The Golden Silence Read online

  THRILLING ACCLAIM FOR

  THE GOLDEN SILENCE

  “Paul Johnston reveals the Athens that the Greek

  Tourist Board don’t want us to know about. Dark,

  terrifying and still shadowed by its past, this is a city

  that nurses its secrets until the tenacious Alex Mavros

  rips the curtain aside. This is a grippingly good read.”

  Val McDermid

  “(A) compelling crime novel which speeds along,

  never faltering in pace, to a gripping showdown.”

  Scotsman

  “As in all the best thrillers, bullets and fists fly in

  profusion as Alex (Mavros) follows the trail to

  the missing girl and finds relationships moulded

  in the agonising fires of Greece’s awful time

  under the colonels.”

  Guardian

  ‘A fast-paced book that keeps twisting and turning”

  Morning Star

  “Thrilling… I am pleased by Johnston’s presentation

  of contemporary Greek society. Mavros is a fine

  vehicle for shedding light on it while providing entertaining

  reading. I am an unabashed Mavros fan…”

  Athens News

  “Fast-moving and exciting, delving into the dark

  criminal hierarchy of Athens.”

  Western Mail

  “Packed with suspense, intrigue and original

  storylines… With this gripping, vicious thriller,

  Paul Johnston proves yet again why he deserves his

  place on the crime-writing pedestal beside

  Ian Rankin and Quintin Jardine.”

  Daily Record

  Paul Johnston was born in Edinburgh, and educated there and at Oxford. He is the author of ten crime novels, the first of which, Body Politic, won the British Crime Writers’ Association John Creasey Memorial Dagger for Best First Novel. He also won the Sherlock Award for Best Detective Novel for The Last Red Death. He now spends much of his time in Greece. He is married to a Greek and has recently become a father for the third time.

  For more information about Paul, visit

  www.paul-johnston.co.uk

  Available from Paul Johnston

  Alex Mavros novels

  CRYING BLUE MURDER

  THE LAST RED DEATH

  THE GOLDEN SILENCE

  Matt Wells novels

  THE DEATH LIST

  THE SOUL COLLECTOR

  THE GOLDEN SILENCE

  PAUL JOHNSTON

  www.mirabooks.co.uk

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  And again, well done to the MIRA UK team

  for getting this one out.

  Belinda Mountain and Oliver Rhodes, take a bow.

  And to my agent Broo Doherty, a class act.

  FOREWORD

  The Golden Silence is the third in the Alex Mavros series following Crying Blue Murder (originally titled A Deeper Shade of Blue) and The Last Red Death, all now republished by MIRA Books – my heartfelt thanks to them.

  While Crying Blue Murder was a noir novel set on an apparently unspoiled island and The Last Red Death was a political thriller, The Golden Silence is my take on the gangster novel. I still remember sneaking into the ABC cinema in Edinburgh at the age of fifteen to see The Godfather. I suppose this novel was spawned, at least in part, by that devastating experience. Certainly my torturers, the Father and Son, would have felt at home with Michael Corleone.

  I resolved at the outset that each Mavros novel would have a different location. As mobsters gravitate to big cities, Athens was the obvious choice. It’s also a city I’ve spent a lot of time in over the years. The Greek capital is still a very safe place to walk around late at night, but it’s lost the innocence it had back in the Seventies – which is good for a crime writer, but not so wonderful for the average resident.

  As usual, I wasn’t able to get away from the importance of the family in Greece. But I went in for subverting the institution again, making the head of the Greek gang a woman. In fact, the novel is full of strong women, a trio of them having undergone torture during the terrible years of the military dictatorship. The link between organised crime and totalitarian governments has been pointed out by many eminent crime writers. I was glad to take my turn and put the knife into the Greek Colonels, a crew of demented bigots who on occasion made the Keystone Cops look competent.

  Alex Mavros finally comes to terms with love in this novel, too. So you get gangsters, political corruption, torture, strong women and love. What’s not to like?

  On another note, readers will save themselves headaches by noting that:

  1) Greek masculine names ending in -is, -os, and -as lose the final -s in the vocative case: ‘Damis, Panos and Nondas are watching the news’. But, ‘Watch the news, Dami, Pano and Nonda’.

  2) Feminine surnames are formed differently from masculine one: Alex Mavros, but Anna Mavrou; Stratos Chiotis, but Rea Chioti.

  Paul Johnston, January 2009

  To my beloved Roula,

  these first fruits of our Scottish-Greek liaison

  PROLOGUE

  The Free News, Athens, April 18th 2002

  BRUTAL MURDER IN THE

  NORTHERN SUBURB

  by Lambis Bitsos, Crime Correspondent CONSTRUCTION worker Petros Aslanis had the shock of his life on Monday morning when he arrived on site in Metamorfosi. Lying at the bottom of a foundation trench for the new motorway was a naked male body!

  ‘At first I thought it was a heap of rubbish,’ said Mr Aslanis, 44, a local resident and father of three. ‘People are always tossing junk into the trenches and the poor guy’s skin wasn’t white, it was covered in bruises. Then I saw the blood on his head and ran for my supervisor.’

  Units of the Greek Police arrived promptly and cordoned off the scene, causing heavy traffic congestion in the area. Commander Nikos Kriaras, recently appointed head of the organised crime division, stated that a murder investigation was underway. ‘The severity of the injuries and the absence of clothing rule out accident and suicide,’ he said. ‘There is evidence to suggest that this is yet another in the spate of gangland killings that has plagued the city over the last two months. Citizens can rest assured that all necessary steps will be taken to apprehend the vicious criminals behind this scourge.’

  The commander did not specify the nature of the evidence linking this death to earlier ones, but sources indicate that the as yet unidentified victim underwent torture. The fact that little attempt was made to conceal the body suggests that it was left as a warning or an example. The northern suburbs of Athens have become a battlefield for criminal organizations fighting over lucrative drugs, protection and prostitution rackets.

  ‘It’s a disgrace,’ said Mr Aslanis. ‘This place used to be peaceful, but now I fear for my daughters every time they leave the house. When is the government going to do something about the violence?’

  The body of the unfortunate man has been taken to the morgue for forensic examination. In the meantime, work on the desperately needed motorway has been suspended while police comb the scene, traffic in the area is at a standstill, and residents of the capital walk the streets with fear in their hearts.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten
>
  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘AND ANOTHER THING,’ said the Fat Man, leaning over the only occupied table in his café in the Flea Market area of central Athens. ‘They can take the stinking Euro and ram it up their—’

  ‘Cut it out, Yiorgo,’ Alex Mavros interrupted, the miniature cup of unsweetened coffee halfway to his lips. ‘I don’t need to hear this first thing in the morning.’

  ‘First thing in the morning?’ the heavy figure scoffed. ‘Some of us have been up since five-thirty. Some of us have a real job to do.’

  Mavros couldn’t stop himself from rising to the challenge. ‘You have a real job, do you? Making coffee for rapacious market traders is enough to justify your existence, I suppose. Karl Marx would be very impressed.’ The Fat Man was still nominally a communist, even though his membership of the Party had brought him more trouble than joy.

  ‘At least I’m not a lackey of the rich. There won’t be any private detectives after the revolution, you can bet on that.’

  ‘Bet money on that?’ Mavros shook strands of his long black hair from his face and smiled. ‘Like the players at your illegal card table every evening? I don’t think the comrades will be sanctioning those in the perfect state either.’

  Yiorgos gave a grimace. ‘You think you’re so smart, you poxy half-breed. Just because women swoon over your weird eye…’ He lumbered off towards the kitchen area. The chill cabinet was clanking to cope with the spring warmth.

  Mavros finished his coffee and took a bite of galaktoboureko.

  Life would be unbearable without the Fat Man’s coffee, known among his select band of customers as the best in Athens, and his aged mother’s pastries. This morning’s tray of the custard-filled filo was yet another masterpiece. Fortified, he returned to the field of combat.

  ‘It’s not my fault that, unlike yours, my character is made up of the best of two nations,’ he said over his shoulder. His long-dead father Spyros had been a leading Greek Communist, while his mother Dorothy, who still lived in the city, was Scottish. ‘And as for my eye, well, I’m not complaining.’ Although Mavros’s right eye was the bright blue he had inherited from his father, the left was speckled with his mother’s brown. It was true that some women seemed to find that flaw a source of fascination.

  The Fat Man grunted, his head bowed over the piece of goat’s cheese that he was slicing. ‘That would explain the way the delightful Niki dotes over you, eh, Alex?’

  Mavros gave his friend a sharp look at the reference to his girlfriend. He got up and went over to the enclosed courtyard at the rear. New leaves were beginning to appear on the extensive branches of the vine that had woven itself around a buckling pergola. The stacked chairs and tables were covered in grime.

  ‘Any chance of you cleaning up out here?’ he called. ‘You know I use this place for business.’ He invited potential clients to the Fat Man’s to vet them. He’d never felt the need of an office and it kept people out of his home. If they disapproved of the run-down café, he didn’t want their custom. He wasn’t a Party member. He wasn’t politically committed at all—it seemed that he hadn’t inherited that gene—but he liked to confront his customarily well-off employers with life on the street.

  ‘Clean up yourself,’ came the reply. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Busy filling your belly?’ Mavros spread his arms wide. ‘Come on, Yiorgo, at least give me a hand. Don’t I bring you customers?’

  The Fat Man came out reluctantly, a couple of grubby cloths in his hand. He was still chewing, the pouched cheeks and bald head giving him the look of an oversize, tonsured chipmunk. ‘How many of the capitalists’ Euros do you think I make out of the customers you bring me?’ he muttered, tossing a cloth to Mavros. ‘You’ve hardly worked at all the last few months.’

  Mavros started wiping a table. The Fat Man was right. He hadn’t been busy since the turn of the year, when he’d been involved in a major case involving terrorism that had ended badly. Since then he hadn’t felt like going back to his normal work, tracking down missing teenagers who’d had enough of home or people who’d been sucked in by the capital’s numerous temptations—drugs, prostitution, gambling. He’d have to find a client soon, though. The bills were mounting.

  ‘The bastard Euro,’ the Fat Man said, when Mavros didn’t reply.

  ‘Christ, don’t start again.’ Ever since the drachma had disappeared at the start of the year, Yiorgos had been on the Euro’s case. He had a point. There had been widespread unsanctioned price rises in Greece as in other countries, and the new currency wasn’t popular. ‘Anyway, what are you so down in the mouth about?’ Mavros demanded, glancing up through the pergola into the strong sunlight. A northerly wind was dispersing the pollution cloud. ‘It’ll soon be Easter and you’ll be shutting up shop to spend even more time with you nutritional requirements.’

  The Fat Man dropped a chair on to the gravel. ‘Screw you, you long-haired sack of shit. Can’t you take anything seriously?’ This was one of his standard tactics. As soon as the abuse got too personal—that is, his weight came up—he started to play the earnest citizen. ‘Haven’t you noticed, Mr Head-in-the-Sand Private Investigator? This country is going to the dogs.’

  ‘What, more than usual?’ Mavros stepped back and admired his handiwork. At least one table was in commission now. ‘Anyway, I thought the Party was supposed to have an internationalist outlook.’

  The Fat Man flicked his cloth at a fly that was buzzing around them. ‘All right, smartass, the whole of Europe’s going to the dogs.’ He snorted. ‘Thanks to the Euro. But it’s worse here than anywhere else. I mean, the gangsters are torturing people and tossing their bodies into building sites now.’ He glared through the dust that had risen between them. ‘Of course, that’s a different kind of crime from what you work with.’

  ‘It is,’ Mavros replied, giving his friend the eye. ‘As you well know, I’m a missing persons specialist, not a homicide detective.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s all right then,’ the Fat Man said ironically. ‘So what do I do when some scumbag with a gun in his pocket comes by and asks for a monthly contribution if I don’t want my place to go up in smoke? What do I do when they find out where we live and put the frighteners on my mother? Christ and the Holy Mother, Alex, your father and brother wouldn’t have ignored the shit that’s happening.’

  Mavros was scrubbing a chair, his eyes down. Yiorgos knew how to get to him. His father had dedicated himself to improving people’s lives, while his brother had been a leader of the student resistance to the dictatorship. He blinked at a sudden memory of Andonis’s smiling face and wide blue eyes. Although he’d devoted all the time he could to finding his brother, there had been no trace of him since he’d disappeared after a secret meeting in 1972.

  ‘Not fair, Yiorgo.’

  The Fat Man wasn’t mollified. ‘Anyway, aren’t the people who have been committing all these murders missing?’

  ‘I suppose they are, my friend. But no one’s offered to pay me to find them.’

  The café owner’s eyes widened. ‘Is that all it takes, you mercenary?’ he shouted, jamming thick fingers into a pocket beneath his stained apron. ‘Here,’ he said, throwing coins on to the table. ‘Interested now?’

  ‘Jesus, Yiorgo, calm down.’ He picked up a two-Euro piece that had fallen to the ground. ‘You know I’ll help if anyone hassles you.’ He handed back the coin.

  The Fat Man gradually got his breathing under control. ‘I know that,’ he said, his tone less agitated. ‘But what’s happening in the city is wrong. You know it as well as I do. Someone’s got to do something.’

  Mavros nodded. ‘Someone plural. The cops, the politicians. There isn’t much that individuals can do.’


  ‘Bullshit, Alex. That’s the easy way out. You did plenty in the winter.’ The Fat Man knew about the terrorism case, had even played his own reluctant part in it, though he’d been sworn to secrecy. ‘You said it yourself, it’s spring. There’s no excuse to stay inside now. Get out there and do your thing.’

  Shortly afterwards, Mavros headed for the door. Yiorgos was right. It was time he started work. But where were the clients?

  It was a morning made for killing.

  The reed beds on the shore by Kastoria in the far north of Greece were resounding with the calls of aquatic birds, the newly arrived pelicans resplendent in white and pink. The Father sat at the bow, the Son stood at the oars of the blue-painted boat. The younger man eyed the ridges of the mountains that surrounded the expanse of water. Albania lay not far to the west. They were six hundred metres above sea level and there were patches of snow on the peaks, despite the strong sunlight. The wind from the north still had more than a hint of winter’s teeth about it.

  The Son, tall and bulky, pushed forward on the heavy lengths of wood to bring the boat into position over the place where perch were to be found. He controlled the craft with its high prow and stern without conscious thought. The red-tiled roofs of the town on the promontory were glowing in the sun, the last of the morning mists having disappeared on the wind.