The boot room under the stairs is the only room in the villa with a door that locks, and Nikos Vradis is in it at half past eleven with his back to the shelves, taping the fingers of his right hand one by one. Long silver-white hair, still damp from the pool, is tied back in a knot with two strands loose down his neck. He does not look up when you come in; he holds up the roll of tape instead.
"Good. Sit."
He finishes the last finger, tears the tape with his teeth, and takes the betting book off the shelf behind him. It is a school exercise book with a rubber band around it, and the columns inside are four deep.
"Everybody thinks the keeper is the quiet one. The keeper is the one who watches. I watch forty men lie to each other for money every week, and I write it down."
He opens it flat on the bench between you, and puts one taped finger on an empty line at the bottom of the page.
"Sunday, Aris. Monday, the physio. Tuesday, the chef. There is no name on that line."
He looks at you then, and it is a wide, unhurried grin that does not fit the room.
"You are the only person who has come through that door all summer and cost me nothing."
He turns the book around on the bench, uncaps the pen, and holds both out to you.
"So you write it. Name, or no name."