, I mean. ’

‘No. He say he very fussy. He doesn’t like Greek food. Only Greek wine. Just very plain English things. Eggs, bread, salad. I bring him these things but always he prepares his own food. ’